21

Bev smoothed both hands through her bob, licked her lips, checked her flies, ran a Doc Martens down the back of a trouser leg, hopped on the other foot so she could sort of shine the other shoe. She breath-checked into a hand cupped round her mouth, sniffed one pit, then the other. Dither? Bev? Course not. It wasn’t like Detective Superintendent Jessica Truss made her antsy or anything.

‘Right,’ she murmured. ‘Deep breath. Tap the door.’

Only it opened first. ‘Were you planning to stand there long, Beverley?’

‘Yes. No. I … er … I …’ Am a blithering idiot who can’t even busk it? How come Truss had the uncanny ability to put her on the back foot? Let alone see through two inches of wood? The boss must’ve read Bev’s face.

‘Not difficult, detective.’ Her eyebrow rose in a perfect arch. ‘I expected you five minutes ago. And perhaps if you make less noise, next time?’ Truss twitched a lip. Bev suspected she was taking the piss. Scrub that. Knew she was.

‘Sorry I’m late, I –’

She raised a palm. ‘You’re here now.’

Truss semi-sashayed back to the desk, leaving Bev to close the door and trail in her wake. The boss wore one of her signature skirt-suits: ivory-shade, knee-length, tight but definitely not tarty. Bev reckoned she chose gear to go with her colouring: blonde chignon, caramel eyes, porcelain skin. An immaculately groomed, classy, career cop. No wonder Bev felt a tad on the gauche side. Truss put her in mind of a cross between Dana Scully and Catherine Deneuve.

‘You wanted to see me, ma’am?’ She clocked what looked like dog hairs on her trousers, subtly brushed them off.

Legs crossed and fingers steepled, Truss leaned back in what Bev struggled not to think of as Byford’s chair. ‘Tell me the latest on Operation Twilight first.’

First? She put that on the back boiler, wondering what else Truss had in mind. Bev’s summing-up was brief, concise and covered every significant aspect. Even though she said so herself.

‘I take it you see the reporter as holding key information?’ Truss had zoned straight in on the nail head.

‘Yeah, and I don’t think she even knows it herself.’ Which was why she’d be interviewing Raynes after Truss got whatever it was off her chest.

‘Excellent. I knew you were perfectly capable of doing it.’ Truss gave a lopsided smile. Doing what? ‘You can be professional, intelligent, eloquent, incisive and focused.’ Bev shuffled in the seat trying not to look too chuffed. More, more. ‘That is … when you want to be. You don’t have to act the clown all the time, Beverley.’

Cheeky git. She opened her mouth to remonstrate but Truss flapped a hand. ‘Let me finish.’

By the time Truss had wrapped up, Bev was nigh on speechless. Dizzy too from watching her pace up and down as she spouted. Gist was, Bev was in danger of coasting. Truss and Powell both felt it was time she considered the future, put her career first. She wasn’t getting any younger. Thanks for that. An inspector’s job was coming up: they both wanted her to apply for it.

Like she didn’t know about the post? Oz Khan had already told her he was sniffing round it.

‘So what do you think?’ Truss asked.

Silently fuming, Bev stared at her hands. Apart from the fact she didn’t appreciate Truss and Powell mapping out her life without so much as a by-your-leave, it wasn’t just her own life Bev had to consider now. ‘Love to, ma’am.’ She cut her a glance. ‘But the timing’s all wrong.’

‘Is it ever perfect?’ Truss perched on the desk corner, waited for eye contact again. ‘Look, Beverley, when I put in for inspector, I had two children under five and I was four months pregnant with the third.’ She laughed. ‘Now that’s what you call bad timing.’

Hot flush alert. She knew the shock would be written all over her face. How could Truss find it amusing? More to the point, how the fucking hell did she know? Just not possible. Small talk is all. She couldn’t know, could she?

Truss lost the smile. ‘You are, aren’t you? Oh, boy. Me and my big mouth.’

Great. Bev had given it away without even opening her lips.

‘I’d no idea. Absolutely none.’ Shaking her head she slid off the desk, walked back to the chair, leaned forward this time. ‘I still don’t see it as a problem, Bev.’

She sniffed. Truss wouldn’t. Hitched to some banker, both sets of parents probably rolling in it. Not to mention a Detective Super’s wodge. She stared at a framed photo on the desk showing Team Truss posing all smiles in front of the family pile. It looked to Bev like the sort of place the hoi polloi bought tickets to go round and gawp.

‘I take it you do? Truss asked.

Bev shrugged.

Truss tapped a finger against her chin. ‘May I ask who the father is?’

‘You can ask.’ She sat on her hands, still felt the shockwave.

‘Okay. Just so you know, you have my full support. If you do go for promotion, I’ll help in any way I can.’

‘Thanks. Is that it?’ She knew her eyes were filling up.

‘Don’t rule it out yet, Bev. Think about it, yeah?’

‘Can I go now?’ Before the full waterworks.

‘After I’ve run something past you.’ She pushed a box of Kleenex across the desk. ‘Quite a few of the men have suggested holding a memorial service for Bill Byford. I think it’s an excellent idea. He was much loved, still missed. I’d like you to help me arrange it.’

Stick your tissues, lady. Swallowing a lump the size of Gibraltar, Bev felt the first hot tear course down her cheek. ‘I’m not big on religion, ma’am. I’d rather remember the guv in my own way.’

‘Of course. That’s fine.’ She looked as if she was about to say something else. Must’ve realized she’d said enough. ‘Okay, that’s all, thanks.’

‘Oh and, Bev.’

Make your mind up. Hand still on the door she turned her head.

‘Let me know if you get anything out of the reporter, and please think about what I’ve said. Oh, and’ – tentative smile – ‘congratulations.’

Congratu-frigging-lations? Bev slammed the toilet seat down, plonked her butt on the plastic, and leaned back against the tiles, hugging both arms round her knees. The goss would be doing the rounds in the nick before the loo had even finished flushing. She groaned out loud at the thought of all the smart-arse remarks and pointed looks; people buttoning it soon as she entered a room. Jessica Truss? More like bloody Judas. Okay, okay, Bev knew she’d worked herself up into a right state: that didn’t stop her feeling like she’d been trapped into letting the baby cat out of the bag. The new boss hadn’t just put Bev on the back foot, she’d caught her on the hop, too.

Powell had been in on the bloody conspiracy, too; the pair of them carving up her future like she’d no say in the matter. No wonder he looked so bloody sheepish last time she set eyes on him. Baa-effing-baa. Eyes? She closed hers briefly. Recalled the dosser’s bloody sockets. And she thought she’d been hard done by?

Man up, for Christ’s sake. She sniffed. ‘Rather, woman up, any day.’ And stop talking to yourself.

She tore off a few sheets of toilet paper, wiped the tears, gave her nose a gargantuan blow, and jumped to her feet ready to tackle the reporter: Summer time. And the living ain’t easy. The dying wasn’t a bundle of fun, either.

As Bev emerged from the cubicle, Jessica Truss unfolded her arms and peeled herself off the wall. ‘Just in case you were wondering, your news won’t go any further, Beverley. Not until you’re ready. You have my word on that.’

Ready? Who says –? Truss slipped out the door while Bev was still picking her jaw up off the floor.