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‘Righty-o, sir.’
Quinn stops in the doorway. ‘How many more times – stop using that bloody phrase. Makes you sound like a halfwit.’
Chingford’s face is as red as his hair.
‘And fuck you too.Sir,’ he says under his breath as the door bangs shut.
***
Adam Fawley
25 July 2024
12.57
I tell the front desk that I’ll be in the coffee shop up the road and to send Quinn to meet me there. I’m still trying to stay under the radar, and talking off-site is a bit more discreet. At least for now.
I grab an espresso and a sandwich and the last table in the window. Though I’m not sure I need it: I’m hardly likely to miss Quinn.
And ten minutes later I’m wondering if the window was such a good idea after all: it’s even hotter behind glass than it was outside. Out on the street, summer is at it full throttle: flip-flops, ice cream, men going topless (don’t get me started) and little kids in sun hats. There’s a toddler on the other side of the street wearing a pink bonnet exactly like the one we bought Lily when she was that age. She looked adorable in it, even though she always tore it off the minute our backs were turned.
It’s as hot today as it was that summer, the summer when Daisy disappeared. I remember the lines of uniforms picking through the dead grass on Port Meadow, the ancient fan in the incident room that did nothing but push hot air around, the sweat running down my back at the TV appeal –
I don’t notice Quinn till his shadow falls over the table.
I have to say he’s looking good. I thought he’d be in the standard summer-issue black T-shirt and trousers, and I wouldn’t blame him on a day like this, but he’s in the full monty. Shirt and tie, cap under one arm, uniform jacket (and he’s got himself one with Inspector pips, like that’s a surprise). And needless to say, he wears it well – upright, straight back, not round-shouldered like it’s something to be ashamed of. And, for once, the hair is under control, which I rather suspect we have Maisie to thank for.
‘I was at a surgery,’ he says, reading my mind. He was always better than most of them at doing that. One reason, among many, that he so often rubbed me up the wrong way.
‘Have a seat.’
He pulls out a chair and one of the girls at the counter hurries over to take his order. That’s the first time I’ve seen table service in here, I can tell you. But like I said, it’s a uniform and he looks good in it.
‘How’s it been, North Oxford?’
‘Pretty good. Learning a lot. Good stopgap while I wait for something to come up.’
He was on the brink of saying ‘something better’ but stopped himself just in time.
‘What about yourself? Specialist Ops, must be all go.’
I smile drily – how like him to make it sound as dull as possible. ‘Something like that. Though it’s hardly a laugh a minute.’
He nods and waits. He wants to know what he’s doing here and, more to the point, whatI’mdoing here.
I take a deep breath, ‘OK, so, let me fill you in.’
***
‘This is a poxy wild goose chase, and Bradley bloody knows it.’
DC Bell takes his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at Holloway. He’s clearly pissed off, but something about his face has Bell suspecting he’s also really enjoying the rant.
‘Come on, mate,’ Bell says, ‘there are worse things than poodling round country lanes on a hot day. No Tate on your back, for a start.’
Holloway makes a face. ‘The only good thing about this Fawley bloke turning up is that he ain’t Tate.’
Bell checks his mirror and pulls over. ‘According to the satnav, this is the place.’