Chapter Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
Laura Welsh stood at the bar in the Unicorn.
It was starting to fill up, the leisurely afternoon crowd swapping with the thirstier after-work drinkers.
Punters were closing their laptops and ending the pretense that they were in the pub to do some work.
That was the thing about North London: Every public space was filled with people pretending to work.
But working hours were over, even for those who were kidding themselves that they were writing a screenplay, and it was time to have some fun.
A bar girl was fiddling with a remote control, trying to find the right sports channel for a demanding man in shorts and a polo shirt.
Like nearly all London pubs, the Unicorn had been infected with the gastro disease (the menu offered baked Camembert) but it still maintained some boozer charm. Intermittently, Laura heard the sound of pool balls clattering onto the table for another game.
She was pissed off to be buying the first round, but that was the way it went.
The youngest in Major Crimes always bought the first round.
Never mind that the youngest was on the worst salary, never mind that the youngest wouldn’t be staying long enough for the four other coppers to buy her a drink in return.
In the Met, those were the rules, and anyone not playing by them was a wrong ’un, not doing their time.
When some of these blokes had been at the bottom of the ladder, you could still buy a round for a tenner.
Now? In London? Five drinks cost the price of a flight to Sharm el-Sheikh, which is what she wished she was on.
Her friend Ruby had sent her a last-minute deal, suggested she join her for a week in an okay-looking three-star all-inclusive.
The food would probably have been shit, endless buffets of suspiciously colored pastries, but some sun would have been nice.
Laura had said she couldn’t get out of work.
What she hadn’t said was that it was her choice.
She could have easily got the time off, she had some leave owed to her, but Laura wanted to solve this case.
Something about it had got hold of her. Something about the way Bob had reacted when he’d seen that it was Sir Desmond Crisp who’d died.
Laura had to know the whole truth, and she feared that, if she left, maybe she never would.
There was something else too. The Carol Quinn interview had been a disaster.
The old lady had pulled their pants down.
They’d had no evidence, and Carol had known it.
Laura had thought they had the right woman; it had to be her.
A serial killer arrives at a retirement home and someone gets murdered?
Carol was going to confess and Laura Welsh was going to be the woman who drew it out of her.
A high-profile case and Laura would be at the center of it; word would spread around the Met that there was a hotshot new detective on the scene who had made the monster crumble. No one would stop Laura’s rise.
But it hadn’t worked out that way. Laura picked up her tray of pints and put three bags of crisps into her mouth.
“No smoky bacon?” said DI Pauline Crouch, in her gravel-voiced Geordie, as Laura arrived at the pub table.
“Sorry, I went for three plain.”
Pauline took a bag for herself, unimpressed. Pauline was a legend and a bitch. She wasn’t interested in helping the women she’d blazed a trail for. Some people left a ladder, others took it away. Pauline trod on your fingers.
DI Trev Pickle waved a pack of cigarettes. “Ciggie?”
Pauline and DI Steve Talbott stood up.
Laura looked to Bob. “You not going out?”
“Given up.”
“You’ve smoked five today.”
“Well, I’m giving up again.”
“I’m proud of you. It’s your willpower that blows me away.”
“Nice patter,” said Pauline. “You two shagging each other?”
“Fuck off, Pauline,” said Laura.
Pauline raised her eyebrows. “Touché.”
Once she and Bob were on their own, Laura took her chance and asked the question that had been on her mind. “Why haven’t we been on the roof?”
“Eh? They got a roof garden? Probably no seats, but we can go when they get back if you like.”
“I don’t mean here,” said Laura. “I mean at Sheldon Oaks.”
Bob opened a bag of crisps and took a handful. “Let’s not talk about work.”
“Fine.” Laura took a big gulp of her Guinness. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No, no, no,” Bob pleaded as Laura put her phone into her pocket, moving to leave. “Why you got the hump?”
“Why haven’t we been on the roof, Bob?”
He took a cigarette from his pocket and put it into his mouth. “I have.”
“You have?”
“Yeah. On the first day. When you were finishing things with the body, I went up there.”
“Oh. Why’s there no mention of it in the file?”
“Because there was nothing to report.”
“Nothing?”
“Honestly, babe. Nothing. No footprints. It was dry. No nothing. We swept the whole fucking thing. It’s just a roof.”
“If you say so.”
Bob narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean if I say so?”
“I mean if you say so. I trust you.” Laura shrugged. “You know, some women might not like their work colleague calling them ‘babe.’ ”
Bob scanned her, checking how serious she was. “Yeah, but you’re not like that, are you? It’s just how I talk, innit?”
She shrugged again.
Uncomfortable, Bob changed the subject. “You got a light?”
Laura shook her head. He got up and went for the door.
Laura took her phone back out of her pocket.
Ruby had arrived at the hotel. She’d posted a picture of a cocktail by a pool, in front of a setting sun.
The caption read I guess this will just have to do for the week;-).
I bet that drink’s watered down, thought Laura, telling herself she’d made the right choice to stay in town.
She went to her email. Ten from companies she really should get around to unsubscribing from and then something interesting: a reply from a yarn shop in Falmouth, Cornwall.
Dear DS Welsh,
Thank you for your inquiry. Most of our business is in person but we do have a few online customers.
You are correct that the particular yarn you asked about is only available at our store.
We have one customer in London. Her name is Polly Slaughter.
We deliver to her at Sheldon Oaks, Hampstead, London NW3.
Hope this helps,
Clarissa Blount-Pulverdart