“We’ll take the Château Montrose,” Harry says to the waiter.
“Very good, sir,” the man says and walks away.
Sam hates red wine. It’s something she’s always wanted to like, but she just can’t. She smiles anyway. Maybe this time it’ll taste better. She looks to Dr. Thomson, who says nothing about the choice of wine. If anything, the doctor looks as surprised to be here as he sounded on the phone when she called last week to invite him.
“Well, this is nice,” he says. “You both look so well. Especially you, Samantha. The change in you is impressive. Love the new hair by—”
“Don’t call her Samantha, she hates it,” Harry says, tearing open his bread roll.
Pete turns to her, astounded. “Oh, really? In all our time working together, you never said!”
She shrugs. “It’s just Sam.”
“Like her old man,” Harry adds. “DI Sam Hansen, mark two.”
Pete smiles. “Sam it is, then.”
The waiter returns and performs the tasting ceremony to perfection. Harry sniffs and swirls, then nods. The waiter fills Sam’s glass first, then Dr. Thomson’s and finally Harry’s, before placing the bottle in the center of the table. They raise their glasses in unison, holding eye contact as they chink. A waitress arrives to take their food order and Sam opts for pasta, as does Pete. Harry orders a blue fillet steak and a side of chips. Sam momentarily worries about his cholesterol, but Pete interrupts the thought with a question about her move out of London.
“My packing is well underway,” she answers. “I’m hoping for a transfer to Newcastle, or perhaps Cumbria. If not, I might just travel for a while. I’ve a few odds and ends still to tie up.”
“I can’t fathom it, myself,” Harry says, “quitting London for the grim North. There’s nothing in Newcastle but Greggs and pubs.”
“Sounds fine to me,” says Pete, and he winks at Sam.
“It’s the arse-end of nowhere,” Harry continues, dipping his bread in the shared ramekin of fluffy yellow butter. Sam sips her wine and tries not to wince at its taste. She knows she’ll never finish a whole glass, so she pours herself more water from the carafe. “She should just come back to the Met. You’d sign her off again, wouldn’t you, Pete? She can try another phased return.”
Sam can’t speak, too afraid of what she’ll say. Mercifully, Pete doesn’t mention that she’s no longer his patient and tactfully switches the subject.
“When’s your last day, Harry?”
“End of the month, officially, but the new DCI has already taken over. He’s moved into my office and put dreadful art on the walls. I went in today to say my final cheerios and eat cheap cake.”
“How’s Tina doing?” Sam asks.
“Who?” Harry wonders. “Oh, her. Fine, fine. I never doubtedher. Better than your trainee. What’s-his-name hasn’t stopped moping about the place since you decided to take some time off.”
“Taylor,” Sam mutters. “His name is Adam Taylor.”
“I’m sick of him,” Harry says, “wandering about like a lost puppy. First, asking when you’d be back. Then how were you doing. Just yesterday he had the nerve to ask me to pass a message to you.”
“What message?” Sam asks, her skin tingling.
“How should I know?” Harry scoffs. “Told him I’m retired and I’m not taking up a new role as a postman.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually retired,” says Pete quickly, possibly noticing Sam’s white knuckles clenched around her butter knife. “I was so surprised to hear—”
“Used to have compulsory retirement, you know,” Harry says through a mouthful of bread, “the Met did. Fifty-five. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Retiring us at fifty-five. But I’m a fair bit older than that now and I just thought, I’ll go out on a high. It’s a good time and, well, let’s just say I have a friend who thinks I might do well in politics. He’s made a few introductions. There’s always the local council and even… well, we need some damn good MPs if we’re going to sort it all out. Hmm. Say no more for now.” Harry taps his nose and Sam takes a deep breath.
“You’d make a great MP.” She forces a smile. “You’ll move out of London, I suppose?”
“Yes, I let my little flat go, so I’m back home in Broadstairs with the wife. Thank God for the golf club.”
“How is Beryl?” Sam asks.
“Good days and bad. She’s more forgetful than ever. Mind you, she can still remember what I did wrong yesterday, last week, even last year. I’ve even started walking to keep out of the way. Me, walking. Like those fuddy-duddy old men in beige coats. It’ll be a flat cap next, you watch.”
“Where do you walk?” Pete asks, clearly keen to change the subject.
