Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(83)

‘Of course.’

‘And is anyone keeping you here against your will?’

She looked puzzled, as if the question made little sense.

‘Do you want to stay here?’ Cordon asked.

A flicker of the eyes.

‘Because if you don’t …’ moving towards her, towards the foot of the stairs, ‘if you don’t you could leave with me, now. You understand what I’m saying?You could go, you and Danny, now.’

As if at the sound of his name, the boy appeared on the landing above, and, seeing Cordon, called his name and started to run towards him, two, three steps at a time, until his father’s warning shout of ‘Danya!’ stopped him, teetering, in his tracks.

‘Letitia?’ Cordon said again, but her head was turned towards Kosach, not to him, the look that passed between them then impossible to read.

‘Danya,’ Kosach said, ‘go to your mother. Now.’

Cautiously, the boy retreated up the stairs and clung hold of his mother’s skirt, one of her arms around his shoulders, tight, the other gripping the balustrade, wedding ring in plain sight.

‘If it’s what you want, Letitia,’ Kosach said, stepping quickly to the door, throwing it open, ‘you can go.’

Other than tightening her grasp of Danny’s shoulders, she didn’t move.

Still at the door, Kosach shifted his gaze towards Cordon. ‘An end to it, I think that’s what you said.’

The anger that still simmered inside Cordon was cauterised by disillusion, disappointment, lack of understanding.

His shoulders sagged.

‘The driver will take you back,’ Kosach said. ‘I do not expect to see you again.’





52


Karen had promised to meet Carla, early evening, nothing fancy, just the two of them, a small celebration.

‘Celebrating what?’ Karen had wanted to know.

‘Wait and see.’

Carla had suggested the American Bar at the newly refurbished Savoy Hotel, but when they arrived, just shy of eight o’clock, there was already a queue for seats and fighting your way to the bar was, Carla suggested, about as easy as getting to one of the lifeboats on the Titanic.

They made their way along the Strand to the lobby bar at One Aldwych, where, although busy, they not only found two recently vacated high-backed armchairs within minutes of arriving, but had a delightfully camp waiter at their side as soon as they were comfortably seated.

Carla ordered champagne cocktails – at ￡12 a pop, a small saving on the Savoy – and to go with them, a little something, as she put it, yummy to nibble on.

‘So,’ Karen said, leaning forward so as to be heard, ‘what’s the big news? Don’t tell me at last Hollywood’s come calling? You and Brad Pitt? Leonardo? George Clooney, even. Old, maybe, but not too old.’

‘Better than that, darling.’

‘What’s better?’

Carla was laughing. ‘Me in uniform.’

‘What?’

‘Uniform. Like the one you used to wear. Till, like, I get promoted.’

Karen was looking at her gone out. ‘Just let me get this straight. You’re going to be …’

‘Playing you. Yes, that’s right. I mean, not really you. But someone like you. This black policewoman who starts out walking the beat, but then after she helps solve this specially grisly murder she gets made up to detective. Oh, and I get to sing. Just karaoke, but, you know, real songs.’

Karen accepted her cocktail from the waiter, drank most of it down in a single swallow and ordered two more.

‘It’s ITV, their new series. Black and White. At least, that’s what it’s called for now. Might change. Something a bit more sexy.’

‘And this is all – what? – definite? Definitely happening or …’

‘No, it’s definite. This company making it, the real deal, yeah? Shameless, you know? Skins. That’s them. Tons of stuff. BAFTAs and Lord knows what all over the walls.’

‘And how did you …?’

‘Why me, you mean?’

‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

‘This guy, one of the producers, saw me at the National, didn’t he? That Jacobean thing I’ve been touring. Got in touch with my agent. Would I be interested in coming along for a chat sometime. Chat, my black arse! Lunch at the Groucho, thank you very much. Ended up more or less offering me the part before he’d signed for the bill.’

‘More or less.’

‘That was then. Now it’s a done deal. Well …’ She laughed. ‘More or less.’

‘And this part, this role. This black policewoman. How big is it?’

Carla chuckled. ‘Girlfriend, it’s the lead!’

‘Say again? A police series with a black woman in the lead?’

‘Why not?’

‘Come on, Carla, in the States, maybe. What is it? HBO? But here. ITV?’

‘Well, there is this other guy. The whatever, Detective Chief Inspector. He’s white.’

‘And he’s in charge.’

‘Yes. But only in name. And I mean, not really. What they’re going for, you see, is something like the couple in that show that was on the Beeb. Ashes to Ashes? That what it was called?’