‘Same again?’ Adam asked, indicating her empty glass.
Hannah Bird smiled and shifted awkwardly in her seat. ‘Yes, please.’
It would be her third and this time he would slip in a double. He was dying to ask her all sorts of questions about the investigation, but he didn’t want to rouse any suspicions. First he needed to get some more drink down her. They were in a pub on the Hammersmith side of Hammersmith Bridge. The walls were plastered with memorabilia and photos of the Oxford and Cambridge annual boat race and it was a touristy spot, with a terrace overlooking the river at the back. It was easy to blend in amongst the transient crowd and it was also far enough away from her office, he hoped, not to bump into any of her work colleagues. Although, even if fucking Mark Tartaglia walked in, he doubted the detective would recognise him. A lot had happened in a year and he looked nothing like his former self. At the moment he could easily pass for the old photo of Kit in Kit’s battered passport.
He went up to the bar and ordered their drinks, casting a quick glance behind him at Hannah. Legs crossed, handbag tight to her side as though she was scared somebody might nick it, she stared blankly ahead of her. He wondered what she was thinking. She probably couldn’t believe her luck. She was wearing a short, patterned velvet skirt and clumpy heels, which emphasised her thick legs and ankles. Piano legs, as his grandmother would have called them. Thank God her top half was relatively well covered up, but her make-up was crude, as though she was unaccustomed to wearing it, the heavy foundation only highlighting her bad skin. He assumed she had changed at work – he couldn’t imagine her going about her day job looking like such a tart. She also reeked of some disgusting perfume. But the thought of her making such an effort for him made him smile. The plain ones were always the easiest; they were always so grateful for the attention. It was going to be a doddle.
He had met her only two weeks before, after trawling the handful of pubs close to the murder squads’ offices in Barnes, posing as somebody on his own, new to the west London area, with a paperback and a pub guidebook to keep him company. He could spot the police contingent a mile off amongst the locals and after only a couple of false starts he had got talking to her. That she worked directly for Tartaglia – what were the odds of there being more than one detective inspector with an Italian name working out of Barnes? – and was new to the team had been a massive bonus. Lady Luck had smiled on him again. He was careful to play it cool, not probing her with any direct questions, and eventually he had asked her out. Two days later, she had phoned him to say she couldn’t make it. ‘They were on call.’ When she had explained what this meant, he could barely contain his elation. It was then simply a matter of timing, getting all the cards to fall nicely into place.
‘You know, you don’t look at all like a policewoman,’ he said, sitting down a few moments later with their drinks.
She smiled awkwardly. ‘What do you mean?’
He almost choked at the obviousness of it all before answering, ‘Well, if I knew you better, I’d pay you a compliment here, but I don’t want you to think I’m cheap.’ Noticing the colour rise to her cheeks, he grinned. ‘I think I’d better shut up. Here’s to you and good detecting.’