Simon Serrailler leaned back in his chair, almost tipping it over. It was nearly eight o’clock.
‘Enough. Come and have something to eat?’
He and Jim Chapman had worked solidly together all after noon, brainstorming, picking everything apart between them. Jim had moulded himself in from the start, an outside reviewer and yet also at one with them and a part of the team. The DCS had a knack of being impartial, pointing out this or that, drawing attention to something that might have been done differently, and yet reassuring Serrailler and the rest that he was one of them.
He said, ‘Let’s get a pint and a decent meal. Where do you suggest?’
Now was as good a time as any, Simon thought. He had last been to his favourite Italian restaurant with Freya, it was there that he had looked at her and wondered if he had found not just a good new colleague but …
‘Italian?’
‘So long as they do a decent spaghetti.’
‘Can Pavarotti sing? Come on.’
He would not want to take any other woman there but he had got on so well with the straightforward Yorkshire DCS that he felt relaxed enough to go there with him and banish the unhappy memories – the demons, as he thought.
Chapman’s car was in the forecourt next to Simon’s own. ‘A bottle of wine?’
‘With a couple of pints first, aye.’
‘Then let’s walk. I live not far from the restaurant, your hotel is just as near. If you don’t mind walking in tomorrow, we can both enjoy a drink tonight.’
‘Suits me. I’ve nothing to carry, I checked my bag in this morning.’
They set off through the mild spring night. The streets were quiet until they turned into the market square, where people were about, on their way to pubs and pizza houses, though midweek there were not too many of them.
A gang of youths were hanging about, frog-jumping over a couple of bollards.
‘Get much trouble?’ Chapman said.
‘The usual – too much booze on Friday and Saturday nights. Otherwise, we’re lucky.’
‘You had that very nasty murder sequence.’
‘Yes … and we lost an officer, as you probably know.’
‘Always difficult. And now this.’
‘More than our share, I’d say. Here we are.’
The proprietor came forward to shake Simon’s hand.
‘We miss you, Mr Serrailler … long time.’
‘This is a colleague of mine, DCS Chapman. He comes from the north of England where they eat double what we do down here.’
There was one thing Simon made sure of – they went to a table on the opposite side of the room from the one he had shared with Freya. He did not feel uncomfortable or upset to be here again, he felt at home. But all the same, he steered Chapman away from the window tables.
Two pints of bitter and a menu were set down in front of them and Chapman drank half of his in a single long, slow, luxuriant swallow before speaking.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now you tell me, is it shop or not?’
‘Let’s do ten minutes’ shop and then put it away for tonight.’
‘Right.’ The DCS waited until Simon had drunk from his own pint, then he said, ‘I tell you, Simon, we’ll go into everything again, turn it all over, but I reckon even when we have we’ll be looking at the same thing we’re looking at now.’
‘Which is?’
‘The random operator. He’s been driving through … comes from somewhere miles away. Either he’s a long-distance driver employed by a firm, or self-employed, taking short jobs to get himself the length and breadth of the country. If it hadn’t been young Angus, it would have been some other kid, five or a hundred miles off. He was away in ten minutes.’
Simon moved his beer glass round and round with his finger. ‘Bugger.’
‘Aye.’
Simon’s mobile phone rang from his jacket pocket. One or two other diners looked round immediately. He went outside.
‘Serrailler.’
‘Guv, where are you?’
‘Having a meal with DCS Chapman.’
‘Sorry, but you’re not going to get it finished.’
‘What?’
‘The Angus girl … Lucy. She’s gone missing, guv.’
‘Jesus. OK, I’m on my way.’
Simon went back inside and briefed the DCS. Chapman got up.
‘No need,’ Simon said, ‘you eat for God’s sake, this isn’t your shout.’
‘All t’same.’
‘Dammit, we haven’t brought a car.’
‘Six or seven minutes – not going to make too much difference, is it? They’re on to it. You have to pace yourself.’
They set off to walk briskly back through the town.