Over an early-afternoon conference call, Frank and I suggest meeting in the Three Pigeons, a snug little boozer at the top of Guildford’s cobbled high street.
Stacey is having none of it. ‘Not professional enough. Can’t we book meeting rooms? Or, at a pinch, we could convene at your place, Novak.’
You see? This is why I choose to work alone.
‘Stacey, I’m not sure you’ve grasped the company ethos of Novak & Stewart.’
We settle on the cafe bar of the Yvonne Arnaud Theatre.
‘All right,’ Stacey concedes. ‘See you both there at five.’
*
Frank and I arrive a few minutes after four. We head upstairs and grab a table in the corner, overlooking the ribbon of garden that clings to the theatre and, a few metres beyond it, the River Wey. I get the drinks in whilst Frank takes the seat with its back to the wall and broad windows to his right, affording him the best view of the room itself.
We discuss the case over a couple of pints and Sophie Grace arrives dead on five. She’s wearing a simple black dress and a fifties-style, mint-green cropped jacket. Big buttons and a collar so broad you could eat your dinner off it. She also manages to carry off a matching knitted hat that looks like a cross between a beret and beanie.
‘Marc! You look absolutely divine!’ I get my second enthusiastic hug of the day as she greets me like I’ve been released from prison after some long-standing miscarriage of justice has been uncovered. ‘It’s wonderful to set eyes on you again! And Frank! Come here, you incorrigible man!’
He makes a token effort to evade her open arms but ends up locked in a lengthier embrace than she gave me.
She eventually steps back and straightens his tie. ‘This darling man is a mystery, Marc! Every time I see him, he looks younger!’ She gives him, a dazzling smile. ‘It’s quite unchivalrous of you, Frank!’
He tries to say, ‘Don’t talk daft, woman!’ but stumbles over his words and I end up grinning at my friend’s face, suddenly the hue of a Crimson King beetroot.
‘For God’s sake, get the lady a drink and stop blushing like a schoolboy caught scrumping!’ I tell him.
‘I’m not blushing! It’s warm in here. That’s all.’
Frank heads to the downstairs bar and Sophie sits opposite me.
‘How are the twins, Ms Grace?’
‘Will you never call me Sophie? Wretch! And . . . oh, they’re monsters. But they’re my monsters.’
‘And how are you? You must still be reeling after Christian’s death . . . How are you coping – if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I don’t mind you asking. It’s good manners, which I always approve of. But do you mind if I’m forthright with you?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve never understood . . .’
I wait, expecting her to finish the sentence. But she leans back, indicating that signalled the end of her thought process.
‘Me neither,’ I admit, although I’m not entirely certain what I’m admitting to.
We chat for a couple of minutes and she’s full of news about the Crownly Ladies’ Luncheon Club (‘Daphne’s plum jam is causing us no end of headaches! But she’s such a dear, none of us wants to broach the matter with her . . .’) and the feckless vicar’s new fiancée (‘Lovely woman! Well, girl. Well, zygote. Honestly. So young, none of us knew where to look! The whole thing is a powder keg waiting to go off, but none of it’s her fault. Probably. He uses the pulpit like it’s a crow’s nest, of course, if you get my drift, Marc. Such a shame for her, though! She’s simply adorable. She wears foundation like it’s going out of fashion, true, but I say that’s terribly brave of her . . .’).
When Frank re-joins us, he’s carrying a tray that holds what looks tantalisingly like four large Bloody Marys. Stacey – just a couple of steps behind him – is wearing ice-white trainers, three-stripe Adidas tracky bs and a black, round-neck bishop-sleeve top. I’m no Edith Head, but I do silently marvel at her ability to look so effortlessly cool.
Frank places the tray on the table. Stacey reaches his side and glances down at the drinks. ‘Four Bloody Marys. Grand. What are you lot having?’ She breaks her deadpan delivery with a smile. ‘Hi! I’m Stacey! I’m guessing you’re the amazing Sophie! This one’ – she nods in my direction – ‘is always banging on about you. Fuck! I bloody love your hat!’ She takes the last seat at the table.
Sophie Grace beams. ‘Stacey! Darling girl! We’ll be great friends – I can feel it in my creaking bones! And this old thing?’ She gestures to her headwear. ‘My Auntie Violet knitted it for me! Blind as a bat, but an absolute mad thing with knitting needles and a yarn!’
Frank laughs.
‘Right . . .’ I look across the drinks at my three friends. Individuals, but hopefully not for long. ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’