‘Just watch out, OK? Not everyone has your best interests at heart.’
So Professional Standards were sniffing about the ACC? Did that mean he’d been up to something? Mind you, the top brass were always up to something; it’s how they became the top brass in the first place.
Still, had to admit Cormac-Fordyce hadn’t exactly sounded squeaky clean when he’d offered her the job.
And what was it he’d said about her being his ‘almost fellow pupil’? She’d told him St Nicholas College only gave her that brolly because it was raining — ‘almost fellow pupil’ made it sound as if he knew she’d been a prospective student at St Nick’s. Which meant he must’ve been speaking to someone at the school. Probably the headmaster. Or maybe even her date for tonight? And that meant the ‘why were you there’ question was a test. The ACC already knew why.
Didn’t matter, though: she’d told the truth. Passed the test.
Lucy pointed at the front door. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to dinner.’
‘Of course. And it’s OK, I locked the kitchen door when I came in.’ Charlie levered himself off the sideboard, pointing at the bowl next to the flowers as he sauntered past. ‘Don’t forget your keys.’
Patronizing dick.
She snatched her house keys and the van keys from the bowl. Then swore. Those sodding keys she’d found — the ones she should’ve handed in to Lost and Found — they were still sitting there.
He stepped outside into the rain. ‘And you’d better take some comfy shoes with you, in case you get sore feet.’
‘Don’t push your luck.’ She killed the lights, popped up her brolly, and marched out the front door — shutting it behind her and making a big show of checking it was locked.
By the time she turned around again, a drenched Charlie was climbing into the back of the unmarked pool car.
With any luck, he’d catch pneumonia and die.
Lucy clambered into the Bedford Rascal, cranked the engine, and stuck her foot down hard enough to make some gravel fly.
Why did men have to be such complete arseholes?
Lucy parked her motorized embarrassment a good distance from the restaurant, popped open her new umbrella, then tottered her way along Motte Row — already regretting wearing strappy leather wedges when wellington boots would have been more practical — clomping from one patch of jaundiced streetlight to the next. Wind snatched at the hem of her mum’s maxi dress. Rain rattled against the St Nick’s brolly, filling the gutters and spilling out across the corbels. The Old Castle’s crumbling remains were all lit up on the other side of the road, glowing red and blue and green, like something out of a nightmare. Behind it, the land fell away — straight down a jagged granite cliff, the lights of Castleview and the Wynd glittering in the storm-soaked darkness beyond.
Had to hand it to Argyll, the setting was impressive enough.
La Poule Française sat halfway along a curling terrace of huge sandstone townhouses. Doubt you’d get much change from two million around here. The restaurant’s mullioned windows glowed with dim candlelight — discreet enough to hide the diners’ identities from the vulgar gaze of any passer-by.
A man in a kilt opened the door for Lucy, ushering her into the warmth. Small round tables, booths, and crisp white linen. Sparkling glasses and silverware. The place was busy, but not crowded, bathing the room in a muted hum of candlelit conversation.
Definitely far too fancy in here for jeans and a top.
The kilted man didn’t ask who she was, or if she had a reservation, just took her umbrella and raincoat, then escorted her straight to a booth in the corner, where Argyll was nursing a gin and tonic.
Argyll struggled as upright as he could get, trapped between the seating and the table, and smiled. ‘DS McVeigh! I mean, Lucy, I’m so glad you came.’ He’d ditched the school uniform for a tan suit. ‘Please, sit, sit. You look lovely, by the way.’ Then his forehead puckered. ‘I hope that’s OK for me to say. I know there are times when it’s inappropriate to compliment a woman on her appearance, but—’
‘It’s OK.’
The kilted man gave her a nod and headed back to his station.
‘So...’ Argyll rubbed his hands. Puffed out his cheeks. Looked down at his cutlery. ‘Have you been before? The turbot is spectacular, and so’s the soufflé au fromage, or the sweetbreads, or...’ It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but that definitely looked like a blush. ‘Sorry.’ A glug of gin and tonic. ‘Babbling my way through the menu, like an idiot.’
A woman in a crisp black suit appeared at Lucy’s elbow, her French accent soft and musical. ‘Compliments of Mr Garvie.’ Setting two glasses of something fizzy down on the table.
Lucy didn’t move. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘My apologies, madam,’ and one of the glasses disappeared, ‘may I suggest a sparkling elderberry and rhubarb pressé instead? It is — how you say — quite delicious. Oui? Bien. My colleague, Marguerite, will be along momentanément with your amuse-bouche and menus. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to let me know.’ Then she swept off, just as silently as she’d arrived.
Argyll fiddled with his complimentary glass of fizz. ‘You don’t drink?’
‘Not since... Not for a while, no.’ Lucy forced a bit of jollity into her voice. ‘Besides, I’m driving. And a police officer. Not that police officers don’t drink, but not when they’re driving, because it wouldn’t look good, would it, for public confidence, if we behave like the law doesn’t apply to us.’ Smooth, Lucy. Very good. Now the pair of them were babbling away like spotty teenagers at their first school dance.
‘Yes, I see, definitely. I...’ Still fiddling with his glass. ‘Is it OK if I do, though, because I’m just a little bit more nervous than I thought I’d be, because I think I mentioned I really don’t do this very often, because... yes.’ He downed the rest of his gin and tonic in one. ‘Sorry.’
Then they both cleared their throats and stared at the tablecloth for a while.
Oh God. It was going to be one of those nights...
Had to admit, Argyll had been right — the turbot was lovely.
He was tucking into veal short ribs, telling stories about how great St Nicholas College and its staff and pupils and facilities were. To be honest, it should have bored the large sensible pants off her, but there was something endearing about the man’s passion. He’d put away the nervous teenager along with half a bottle of Sancerre, then two large glasses of shiraz. The rosy glow in his cheeks coming from something other than embarrassment for a change.
Lucy scooped a new potato through a glob of wobbling hollandaise. ‘I spoke to one of your alumni today, Findlay Cormac-Fordyce?’
A beaming smile. ‘Freaky Findlay? How’s the old bugger doing?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable.’
‘Of course he is. We were Raxton House boys. There was us, Spoony Simpson, Matchbox Morrison, and Rhino Rhynie.’ Argyll must’ve seen the look on Lucy’s face, because he shrugged. ‘What can I say: alliterative nicknames were all the rage. The five of us were inseparable in our never-ending battle to get one over on Glenogil House. And yes, I know that makes me sound like a character out of Billy Bunter, but when you’re twelve and you’re away from home ten months of the year, this kind of nonsense seems like the most important thing in the world.’
She kept her voice neutral, hopefully doing a much better job of it than ACC Cormac-Fordyce had done. ‘You still keep in touch?’