Hanlon looked out of her window at the commuters hurrying eagerly away from the City and at the traders standing in noisy, expensively suited groups outside pubs. I need a distraction, she thought.
Endless images of Whiteside in his hospital bed mixed with thoughts of Jessica McIntyre and Fuller, like some crazy snow- globe of memory. She remembered how McIntyre’s engagement ring, below her wedding band, had sparkled in the light when she had moved her left hand. No, no, it hadn’t sparkled, it had blazed, almost as if it had supernatural powers. Hanlon had never really thought about diamonds before, except in crime terms; now she did. It must have been unbelievably expensive, she thought.
She wondered what Hannah had made of Jessica, with her Mulberry handbag and Manolo Blahniks, her leggy beauty, her poise and her wealth, all that Hannah was not or did not have. The two of them united in death. The two of them victims of the same killer.
Oh, this is hopeless, she realized. She suddenly thought of Michaels. Perhaps he could shed some light on the relationship between Fuller and McIntyre. He had disliked McIntyre, she knew that, and he was no friend of Fuller’s. But once the chip on his shoulder had been taken into consideration, he could well provide some valuable insights.
I wonder, mused Hanlon.
Will be in Bloomsbury. Fancy a quick drink? she texted him.
White Horse, 5.30, half an hour, have to be back at work for 6 p.m., came the reply.
Perfect, thought Hanlon, texting back a yes. Let’s see what the chef has to say.