‘Just a rendezvous with a friend,’ Henry said tightly.
‘A kissin’ friend?’
‘None of your business, pal.’
‘So you’re getting back on to the hey-ho?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Why would you?’
Donaldson shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I need an early night, anyhow. I’m bushed.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Hey, pal,’ Donaldson said. The two men locked eyes meaningfully. ‘If I’m right, it’s fine with me. No judgements from this neck of the woods.’
‘I know.’
‘But I still want to talk to ya, brainstorm a bit, yeah?’
‘Fine.’
The debrief went smoothly. Each pair of investigating detectives pooled their accumulated knowledge of the short and, as it was turning out, rather sordid life of Natalie Philips. Not that her lifestyle made any difference to Henry. He particularly hated it when young people came to sticky ends, hated the thought of a young life snuffed out and the death of possibility. In any murder inquiry, he gave his all. In the case of a youngster, he pushed even harder.
Some good stuff came up. Ex-boyfriend Lewis Kitchen had been found and was due to be pulled in tomorrow. The name of the teacher who supposedly had the hots for Natalie had been unearthed and was also going to be spoken to next day. Some of her friends had been interviewed and a clearer picture of her life was emerging, in that for the past few weeks she had withdrawn from her mates and was being secretive about who she was seeing. There was a stumbling block with her computerized social network contacts, the detectives being unable to access her Facebook account, from which she had recently de-friended most of her contacts. Henry took the opportunity to reveal what had been found inside Natalie and that DNA tests were in the database queue for the three unidentified sperm samples. He told everyone that although Mark Carter remained a good suspect, this investigation was by no means over.
Afterwards he and Rik did next day’s tasking and Henry brought the murder book up to date, which in turn brought him to eleven fifteen p.m. Uneasily he picked up his mobile phone and sent a text, receiving a reply only moments later that said, ‘YES’.
She was waiting for him in the bar of the Hilton Hotel. It was quiet, just a few lonesome looking businessmen staring glumly into spirit glasses, and Alison Marsh sitting in a corner reading a novel. She closed it as he walked across the bar and they smiled warmly, but uncertainly, at each other. Internally he had a very warm glow and a sudden sense of euphoria, even though his throat seemed to close up. She laid the book on the table in front of her, her eyes playing over the weary Henry, now slightly dishevelled after another long day. There was a glass of red wine on the table and Henry asked her if she wanted another, finding his voice sticking in his closed throat and unable to form any coherent words.
Seeing his discomfort, she said, ‘JD on the rocks?’
‘Coming up,’ he declared after a cough. He made to turn to the bar, but Alison rose to her feet and touched his arm.
‘In my room,’ she said huskily. ‘It’s all prepared.’
They looked at each other.
‘The time for talking’s over, Henry.’
And he realized it probably was. When they had met the other night for a drink in the same location, he had poured out, for the first time to anyone, his grief about losing Kate. Alison had listened, allowed him to download, and for him it had been an incredible release. For the first time he had told someone about Kate, their ups and downs, the bad way he’d treated her, the fact that although they had divorced she stuck with him through it all and eventually they had remarried. And been happy. Then she had been struck down by something evil and ferocious which was more than a match for her grim determination to stay alive. He spoke for almost an hour, non-stop, then had suddenly looked into Alison’s eyes before melting into her arms and holding her tightly. After that they talked about her husband, Robert, the soldier killed in Afghanistan.
‘So I kind of know what you’re going through,’ she’d said gently. ‘I know everyone’s different, everyone reacts differently to the unexpected, or expected, death of a loved one… but I do know what it’s like.’
They parted with a hug that night.
Henry could not get her off his mind, even though he fought grimly with the guilt, the recentness of Kate’s death, and about how others would react, his daughters in particular. In the end, he knew he had to be true to himself.
He took her hand as they walked out of the bar. His legs were dithery. His whole being was trembling. They rode the lift in silence, Henry just holding Alison’s little finger as they stood side by side.
Moments later they were in her room.
Then they kissed and the JD on the rocks had to wait for a while.
She lay tucked into him, her arm across his chest, fingertips touching his left shoulder and the raised scars where he’d been blasted by the shotgun, now well over a year ago. Six inches to the right and his heart would have been shredded, and he would have been the first to die, not Kate. But he had survived and the wounds healed.
It had been through Alison’s nursing skills that he’d come away from the incident so well.
She raised her eyes. ‘That was lovely.’
‘Short and sweet,’ he admitted.
‘Just right under the circumstances.’
His head moved down and he kissed her mouth, loving the taste and texture of her very soft lips. A surge of blood gushed through him and her hand left his shoulder and slid silkily down his body to grasp him, causing a moan to emerge from the back of his throat, then from hers.
‘Gorgeous,’ he whispered.
With amazing dexterity she was suddenly on top of him, moving gently, and he was entranced by her looks.
His mobile phone rang at half past midnight. Henry grunted, carefully extracted his right arm from under Alison’s neck, and sat on the edge of the bed. He had been on the verge of a deep sleep. He glanced at Alison, who muttered something, but kept her eyes closed. Henry sifted through his clothing which was discarded across the floor. It had been ripped off with abandon, as had Alison’s, and he grinned like a juvenile at the memory, especially when he picked up her bra. That had been one of the great moments.
The phone continued to ring — still Miss You by the Stones. Have to change that, he thought. Maybe Mixed Emotions.
Finally he found the infernal device, plucked it out of his inner jacket pocket, and it stopped ringing. He muttered a curse.
The display said, ‘Unknown number’.
‘Bugger,’ he said, laid it on the bedside cabinet. He needed the toilet, but was reluctant to go, particularly when Alison reached out and scraped her fingernails gently down his back.
‘Who was it?’
‘No idea.’
‘Kiss me,’ she ordered him. He twisted around and she had a lovely crooked smile on her face. ‘I need kissing.’
Henry thought about saying something witty, but decided against it. He needed kissing, too, so he lay down next to her, cupped her face and lowered his mouth to hers and they explored, teeth, tongues, lips and wetness. It wasn’t just a lust-driven mashing, which it had been initially. It was slow and slithery and Henry, amazing himself, found that he was responding yet again.
And then the phone rang. Miss You.
He snatched it up, dropped back on to the pillow and answered it. Alison propped herself up on an elbow and bit into his nipple.
‘Christie,’ he hissed through clenched teeth, and Alison suppressed a wicked giggle.
‘It’s me, your prime suspect.’
Henry held the phone away from his ear and squinted angrily at it. He put it back. ‘Mark — it’s way past midnight. This better be good.’