Fifteen minutes later, Nick caught up with the tall CSI as she was loading the last of her equipment into the crime scene van. She had already peeled off her nitrile gloves, and now she pushed back the hood of her unzipped suit, to rake her fingers vigorously through that mass of rich red hair.
“All done?” he asked as he walked towards her across the cracked concrete.
“I think so.” She pushed the suit down to her knees and sat in the van’s side doorway to wrestle it over her boots. Underneath, she was wearing faded jeans and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway back along her forearms to reveal what looked like a battered gent’s watch.
What’s she trying to prove? Nick wondered. The answer was immediate. Everything.
He leaned against the open sliding door, watching her. He was as old-fashioned as the next man when it came to female attire. He liked women to look like women; pretty clothes and makeup—just as long as he didn’t have to hang around while they chose it.
“You were quite right, by the way. The owner says he only had the faulty catch on that window fixed last week. His insurance agent kicked up a fuss because the policy was coming up for renewal.”
Grace stopped, thoughtful. “Good job he got round to it, or his claim might have been thrown out.”
“Hm.” Nick glanced up, squinted at the starkness of the sun and fished in his pocket for dark glasses. “So our thieves haven’t been here since last week, or they’d have realised it was a waste of time.”
“Or they knew the catch had been fixed and still reckoned it was their best option.” Grace smiled. “Sorry. Just playing devil’s advocate.”
Nick found himself returning the smile. “And he doesn’t have a dog, either. Allergic to them, apparently. Says all his regulars know to keep theirs outside.”
“Well then.” Grace pulled the last of the suit free and bundled it into a waste bag. “That’s something, at least.” She stood. “I’m sorry it’s not more.”
“Don’t be. You’ve dug up more than anyone else has managed. You never know, we might actually be able to crack this one.”
As he spoke he realised that something of his old eagerness for the job had returned. He’d come down here still troubled by the same bout of sullen irritation he’d been struggling to shake. But now he felt what might even have been optimism. She might be a bit aloof, but there’s no doubt she knows her stuff.
It still annoyed him that he’d missed the signs of the affair between Frederickson and Angela Inglis, but he shrugged it aside. If Pollock didn’t think it was worth taking seriously, who was he to argue?
Nick stepped back to allow Grace to slam the side door shut, van keys ready in her hand.
“I don’t suppose,” he said as she moved for the driver’s side, “that you’d let me buy you lunch?”
She looked down that long aristocratic nose at him, nodded to the van. “It would be unprofessional to leave evidence unattended.”
Nick jerked his head towards a café on the other side of the estate, obviously catering as much to walkers and passers-by as the nearby businesses. There were half a dozen chrome tables and chairs clustered outside, from which their vehicles would be clearly visible. “You wouldn’t have to.”
“Hm, it’s very kind of you, but I don’t think so,” she replied in that slightly remote voice of hers. The disappointment flooded him, but when he looked closely there was a faint smile tugging the corner of her mouth. “I’m quite capable of buying my own lunch,” she added. “You’re more than welcome to join me.”
“Right.” He tried not to sound relieved. “I’ll grab us a table, shall I?” And he walked away quickly, just in case she was tempted to change her mind.