Dead Memories (D.I. Kim Stone #10)(35)

Forty-Eight





Alison immediately felt out of place as she entered the club, feeling overdressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a shirt. A quick assessment told her that many of the other patrons were dressed similarly except their ripped jeans weren’t smart designer and their shirts weren’t freshly washed and ironed.

Great, she had chosen the outfit to blend in, to look comfortable in her surroundings. Big fail.

Her decision to come here had been partly inspired by the detective inspector who had called them back to the station. Some of the woman’s courage had rubbed off on her. She had watched as the police officer had admitted something to her team that she had really hoped to avoid. She’d appeared fearless even though the hands being thrust into the pockets had told her otherwise. So far she had realised that the woman tucked her short hair behind her ear when preparing for battle and hid her hands when she was feeling unsure. And yet her face gave nothing away.

Alison hoped she could do the same right now. One false move and her life could be in danger, especially if her suspicions were correct.

As she approached the bar she was struck by how the rules changed when you weren’t looking.

She remembered being twenty-three years old and touring these pubs and clubs with her friends feeling totally at home and relevant.

Three years, just three short years she’d been absent with a boyfriend and when she’d returned after a disastrous break-up, she and her friends had spent the night with a glass of white wine and reminiscing about the ‘remember whens’.

She checked herself as she found herself wondering if the majority of kids were carrying ID. They all looked so damn young.

There was no live music, instead a DJ blasted out trance music to an empty dance floor. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been playing but even she could tell he had a grunge audience tonight. Although, he appeared to be in a world of his own bouncing up and down with one earphone clamped to his head.

She approached the bar and slipped in to a space left by a young couple who threw a filthy glance at the DJ before heading to the door.

She looked at the selection of drinks, unsure what most of them were.

‘Hi, there, what can I get you?’ asked the guy on the other side of the bar. He made no effort to hide his bemusement.

She fell silent for a second as she realised exactly what she was doing. She was sitting right in front of Tom Drury, her main suspect in the case of one murder and one attempted murder.

Every inch of her wanted to turn and run out the door.

‘You lost?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Alison felt herself responding to the laughter in his eyes and smiled before she had time to check herself.

‘Dry white wine,’ she said, as he bent in closer to hear her.

She got a waft of pine coming from his smooth skin.

She watched as he moved along the bar almost colliding with a young female bartender. They both laughed and moved around each other with ease.

Alison took a moment to observe the athletic body clothed in dark jeans and a khaki rugby shirt sporting the name of the club. His arms were tanned and muscly, his only jewellery a sports watch.

He moved with the ease and confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. His dark hair was cut tidily and smart at the back and just reached towards his collar line.

He turned and offered her a smile and for a second she almost forgot why she was here.

He placed the drink before her.

She took out her purse.

He shook his head. ‘On the house.’

‘No, no, I couldn’t,’ she protested.

‘I’m the owner and I say you can,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Tom Drury.’

Unsure what to do, she took his hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Tom. My name is—’

‘Ali,’ said a male voice from behind her. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Jamie Hart, taking a seat beside her.

Tom smiled at them both and moved back along the bar.

‘Jamie, what the hell are you?…’

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. He grabbed his pint and her arm. ‘Come with me.’

She followed him to a table in the corner.

The DJ seemed to have realised his market and was playing Nirvana but he’d lost his audience, who were slipping out one by one.

The last person she would have expected to bump into, or wished to, was Jamie Hart, the psychologist who had been assigned to the case before she’d been brought on board. He had spent more time than was necessary lecturing her about the junk food she ate while he nibbled on health bars and drank green tea. His health kick hadn’t stopped there. The man was twenty-nine and had never owned a car, choosing to commute everywhere by public transport or bicycle. After one particular lecture on the joys of antioxidants she’d noticed he’d forgotten to remove his cycle clip from his trousers and had delighted in watching him walk around with one scrunched trouser leg all day.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he asked, once they were sitting.

‘Just curious,’ she said.

‘About what?’ he asked, shaking his head so that his fair hair fell over his blue eyes.

He pushed it away and took a sip of his drink. ‘You know we got our guy and that you were wrong. Accept it and move on.’