under the stairs. Instead, it gave on to a narrow, steep flight of steps illuminated by a bare lightbulb. Tony led the way into a surprisingly high-ceilinged space. ‘This would be the living room,’ he said, ushering her into a large room that had two shallow but wide windows set high in the walls. ‘It gets a fair bit of natural light. And we could put glass panels in the outside door and build a little porch at the bottom of the steps for security,’ he added eagerly. ‘I already suggested that to the builder. I know it’s hard to imagine now, with the walls still being bare brick, but all this will be plaster-boarded. Wood floors. It’ll look really nice.’
It was a good size. Plenty of room for all she would need, Carol thought. The bedroom was almost as big as the living room, with a surprisingly large bay window. Carol looked around, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘It’s not bad, you know. I can imagine waking up here.’
Tony looked at the floor, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Think about it.’
On the way back upstairs, he showed her the recently installed toilet and shower room. White tiled walls gleamed bright under their ceiling spotlights. Clean, fresh, untainted. New, she thought with a surge of excitement. A place without ghosts. ‘I don’t need to think about it,’ Carol said. ‘When’s it going to be ready?’
Tony grinned like a small boy. ‘The builder reckons three weeks. Can you stand it at Michael’s till then?’
Carol leaned against his breakfast bar. ‘I can stand anything if I know it’s going to end. You think you can stand having me as your downstairs neighbour?’
‘Only if you promise always to have milk.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘I’m very good at running out of it.’
Carol smiled. ‘I’ll stock up on UHT.’
Waiting is never easy. Especially when he knows exactly what he’s waiting for. By the time he got out on the street today, he was expecting cops everywhere, police tape cordoning off the ginnel where Sandie worked. He was expecting huddles of people on street corners, muttering about murder and mutilation. He was expecting uniformed officers with clipboards asking people where they were and what they were doing last night.
He remembers what it was like last time. The whole of Temple Fields felt like it had overdosed on whiz. Everybody talking nineteen to the dozen like speed freaks, even the miserable gits who never normally had the time of day for him or anybody else. Until the bizzies walked in. Then silence fell like somebody dropped a blanket over everybody’s head.
That’s what he expected this time. But when he went into Stan’s Café and ordered his usual bacon butty and mug of tea, it was just like any other day. A few of the working girls clustered round greasy tables, taking the weight off their feet for half an hour. A couple of kids from the rent rack cuddling cups of coffee. Various eyes clocking him, wondering if he was carrying any gear. Looking away in disappointment when he gave them a slight shake of the head. He’d get hassle off Big Jimmy when he showed up to collect today’s stock. He’d bollock him for being late. He’d hoped the excitement on the street would give him an excuse, but there isn’t any.
So he finished his breakfast and moseyed on round to Big Jimmy’s flat for some stuff to sell. Luckily, the big man wasn’t in and he only had to deal with that fuckwit scaghead Drum who’s too far out of the world to care what anybody else is doing. Within the half-hour he was back on the pitch, doing the business, hoping nobody wondered where he’d been all morning. Hell, most of them had probably still been out cold themselves.
But now it’s evening, and still nothing’s stirring on the streets. It makes him uneasy. Part of him begins to wonder if he dreamed the whole thing. He almost wants to walk round to Sandie’s pitch to see if she’s standing on her usual corner, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
He wishes the Voice was here right now to tell him what’s going on. But since he delivered, he’s heard nothing. He begins to wonder if he’s been abandoned, if all the promises were a dream too.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Tony raised his glass and reached across the debris of the Chinese. ‘Here’s to one of our rare non-Catholic meals.’ They chinked glasses.
‘Non-Catholic meals?’ Carol frowned.
‘Mostly, when we eat together, it’s in the middle of a case.’ He picked up a piece of pancake. ‘Here is my body which I sacrificed for you.’ He ate the pancake, then raised his glass again in mock-ceremony. ‘Here is my blood which I shed for you.’
Carol nodded, getting it. ‘Only, in our case, the confession comes after the communion.’
‘Only if we’re right.’
She pulled a rueful face. ‘Right, and lucky.’ She took his glass from him and sipped from the opposite side. She felt a crackle of electricity in the curiously intense moment. Before she could hand back the glass, the intimacy was shattered by the insistent ring of her mobile. ‘Damn,’ she said, scrabbling for her bag.
‘Speaking of lucky…’ Tony muttered.
‘DCI Jordan,’ Carol said.
Don Merrick’s familiar voice sounded in her ear. ‘We’ve got a body. I think you’ll want to see this one.’
Carol stifled a sigh. ‘Fine. You’ll have to send a car for me, I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine.’ Tony stood up and started shovelling the tinfoil containers into their plastic bag.
‘No problem, ma’am. You at your flat?’
‘Actually, no, Don. I’m at Dr Hill’s house.’ She caught Tony’s glance and raised her eyes heavenwards as she gave Merrick the address. She was aware of muffled conversation at the other end of the phone. Then Merrick came back on.
‘I’ve asked a car to pick you up there.’
‘I’ll see you shortly, Don,’ Carol said, ending the call. She drained her glass of wine and said, ‘Seems we’ve got a body.’ She got to her feet. ‘I didn’t exactly mean the evening to end like this.’
Tony picked up the dirty plates. ‘Well, it’s probably best to stick to what we know we’re good at.’
Temple Fields’ tawdry glitter was blurred by the slant of autumn rain. The car tyres hissed on the block paving of the pedestrianized zone at the heart of the area. The driver turned into a narrow side street. Redbrick and seedy, it harboured shop fronts with little allure and small entrepreneurial businesses with bedsits on the floors above. Halfway down, access was blocked by a pair of parked police cars. Vague figures hurried beyond the cars, heads down against the weather. As the car pulled up, Carol lowered her head, took a deep breath and climbed out.
Approaching the squad cars, Carol saw that the entrance to a smaller ginnel was closed off by crime-scene tape. Her stomach lurched in anticipation of what she was about to be confronted with. Please God, let it not be sexual. She ducked under the tape, giving her name and rank to the officer logging access to the scene, and spotted Paula standing at a grubby door leading to a stairwell. Seeing Carol, she broke off her conversation with a uniformed officer and turned to her.
‘It’s upstairs, chief. Not
