fine,’ she said.
He went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and prepared a single mug. As the water boiled, he took a tumbler and a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and poured himself three fingers. Walking back into the lounge, he threw his jacket across the armchair and hit the button on the phone-messaging system. There was only one message. It was from his older sister, Dana: ‘Mark, when am I going to see you? It’s been ages. I mean, if you’re not coming up, you can at least call.’
He pressed ‘delete’.
‘You and Dana still not getting on?’ Gemma asked.
‘Everything’s fine. I just can’t be bothered.’
‘Charming.’
Gemma glanced around at the lounge. It was neat enough, but very functional. The word ‘minimalist’ wouldn’t cover it – ‘Spartan’ would be more accurate. The walls were bare of paintings, the sideboard and shelves empty of flowers or photographs. The red and orange flowered curtains, blue vinyl sofa, and mauve carpet were a tasteless mish-mash.
‘Still no sign of a woman’s touch,’ she said.
‘Surely that doesn’t surprise you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
He swilled his whisky, and went back into the kitchen.
She took in the room again. A few books sat on a sideboard, all recent titles from the bestseller list, covering various genres, which again was no surprise – it suggested Heck had neither the time nor inclination for a more specialised interest. DVDs occupied a wooden tower alongside the television, their cases thick with dust. It was clearly a while since he’d sat down and watched one of them. Next to the sofa there was a newspaper rack, but it contained only one item – yesterday’s edition of the Standard. Periodicals and style magazines of the sort that cluttered most people’s lounges were noticeably absent. Heck returned, carrying her coffee. She noticed that he’d poured himself another two fingers.
‘Have you got a drink problem that I don’t know about?’ she asked.
He dropped into the armchair. ‘The only problem I have is that I don’t get enough time to drink. Until now of course. Cheers!’
She placed her coffee down. ‘You know, there are times when a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Okay … you’re right. Thanks for the lift home.’
‘You’re as impossible now as you were …’
‘As I was then?’
She bit her lip and shook her head, as if suppressing a response that she’d regret.
For some reason, this half-conciliatory act warmed Heck inside. He added to it by swilling more whisky. ‘Well … I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.’
Gemma sighed. ‘Heck, I’ve defended your corner for a long time. But there’s only so much even I can do if you insist on winding up Jim Laycock every time you meet him.’
‘Oh, so that’s what this is about …’
‘No, it isn’t. And don’t start giving me attitude, Heck . . . because I’m not going to put up with it either.’ She paused, picked her coffee up and took a sip. ‘My God, that’s foul. You know they call me “the Lioness”?’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘Yeah, well that’s except where you’re concerned. Where you’re concerned, they call me “the Pussy Cat”. Now what do you think that’s doing to my self-esteem, eh?’
‘Alright, I’m sorry.’ He grabbed at his tie to loosen it, only to find that he wasn’t wearing one. ‘But he’s got to get off my back …’
‘For Christ’s sake, Heck! He’s a commander, you’re a sergeant!’
‘Yeah, and I close cases he wouldn’t have the first idea how to approach.’
‘That’s not the point. History’s written by the top brass, not the cannon fodder. So would you mind, now and then, just trying to make my job a little bit easier?’
‘I said I’m sorry.’ The thread of conversation was beginning to elude Heck. No doubt it was the booze. On the subject of which – he drained his glass, and lurched back into the kitchen for a refill.
‘That’s really going to help,’ Gemma said, following him.
‘It helps me,’ he retorted, though the corners of his vision were fogging badly.
‘Good Lord,’ she said, as he filled his glass almost to the brim.
‘It’s not like I’ve got something to get up for in the morning, is it?’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’
Even in Heck’s state, he detected meaning in those words. He swung round to face her. She was watching him carefully, suspiciously.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘You accepted this enforced leave way too easily in my opinion.’
‘Naw … the idea just grew on me, that’s all.’
‘Heck, this is me you’re talking to. Give me some credit, eh!’
Her gaze was suddenly intense. Heck tried to return it, but doubted it would have much effect. He wasn’t just tipsy anymore, he was properly drunk. Which might explain why he suddenly wanted to spill the whole thing, tell her everything about his plans. Not that it was purely because his inhibitions had fled. Partly it was because confiding in someone – anyone – about the worry and uncertainty accrued over so many months of tireless effort and soul-destroying frustration, not to mention the bitterness at the way his gaffers had treated him, would be a kind of release, a burden shared.
Gemma was still talking. ‘You’re planning to continue investigating while you’re on leave, aren’t you?’
‘That would be against every rule in the book and completely unethical.’
‘And you expect me to believe that would make a difference to you?’
‘Do you want a drink yet?’ he asked, reaching for the bottle.
‘No.’ She snatched it away. ‘And you don’t either.’
They stared at each other, Heck having to lean on the kitchen units to stay upright. He rubbed at his face. It was numb, damp with sweat.
‘What’s in that room?’ she asked.
‘Which room?’
‘The room you didn’t want me to look in when we first got here.’
‘Have you come as a friend or a boss, Gemma?’
She
