‘You make it sound like I’m always dressing like a tramp,’ she said.
‘Not at all, but you scrub up well,’ he grinned. They hugged and she stepped inside, handing him a bottle of white wine dripping with condensation. They came through to the kitchen, and she was pleased to see that she was the only guest for dinner.
‘Stephen’s writing… He sends his love and apologies. He’s on a deadline for his new book,’ said Isaac. The wine bottle gave a pleasing pop as he pulled out the cork. ‘How about we have the first glass with a ciggie on the balcony?’
They came up to the balcony with their wine, and lit up. The sun was low in the sky, casting long, balmy shadows over the city stretching away from them. ‘Oh, this is lovely,’ said Erika, taking a sip of wine.
‘Before I forget, Stephen asked me to give you something,’ said Isaac. He disappeared through the balcony doors and returned with a book. ‘It’s his latest. Well, the one that’s been published the latest…’
‘From My Cold Dead Hands,’ said Erika reading the title. The cover showed a pale woman’s hand pushing up the lid of a coffin. In the hand was a letter, dripping with blood.
‘It’s the fourth DCI Bartholomew novel, but they’re all stand-alone, so you don’t need to have read the others. He’s signed it, too,’ said Isaac. He took her wine glass, so she could open the book.
‘“From my warm, alive hands, to you Erica, all best, Stephen”,’ she read. He’d spelled her name with a ‘c’ instead of a ‘k’. She looked up at Isaac and was about to say something when she saw he was desperate for her to take this gift, and for her and Stephen to be friends. ‘This is great. I’ll be sure to thank him when I see him.’ She tucked the book into her bag and took back her wine glass.
‘Are we okay?’ he asked. ‘Last week with the dinner party, I screwed up, and…’
‘You’ve already said sorry three times. It’s fine.’ She was about to say more when her phone rang.
‘Hang on, sorry,’ she said, rummaging around in her bag and pulling it out. She saw it was Marsh. ‘Sorry, I need to take this.’
‘I’ll give you some privacy,’ said Isaac, slipping back inside through the balcony doors.
‘Sir?’ she said, answering.
‘Who gave bloody Peterson authorisation to arrest Gary Wilmslow!’ he shouted.
‘What?’
‘Peterson arrested Wilmslow an hour ago, pulled him into the bloody nick! Woolf has already processed him and he’s in a bloody cell waiting for his brief!’
‘Where did he arrest him?’ asked Erika, her blood running cold.
‘Laurel Road…’
‘I was just there a while back.’
‘Well, you should have bloody stayed. Apparently Gary Wilmslow barged in to the house, saying he had stuff to collect. He led Peterson to a stash of cigarettes.’
‘Cigarettes?’
‘Yeah – small fry, black market stuff.’
‘Shit.’
‘Erika, if he goes down for a few knock-off cigarettes it closes down our direct link to Operation Hemslow…Months of fucking work!’
‘Yes, sir. I know.’
‘I don’t think you do! Why the bloody hell was Peterson arresting him in the first place? You heard Oakley at our meeting. Your investigation is into the murder of Gregory Munro, and Gary Wilmslow is nothing to do with that! I’m on my way back from a conference in Manchester. Now, get down there and control your bloody officers. Bail Wilmslow or, better still, find a way to caution him and let him go!’ Marsh hung up.
‘Problem?’ asked Isaac, coming back onto the balcony with a large china plate beautifully decorated with cheeses and olives. Erika looked at them longingly.
‘That was Marsh. Something’s kicked off with Peterson. I have to go down to the nick and sort it out.’ She took a last sip of wine and handed him back the glass.
‘Right now?’
‘Yeah, the joys of my job. I’m sorry. I don’t know how long it will take. I’ll phone you,’ she said, and rushed off to her car.
Isaac stayed on the balcony and stared out at the city, thinking that he probably wouldn’t hear from her anytime soon, unless there was a dead body.
23
When Erika arrived at Lewisham Row, the reception area was empty. Woolf was on duty, munching his way through a Chinese takeaway at the front desk.
‘You got yourself dolled up for Gary Wilmslow?’ he joked, taking in her loose summer dress with the spaghetti straps.