Jessie, knowing a self-satisfied look when she saw one.
‘God works in mysterious ways, but rarely this quickly,’ said Niaz softly, before moving aside. Jessie turned. It was DCI Moore. She was being punished for her sarcasm.
‘DI Driver, you must be terribly sad that Jones is retiring.’
A cunning question. One that required dexterity of mind. To agree meant insulting Moore and to disagree meant insulting Jones. ‘Surprised, more than anything. I thought he’d be commander of the Met one day. It is a great loss to the entire police force that he is going.’
‘Indeed,’ said DCI Moore. Jessie noticed that she had dressed up even more than usual for the occasion and applied a new coat of lipstick: red. Her hair, dyed and coiffed, had been pinned up in a chignon, and she wore a tight pencil skirt with a silk shirt. Her stockings and high heels were black.
Jessie fiddled with her hair. Now her smart trouser suit felt dowdy. She couldn’t win with this woman.
‘I’m glad to see that the leather trousers you were wearing yesterday have been discarded. Not very officer-like.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, but I wear them more often than not.’
‘Really? That’s fashionable, is it?’ she said as if she were talking to a sixth-form student.
‘No. But it’s safer.’
‘Safer for whom?’
‘Me. I ride a bike to work.’
‘Really. And you wear leather for a bicycle?’
Jessie laughed. ‘It’s not a bicycle.’
‘Oh, I see, a moped –’
‘No, ma’am, it’s a motorbike. A Virago 750cc –41 horsepower, 0–60 in 3.2 seconds,’ she said, unintentionally puffing out her chest.
DCI Moore eyed Jessie up and down. ‘You’re a biker,’ she said incredulously. Then she seemed to relax, looked at Jessie’s hair and nodded to herself. ‘OK, I see,’ she laughed. ‘They always say you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers. My mistake. I should have known – the hair sort of gives it away.’
Jessie was momentarily confused. ‘Gives what away?’
DCI Moore didn’t respond.
Then it washed over her, the horrible creeping feeling that she knew what Moore was referring to. But she couldn’t believe it. She repeated the question. ‘Gives what away – that I ride a bike? Is that what you mean, boss?’
‘It’s all right, Driver, settle down. Whatever your persuasion may be is none of my business. However, I think you should move away from the …’ She paused, seemingly unable to find the appropriate words for what was an entirely inappropriate comment. ‘No need to wear it on your sleeve. From now on I expect to see you in skirts. You can leave the leathers for the weekends when you’re out with your …’ she paused again, ‘… friends.’
Jessie couldn’t believe it. As she watched the departing back of her new boss, she caught Jones watching her. Jessie shook her head very, very slightly. He mouthed the words, ‘You’ll be fine.’ He was wrong, thought Jessie, sneaking out of the room. Jones was wrong for the first time since she’d met him. She was now working with two bigots, and one of them was a woman. Worse, she was her boss. Her life at CID was about to become intolerable, she thought as she left the party, and intolerable wasn’t how she planned to live her life. She walked angrily down the deserted street. As she clicked open her phone to call Bill, it rang.
‘DI Driver.’
‘Jessie?’
The line was unclear.
‘Bill, is that you?’
‘Who the hell is Bill?’
It was P.J. Jessie was stunned into silence. Her heart did a decisive round in her chest.
‘Don’t put the phone down, please. Jessie, are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ she said meekly.
‘I’m back in London and I was wondering, I know it’s late, but how do you fancy dim sum and champagne? I know what you’re like about being seen in public with someone as sleazy as me, so I thought I’d pick up the food, pick up the booze, pick you up and we could order the driver to cruise around a bit. Before you turn me down, it’s a limo. Lots of leg room, the glass is tinted and the driver can’t see anything. What do you think?’
No. No. No. No. No. ‘I’m tired, P.J.’ She was struggling to get the words out.
‘Well, I’d offer you a fat line of coke, but somehow I don’t think you’d be interested.’
‘Ha. Ha.’
‘Come on, Jessie. I’ve been surrounded by sycophants for weeks, no one to put me on the spot, insult me, tell me how it is. I’m in withdrawal.’
If only. ‘You mean everyone thinks it’s a good idea you getting rich on the back of your murdered wife.’
‘Richer.’
This was a really bad idea. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Come on, I was only joking.’
‘Well, I’m not. Sorry, P.J., but I am busy.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘I am.’
‘Don’t be so petulant. You’re walking down a dark street, alone, with no one to go home to since that flatmate of yours got famous on the back of her brush with death.’ Jessie turned around instinctively. A set of headlights flashed at her.
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