Victoria Park, also known as the People’s Park, is the largest and most popular green space in East London, attracting nearly ten million visitors a year.
Around nine million of those visitors appear to have descended today.
At least half a million are in this queue for a burger.
Good job Aiden and I have got plenty to talk about.
“So she says to me, ‘I think you’ve got great potential and SO15 needs officers like you,’ and then she says she’ll be recruiting once she makes superintendent. That’s a job offer, right? Or do you reckon it’s just hot air?”
“Search me,” Aiden says, kissing me on the forehead.
I look up. “Well, that’s very helpful. Thanks for your input.”
“What do you want me to say? Sounds like a job offer to me, but you know the woman.”
This isn’t like him. Aiden’s a talker, a theorist. Doesn’t matter if it’s job offers, betting odds, or how to get Tabasco sauce out of every known fabric, you better believe he’s got an opinion on it. I let it go, putting it down to hunger. Or the fact I said I’d sort out a picnic this afternoon and instead we’ve been queuing for fifteen minutes for a splat of meat and processed cheese.
“That’s the thing, I don’t really know her. She’s smart and ambitious and she’s got this kind of Snow Queen vibe going on, all supercool and regal, but maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about working for someone I don’t know, not properly. God knows Steele can be challenging sometimes, but at least I know where I am with her.”
It’s hard to forget Dyer’s warning, though: “Don’t let your loyalty to Steele hold you back.”
“So what’s the SO stand for?” asks Aiden. “Don’t tell me—Sexy Officer?”
“How did you guess?” I give him a smile. “Specialist Operations.”
“Right. Very 007.”
It’s still there. Not a tetchiness, as such, but a sense that he’s not really here. I rack my brains, panicking that I’ve forgotten an important date. Maryanne’s birthday? The anniversary of his mum’s death? Maybe even the anniversary of his dad’s death? Aiden’s never had a good word to say about the man who ruled with his fists and cared only about his next pint, but grief is a knotty bugger and time can gold-plate even the worst of pricks.
“Are you OK?” We’re nearly at the front now and I haven’t picked the best time to ask.
“I’m fine. Just starving.” He catches the server’s eye, turning on the Aiden razzle-dazzle. “You all right, mate? Give me one of those double quarter pounders, would ye? With cheese and fried onions. Plenty of fried onions—like, whatever you think is plenty, double that. Good man! And whatever this one wants.”
“This one wants a halloumi burger,” I tell the server. “So come on, what do you think?”
“Each to their own. I’d rather chew a flip-flop.”
“You know what I mean, funny guy.” Although maybe he doesn’t; he hardly seems switched on today. “Do you think I should take this job?”
“So you think it is a job offer?” He pays with a twenty, receives a pitiful amount of change in return. “You should do what you want to do. Although as far as I can tell in your job, moving to another team just means being lied to by a different type of criminal.”
“Substitute ‘criminal’ for ‘colleague’ and you could say the same about anyone’s job. Do you know, over the course of a ten-minute conversation, over sixty percent of people tell at least two lies.” God knows why I said that. My self-destructiveness knows no bounds. “Hey, shall we go and sit by the lake?”
So we sit by the lake. We eat our burgers. We smile at people passing by, parents chasing children, children chasing dogs, dogs chasing Frisbees, and a few blatantly stoned teens.
“Must be easier to be one of those,” Aiden says, watching the ducks and geese criss-cross each other. “More straightforward. ‘What can’t speak, can’t lie’—isn’t that a quote?”
My head’s on his shoulder. “Sounds like something Parnell would come out with.”
“Have you talked to Parnell? About making a move?”
I haven’t, and it’s not like I haven’t had the chance. We spent great swaths of yesterday waiting for Brandon Keefe to dry out, and I was on the phone to him only an hour ago, filling him in on Serena Bailey. He didn’t sound rushed, I could have asked his advice then.
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings,” I explain.
“Christ, Cat, he’s a grown man! He must have made a few moves himself.”
“I know. It’s just he’ll ask why and I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want to tell him the truth either.”
“Which is?”
How to put this? I lift my head and turn to face him, cross-legged. “I think I’m coasting in MIT4. It’s not just what Dyer said. I met this DI this week, Susie Grainger. Aiden, she’s more or less the same age as me and she’s high-tailing it up the ladder while I’m just plodding along. Don’t get me wrong, I’m on a great team. Everyone’s competent, highly competent, and Steele’s an absolute legend, but honestly, who gives me a run for my money? Parnell and Renée are ace but neither of them is ambitious. Seth’s good, but he could give it all up tomorrow and go and live in Downton Abbey. Flowers, although it pains me to say, is good too, but he hasn’t got the savvy to go far, and Cookey hasn’t got the ability. And Swaines . . . well, he’s just so pretty that he’ll sail through life getting everything handed to him, so he’s not real competition.”
“That pretty, huh?”
I grin. “Don’t worry, not my thing. Too vanilla flavored. Oh, and there’s Emily, and I still can’t work out why she applied to be a police officer. I think she’s hoping there’ll be a fly-on-a-wall documentary one day and she’ll get spotted by Hollywood.”
“You’d be good value on a fly-on-a-wall documentary.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“You’d make good TV is all I’m saying.”
I give him a light punch. “Oh, I get it. So while Emily’s on the cover of Vogue or dating DiCaprio, I become a crazy cult figure. One of those late-night shows—Z-list Celebrity Meltdowns.”
He laughs. “Not what I meant, but Jesus, I’m digging meself a hole here. Let’s get back on track—you need more competition at work, that’s your issue?”
“I think so. See, to Steele, I’m the star striker. I know I am.” I squirm, feeling boasty, but I’ve got to get this out. “If I moved to Dyer’s team, say, I’d be a squad player again, competing for a starting place. It’d be a kick up the arse. A positive kick up the arse.”
“Excellent football analogy, Kinsella. I’ll add it to the reasons why I love you.”
I smile and look away. It’s a child’s drawing of a beautiful day. An almost clear blue sky, a few fluffy clouds thrown in for good measure. Lush green grass. Butterflies and sun hats. A balloon making a break for freedom in the distance.
And this man telling me he loves me.
I should be grateful for what I have. Maybe change isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
“Hey, look, probably nothing’ll come of it. Forget about it for now.” I nudge his knee with mine. “So come on, when are you going to tell me your news?”
He looks at the ground, pulling at a clump of grass. “What news?”
“The Americans, the other night. All that I Heart New York stuff. I figured it out, don’t worry. How long are they pinching you for? Will you be there around Christmas? Can we skate in front of the Rockefeller tree? Not that I can skate, mind. And I bet you’re rubbish, as well. Tall people usually are . . .”
“Two years.”
The words cut through my babble.
“I beg your pardon?” My voice sounds hollow, robotic.
“Two years. Well, twenty-two months, for some reason. The project starts late November and runs until September 2020.” He finally looks up. “Twenty twenty sounds mad, doesn’t it? Space-age.”
I don’t know why I’m shocked. If I hadn’t been so neck-deep in this case, in myself, I’d have seen what was pretty bloody obvious: that special envoys aren’t dispatched to London to convince someone to uproot for a few months. That kind of low-level badgering can be done over the phone, maybe Skype. But you need to see the whites of someone’s eyes if you’re asking them to leave their old life, or at least put it on pause.
“Jesus, late November. That’s four months away.”
“I haven’t agreed yet.”
“And are you going to?” The words curdle in my throat.
“Depends, doesn’t it? On whether you come too.”
My laugh is shrill. Relief, disbelief, and a burst of anger at the pressure.
“Fuck’s sake, Aiden, I can’t just . . . you can’t just . . .” I shake my head. “This isn’t fair.”
“Christ, remind me not to give you bad news.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just all a bit sudden.”
“I know, I know.” He takes both my hands. “Look, it’s just an offer and I’m flattered, o’course I am. But I’m not going anywhere without you, so if you can’t get your head around it, it’s grand, I’ll say no. And that’s a genuine ‘it’s grand,’ by the way. Not a Cat Kinsella ‘it’s grand but I’m secretly plotting to assassinate you.’”
I stifle a grin.
“It won’t look good though, will it? If you turn it down?”
“They’ll get over it. Look, five minutes ago, I might have pushed a bit more, but honestly? I didn’t realize you were that ambitious. I mean, I know you love your job and you’re great at it . . .”
“I didn’t know I was that ambitious until this week. But anyway, it’s not just my job, it’s my family. My dad, Jacqui . . . it’s such a long way.”
Aiden’s face contorts. “Your family? Your dad? Are you actually fucking kidding me?” He drops my hands. “I’m barely allowed to go near your dad, and I’ve never even met your bloody sister for some reason that I can’t even be bothered fighting about any more, but apparently they’re the reason we can’t go to New York. Oh, that’s brilliant, Cat. First class.”
“No one said you can’t go,” I fire back. “Go! I get five weeks holiday. We can have weekends. It’ll be fine.” It sounds about as fine as severing an artery. “It’s just seeing my dad in the hospital the other night . . .”
“He’s got a banjaxed arm, for fuck’s sake. Oh, hold on, didn’t I tell you I stubbed my toe on the bed this morning? That means you have to come with me, surely?” He’s shaking his head. “No, Cat. Do not go all Daddy’s Girl on me now. Say you don’t want to come because your career’s too important. Say it’s too big a step for us. Say New York’s too stressful. But not your dad. I mean, have you even called him since Tuesday? Because if you have, you haven’t mentioned it. But then, what’s new?”
“Don’t shout at me.”
“I’m not shouting.”
He isn’t. He’s raised his voice, but he’s not a shouter. I am a manipulator, though—Daddy’s Girl, through and through—and accusing him of shouting beats having a serious conversation.
But I could go, couldn’t I?
Because maybe deep down, I’m not thinking of leaving MIT4 because of ambition. What if it’s the chance to start again I’m craving? To be someone else, somewhere else. And where better than New York, three and a half thousand miles away from all the mistakes I’ve made?
From the family who’ll keep me making them.
“Do you really, really want to go then?” I say softly, sucking the sting out of the argument.
“Well, o’course I do.”
“Must be one hell of a project.”
A flat stare. “Fuck the project. Same old shite, different time zone, that’s all it is.”
“So why then?”
“Why?” He’s trying to play it cool but his lovely face gives him away. The wide-eyed awe. The glow of possibility. “Because it’s New York, baby. And because you’ve been to America and France and Barbados and probably South Central Siberia for all I know, and I’ve been to Ireland and England and three days in Prague—which I hardly saw anything of, I might add.”
We share a much-needed grin, reliving our seventy-two hours of sex, sex, and room service, ending with a trip up a lookout tower, where Aiden was up for having sex again.
I can’t be without him.
He either stays or we both go.
“I’ll think about it, OK?”
“OK. And it really is grand if you decide no. All that matters is that we’re together, Kinsella. I just want to be with you.”
The rest of the weekend passes in a blur of laughs, chores, and avoiding the conversation. Sunday lunchtime, we roam around Spitalfields Market, mingling with the tourists and shoppers, stopping to marvel at things we probably can’t afford and definitely don’t need. Aiden buys me a corsage and a candle he claims smells of fish. I buy him a Mr. Whippy and then proceed to eat half.
It’s the little things, they say. And whoever they are, they’re right.
Sunday night. I’m brushing my teeth when my phone rings.
Aiden answers, which must mean it’s Parnell. I pause, trying to catch the gist of what’s being said. Something about a Brazilian defender and then a few nice words about the dinner I made. I walk into the living room, still brushing. Aiden’s laughing at something Parnell’s said. I’d hazard a guess it’s at my expense.
“Give,” I order, my hand out for the phone, my mouth full of foam.
“I’ll pass you over, big man . . . yeah, see you soon . . . sure, we’d love to . . .”
I take the phone back into the bathroom. “We’d love to what?”
“Come over for dinner,” says Parnell. “Although from what I hear, you make a mean beef Wellington.”
“I unwrap a mean beef Wellington and throw it in the oven, gas mark seven.”
“Oh.” He actually sounds disappointed. “Aiden seemed to think it was the best thing he’s ever eaten.”
I spit and rinse quickly. “He’s easily impressed.”
Parnell resists the obvious retort. “Anyway, Spencer Shaw lands back at Heathrow tonight. The boss wants us on his doorstep first thing.”
“Yeah, fine, although I’m not sure about him anymore. The cause of death. Holly’s ‘Megan’ stunt, Fellows’ name coming into it—it feels bigger than a domestic gone wrong, don’t you reckon? And then there’s Brandon Keefe—we don’t know where that might lead. I honestly don’t think Spencer Shaw will have a lot to tell us.”
“And isn’t that the beauty of what we do, kiddo? Who knows what treasures lie ahead?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“I may have had a nightcap. All I’m saying is don’t be so defeatist. He might solve the case for us. We might be cracking open the champagne in the Tavern tomorrow night.”
“I don’t think the Tavern does champagne. It’s debatable whether it does wine.” I walk into the bedroom, hurl myself on the bed. “So you think there’s a case to solve then? You don’t think Holly is one of Masters’?”
“I don’t know.” There’s a huff of breath down the line, a sigh in the place of an impossible answer. “I do know Jacob Pope’s been attacked in Belmarsh, though.”
“Shit! Is it bad?” I ask, slightly thrown. I’d kind of forgotten about my prison jaunt earlier in the week. Another sign that maybe a change might do me good.
“Very bad. Critical. He’s in the ICU.”
“Oh wow, so not a playground spat?”
“More like a nine-inch-shank-at-lunchtime thing. A gang dispute, they reckon.”
Standard.
I stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, taking it in. “Well, clearly I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but I’m not going to lose much sleep over him. His girlfriend didn’t even make it to the ICU.”
“He knew stuff about Masters though. Handy to have him around.”
Someone obviously didn’t think so.