Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(53)

Martingale laughed. ‘No, don’t worry. I am far too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a woman who has drunk too much. Plus . . . it’s too boring. I like the challenge of seduction. I like to know I’ve earned it.’

‘Is this what this is? A lesson in seduction?’

He sat back and allowed the waiter to unfold his napkin onto his lap. He smiled at the waiter, made eye contact. ‘Perhaps.’ He looked back at her. ‘You didn’t get married again? Last time I saw you were in the middle of a divorce.’

‘Yes . . . a bad place to be.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘Happens to us all. You didn’t remarry?’

‘You must be joking. I’ve tried it twice. Both times I’ve managed to screw it up.’

‘Never blame yourself . . . that’s always my motto. Besides, some of us aren’t meant to be monogamous.’

‘Faithful, you mean?’ She laughed.

‘Call it what you will. Did you stay friends with them?’

‘My last one I see sometimes for a drink. He’s a criminology lecturer here in London. I don’t see much of the first one, Simon, unless I see him at one of your dinners. He still works for the Mansfield Group, I take it?’

‘Yes. Simon is one of our originals. He’s got to be one of our highest paid surgeons. He’s the housewives’ favourite. Does all breast implants now.’

‘Always thought he was a tit. I should have had a better settlement.’

Martingale laughed. ‘You’re a funny lady. We’re the same types, you and I. We are demanding of ourselves and others. It’s not always easy to live with unless you’re the same type . . . cheers.’ They clinked freshly filled glasses. ‘On the subject of work . . . you will tell me if you are in need of any more equipment in your laboratory. You know I’m always happy to write off a bit more tax for a good cause. Also . . . I wanted to ask you whether you knew anything you could tell me about the new lead in my daughter’s case?’ Harding now knew why the dinner invite; why the sudden interest after three years of not so much as an email. ‘I had a visit from two police officers; they told me about the recent murders in Totteridge. They wouldn’t tell me much more than the fact they are somehow forensically linked to my daughter’s death. Is there anything more you can tell me? I don’t want to get my hopes up.’

‘I can tell you – it’s all in the early stages. Yes, we did find a link.’

‘The fingerprint? Sergeant Carter told me. It can’t have been my late wife Maria then? I always thought Maria could have done it . . . she went quite mad.’

Harding was nodding; she had her most sympathetic expression on her face. She felt awkward.

‘No . . . she can’t have done it. Is that a relief?’

‘Yes it is. It really is. It’s haunted me all these years. How I might have contributed to her madness by rejecting her. How I should have tried for a better relationship with Chrissie. But . . . it leaves a massive question over the whole investigation, doesn’t it? What’s happening now?’

‘We’re looking into the case again, under a new light, new team. We’re hoping we solve this new case at Totteridge and then we’ll catch whoever murdered your daughter.’

‘After all this time?’

‘Yes. We don’t know why they’ve come back. Sorry. It still hurts: I can see. But there is a real chance of catching them this time.’

‘No need to apologize. Of course it still hurts. It will always hurt. In my darkest moments I feel somehow responsible: something I did, something I didn’t do. I failed my daughter, that’s for certain.’

‘Since her death you’ve given life and hope to so many people through her foundation.’

‘Yes. I hope so.’ He reached over and covered her hand with his. ‘I am hugely reassured that you are part of the new investigation. Please will you keep me informed.’

‘Of course.’

‘I just want to be kept up to date, discreetly; in private, without the world and his brother watching. I don’t want policemen knocking on my door. I don’t want the press hounding me. But I will never mind a late-night call from a beautiful pathologist to talk shop or sex or the state of the universe . . .’

He picked up his glass and drank his wine and poured them another. The bottle was nearly gone. He called the waiter over. ‘Another one.’

Five minutes later the waiter returned to apologize. ‘Sorry, sir, that was our last one.’

‘What? For Christ’s sake . . . what kind of service is that? Where’s the manager?’ The waiter hurried off. Martingale looked across and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. It just pisses me off. Hate incompetence.’

The waiter returned, anxious to please. ‘Sorry, sir. I do apologize. We have another bottle, considered to be a superior vintage. I will bring you that one at the same charge.’

Martingale consented with a wave of his hand.

He poured the last of the bottle of wine into her glass.

‘You know, Jo . . . I have a fantastic house near Cape Town, overlooking the bay. You should come out and visit me . . . I could do with the company. All expenses paid, of course; just say and I’ll send you a ticket. When was the last time you had a holiday?’