Eye Contact (22 page)

‘Don’t worry—’ Pope started to drone, raising a placatory hand.

‘Don’t
fucking
tell me what to do!’ Harland spat. He suddenly found that he was standing with his face inches away from Pope’s.

Everything seemed to be moving slowly, and even though he could tell they were very close, it felt as if he was staring out at Pope from somewhere deep inside his head.

‘Now hang on!’ Pope was saying something, his face a blubbery frown. ‘You can’t speak to me like—’

There was a ringing crack as Harland’s mug hit the floor, splashing coffee along the wall and skirting boards. His hands were on Pope’s lapels, knuckles shining pale as he pushed the miserable little creep up against the door frame.

‘I
said
, don’t tell me what to do!’ Harland snarled again. He could feel Pope’s rapid breaths on his face, his piggy little eyes wide. ‘Understand?’

The adrenalin taste in his mouth, every muscle taut, ready to lash out hard . . .

And then Mendel was there, running down the corridor, his huge arms between them, prying them apart in a moment of quiet confusion. Pope remained pressed up against the wall, spluttering and pointing, as everything cleared and Harland found himself being moved back, recoiling from what had just happened.

He was shaking. Mendel was holding him, concerned eyes searching his face, speaking quiet words that he couldn’t quite latch on to.

‘Are you okay now?’

Harland stared at him for a moment, then nodded mutely.

What the hell had he done?

Pope eased himself away from the wall, drawing himself up and jabbing out an accusing finger.

‘What the fuck was that?’ he gasped, his cheeks flushing red. ‘You’re out of order, Harland, bang out of order!’

Mendel’s hands released their grip and he sagged a little. He
was
out of order, and he knew it. What had he done? This would mean disciplinary action for sure. Suspension, maybe worse.

‘Did you see?’ Pope’s voice was shrill now. ‘You saw what happened, didn’t you?’

Mendel spun round and raised a warning finger.

‘Nothing happened here,’ he hissed.

‘But—’

‘
Nothing
happened, Pope.’ His tone was absolutely serious. There would be no argument.

Pope stared at him, about to say something more, then turned his back and stomped away. A door slammed and suddenly it was just the two of them standing there.

Harland was still shaking.

Mendel looked at him carefully for a moment, then glanced down at the spilt coffee.

‘Come on,’ he said calmly. ‘Let’s get this cleaned up.’

Harland sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for just a moment, after an hour or so of staring at the screen. An uneasy calm had settled over the station since his outburst the day before, and so far nobody had mentioned it.

At least, not to him.

He swivelled his chair a little, stretching his legs out at the side of his desk. Things had got badly out of hand, and he’d spent every hour since then expecting the call from Blake summoning him to the Superintendent’s office for that short, difficult conversation. But the call hadn’t come and now he felt rather at a loss. Pope had him on the ropes – what the hell was the little idiot waiting for?

Yawning, he turned back to his screen and tried to concentrate. Charlotte Bensk, the DI from Sussex, had put him onto the files for the Brighton murder a few weeks ago, but nothing had stood out. Khalid Ashfar’s body had been in open water, exposed to the elements far longer than the others, and was degrading badly when it was found. Personal effects might have been compromised too, and the length of time that had passed since the body was found made new witness information unlikely.

He allowed himself a wry smile. Even if he managed to hold on to his job, nothing was going to be easy on this one.

There was a brisk knock on the door and he looked up.

‘Come in.’

The door swung open and Mendel leaned in, one hand raised in greeting.

‘Morning,’ he smiled, walking over and nodding towards the screen. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘Just going over those Brighton case notes.’

‘Again?’

‘Yeah,’ Harland said, without enthusiasm.

‘Any better second time around?’ Mendel grinned.

‘It’s not exactly a page-turner, but I just want to make sure we’re not missing anything. But what that might be . . .’

‘You won’t know till you see it.’

‘Exactly,’ Harland sighed. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you?’

Mendel smiled.

‘Just stopped in to give you this.’ He placed a supermarket carrier bag on the desk between them. ‘Want to grab lunch later?’

‘Yes, that’d be good.’ Harland looked at the bag as Mendel turned back to the door. ‘One o’clock?’

‘One o’clock.’

He waited until the door closed, then leaned forward and picked up the bag. There was something moderately heavy inside, a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. Tearing away the layers, he exposed the contents and sat back for a moment, a thoughtful smile on his face.

Mendel had bought him a new mug.

Harland pulled his jacket around him as they walked down the road. It was an overcast day and Portishead was colourless and cold in the wind that blew in from the Severn. They spoke about work as they approached the pub, small talk and minor matters, not yet ready to tackle the events of the previous day. Something like that had to wait until they were indoors and free from interruptions.

‘I sometimes wonder what old Blake’s playing at,’ Mendel was saying. ‘First he’s banging on about his high-visibility policing, next thing he’s up in arms about a couple of overtime requests.’

‘It must be the budget review,’ Harland mused. ‘He always gets like that when they start showing him the numbers.’

‘Maybe they shouldn’t show him the numbers.’

‘Rather him than me.’ They paused, waiting for the traffic until they could cross the road. ‘Anyway, let him play with his spreadsheets, so long as it gets us our increase.’

‘And they say crime doesn’t pay,’ Mendel chuckled.

They found a table in the corner and sat down with their drinks.

‘Cheers,’ said Harland, raising his glass. ‘And thanks for the mug by the way.’

Mendel nodded slowly.

‘Cheers,’ he replied, taking a sip of his beer. ‘I thought you might need a new one.’

They sat in silence for an uneasy moment. Harland looked down, his fingers nudging a beer mat back and forth across the tabletop.

‘And thanks for yesterday . . . I appreciate your stepping in when you did.’

‘No problem.’

‘It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?’

‘It wasn’t good.’

Harland toyed with his drink, glancing up to find his friend watching him intently.

‘Everything okay?’ Mendel asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Sure about that?’

Harland sagged a little, then slowly shook his head.

‘It’s just been a tough spell recently,’ he sighed. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to readjust, you know, since . . .’

Mendel looked at him for a moment and nodded.

‘Anyway,’ Harland slumped back in his chair, ‘I’ve got myself another problem now, haven’t I? It’s only a matter of time until Pope starts telling tales and I get the bullet.’

‘Maybe. But I don’t reckon they’ll do anything. Not really. You know how it works – there’ll be a lot of noise for a week or so then it’ll all be back to normal.’

‘That bloody Pope,’ Harland muttered under his breath. He sat up, shaking his head slowly. ‘You’re assuming that he’ll let it go.’

‘And you’re assuming he won’t,’ Mendel replied. ‘Come on, even an idiot like Pope knows there’s a line you don’t cross.’

‘I think you underestimate him,’ Harland frowned. ‘I think there are very few lines that little shit wouldn’t cross if it suited him.’

He picked up his drink and sipped it slowly, staring at the table thoughtfully.

‘Look at it another way then,’ said Mendel. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now, so there’s no point in worrying about it.’

He was right of course. Harland gave his friend an ironic smile and raised his glass.

‘You’re a great comfort, Mendel.’

Naysmith opened his eyes and blinked, slowly focusing on the unfamiliar ceiling. Soft light glowed through the tall net curtain, revealing the sleeping figure beside him, her auburn hair tangled across the pillow. He gazed at her pale shoulders, her long eyelashes, the inviting pout of her open mouth.

There was no denying that it had been a satisfying evening. He’d often thought of Michaela, speaking to her now and again in the course of his business and gently flirting with her on the phone. But now she was leaving the Merentha Group, and when another appointment took him to Bristol he’d called and invited her for dinner.

‘Really?’ She’d sounded surprised, slightly hesitant. Perhaps she was seeing someone . . .

‘Yes, really.’ It didn’t matter to him. Even if she was seeing someone, that just made her a little more challenging. ‘We can celebrate your new job, and I haven’t forgotten your promise about a jazz bar?’

‘Wow, you remembered.’ She laughed, and he knew then that she was interested.

The meal had been relaxed – there was a definite spark between them and he found himself genuinely enjoying their conversation. Her uncharacteristic shyness betrayed her attraction to him and he carefully guided their discussion so that she could talk about herself and feel good.

‘You must be excited about doing something new,’ he smiled at her.

‘Yes, it’s a complete departure for me,’ Michaela agreed. ‘I am looking forward to it, but working in a different industry will be a bit daunting. Jakob says I must be mad.’

‘I think it shows strength.’ He held her gaze, enjoying those large, dark eyes. ‘The best people always seem to rise to a challenge. Too many are afraid to take risks, afraid to try things, afraid to enjoy themselves. But you’re not afraid, are you?’

Michaela stared at him for a long moment.

‘No,’ she said, with a faint twinkle in her eye, ‘I’m not afraid.’

Naysmith smiled, raising a hand to call for the bill.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘What about that jazz place you were telling me about . . .?’

It was a perfect evening, cold and clear. Naysmith knew where they were going but feigned ignorance and let her lead him. He kept the conversation light, joking with her to make her laugh and teasing her until she gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. By the time they arrived at King Street, she was happily leaning on his arm.

The bar wasn’t great, but by this point it didn’t matter. The music was loud enough to keep them pressed close together as they talked, and the mood was relaxed.

When he eventually suggested going for a drink at his hotel, she barely hesitated and they were locked in each other’s arms as they took the lift up to his room. Over the following hours he’d been quite rough with her, but she’d responded eagerly, and it had been very late when he finally allowed her to drift off to sleep.

Now, as she dozed, Naysmith pulled the sheets back and studied her body. Her skin glowed in the morning light, and his eyes traced along the gentle curve of her back to her round bottom. Her breasts were bigger than Kim’s though not as firm . . .

He frowned as he thought of Kim. It was unusual for her to intrude on his thoughts at a moment like this. He looked at the bedside clock and wondered if she was awake yet. But he couldn’t call her just now, not with someone else lying next to him. He sighed. It had never bothered him before.

He gazed down at Michaela again, taking in her naked form, letting his growing arousal force out all other thoughts. She
did
have a great body, and he was eager to fuck her once more. Rolling over, he gently kissed her neck and slid a hand under the sheets to wake her.

Afterwards, breakfast was strange. He watched her as she slowly tore open a warm croissant, her long lashes beautiful as her eyes looked down at the plate . . . and he tasted the bitter sadness of disappointment. Women often lost their appeal after he’d slept with them – there was nothing unusual about that – but he’d expected more with Michaela. He’d thought about her often, seeing something compelling and interesting in her gaze, in the way she spoke, in her attitude. And yet now, across the hotel breakfast table, he suddenly knew it wouldn’t be enough. It wasn’t what he wanted.

She glanced up at him, mischievous eyes sparkling between strands of long hair. He smiled back at her, but it was an effort now, when last night it had been so natural. There was really no point prolonging things.

‘Remember I said I had an appointment in town this morning?’

She nodded as she ate.

‘Well, believe it or not, that wasn’t just a clever excuse to come and see you. I really do have an appointment this morning.’

‘Oh,’ she shrugged. ‘No problem. Who’s it with?’

The last of his desire for her evaporated. It was tiresome making up stories for Kim; he
really
didn’t want to have to do it for anyone else. But it wasn’t her fault, and he had no wish to hurt her feelings if he could avoid it.

‘An old friend from university,’ he lied. ‘He’s finance director for a firm of accountants over in Clifton and he wants me to meet his boss, see if there’s anything we can do for them.’

‘That’s great.’

She seemed almost satisfied with this, but he did want to let her down gently if he could.

‘I’m not sure what time I’ll be done. I could try and meet you somewhere after lunch. Maybe.’

Her mouth was still smiling but her eyes looked at him differently. It was such a pity.

‘No, that’s okay,’ she said. ‘You can give me a call later. If you like.’

She raised her coffee cup and held it there, sipping from it thoughtfully. The poor girl understood.

Naysmith wandered aimlessly along the Bristol harbourside, listening to his footsteps, feeling the cobblestones through his shoes. He took out his phone, his finger hovering over the speed dial for Kim, then scowled and put it back in his pocket.