hadn't seen Emily Barlow in eighteen months, but she recognised her instantly. Tall, wearing a white tank top and dark trousers, the DCI had the broad shoulders and the well-defined biceps of the dedicated triathlete that she was. She may have been approaching forty, but her body was timelocked at twenty. In her presence—even at a distance and in the growing darkness—Barbara felt as she'd felt when they'd taken their courses together: a candidate for liposuction, a wardrobe makeover, and six intense months with a personal trainer.
“Em?” Barbara called quietly. “Hullo. Something told me I'd find you still hard at it.”
At the initial sound of Barbara's voice, Emily's head rose sharply. But by the end of the other woman's greeting, she'd stepped away from the station door and approached the pavement. She said, “Good God. Is that Barb Havers? What the devil are you doing in Balford?”
How exactly would it play? Barbara wondered.
I'm trailing an exotic Pakistani and his kid in the hopes of keeping them out of the nick.
Oh yes, DCI Emily Barlow was certain to go for that strange tale in a major way. “I'm on holiday,” Barbara settled upon saying. “I've just got in. I read about the case in the local rag. I saw your name and thought I'd come along to suss out the situation.”
“That sounds like a busman's holiday.”
“Can't keep my fingers out of the pie. You know how it is.” Barbara fished in her bag for her cigarettes but remembered at the last moment not only that Emily didn't smoke but also that she was always willing to go one or two rounds with anyone who did. Barbara relinquished the Players and fumbled for the Juicy Fruit instead. “Congratulations on the promotion,” she added. “Bloody hell, Em. You're climbing fast.” She folded the stick of gum into her mouth as the DCI joined her.
“Congratulations may be premature. If my super has his way, I'm back to constable.” Emily frowned. “What happened to your face, Barb? You look like hell.”
Barbara made a mental note to remove the bandages as soon as she was within spitting distance of a mirror. “I forgot to duck. On my last case.”
“I hope he looks worse. Was it a
he?”
Barbara nodded. “He's in the nick for murder.”
Emily smiled. “Now, that's excellent news.”
“Where are you heading?”
The DCI shifted her weight and the weight of her hold-all and ran a hand through her hair in the habitual manner that Barbara remembered. It was jet-black hair, dyed punk and cut punk, and on any other woman her age it would have looked absurd. But not on Emily Barlow. Emily Barlow didn't do absurd, in appearance or in anything else. “Well,” she said frankly, “I was supposed to meet a gentleman friend for a few discreet hours of moonlight, romance, and what usually follows moonlight and romance. But to tell you the truth, his charms have just about run their course, so I cancelled. Somewhere along the line I knew he'd start whingeing about the wife and kiddies, and I just wasn't up to holding his hand through another attack of the galloping guilts.”
The reply was vintage Emily. She'd long ago relegated sex to just another aerobic activity. Barbara said, “Have you time for chat, then? About what's going on?”
The DCI hesitated. Barbara knew she would be considering the request for its propriety. She waited, understanding that Emily was unlikely to agree to any action that would jeopardise either the case itself or her newly acquired position. She finally glanced back at the building and seemed to come to a decision of some sort. She said, “Have you eaten, Barb?”
“At the Breakwater.”
“That was courageous. I can imagine your arteries hardening even as we speak. Well, I haven't had a bite since breakfast and I'm heading home. Come along. We can talk while I have my dinner.”
They wouldn't need the car, she added as Barbara fished her keys from her lumpy shoulder bag. Emily lived just at the top of the street,
“Em?” Barbara called quietly. “Hullo. Something told me I'd find you still hard at it.”
At the initial sound of Barbara's voice, Emily's head rose sharply. But by the end of the other woman's greeting, she'd stepped away from the station door and approached the pavement. She said, “Good God. Is that Barb Havers? What the devil are you doing in Balford?”
How exactly would it play? Barbara wondered.
I'm trailing an exotic Pakistani and his kid in the hopes of keeping them out of the nick.
Oh yes, DCI Emily Barlow was certain to go for that strange tale in a major way. “I'm on holiday,” Barbara settled upon saying. “I've just got in. I read about the case in the local rag. I saw your name and thought I'd come along to suss out the situation.”
“That sounds like a busman's holiday.”
“Can't keep my fingers out of the pie. You know how it is.” Barbara fished in her bag for her cigarettes but remembered at the last moment not only that Emily didn't smoke but also that she was always willing to go one or two rounds with anyone who did. Barbara relinquished the Players and fumbled for the Juicy Fruit instead. “Congratulations on the promotion,” she added. “Bloody hell, Em. You're climbing fast.” She folded the stick of gum into her mouth as the DCI joined her.
“Congratulations may be premature. If my super has his way, I'm back to constable.” Emily frowned. “What happened to your face, Barb? You look like hell.”
Barbara made a mental note to remove the bandages as soon as she was within spitting distance of a mirror. “I forgot to duck. On my last case.”
“I hope he looks worse. Was it a
he?”
Barbara nodded. “He's in the nick for murder.”
Emily smiled. “Now, that's excellent news.”
“Where are you heading?”
The DCI shifted her weight and the weight of her hold-all and ran a hand through her hair in the habitual manner that Barbara remembered. It was jet-black hair, dyed punk and cut punk, and on any other woman her age it would have looked absurd. But not on Emily Barlow. Emily Barlow didn't do absurd, in appearance or in anything else. “Well,” she said frankly, “I was supposed to meet a gentleman friend for a few discreet hours of moonlight, romance, and what usually follows moonlight and romance. But to tell you the truth, his charms have just about run their course, so I cancelled. Somewhere along the line I knew he'd start whingeing about the wife and kiddies, and I just wasn't up to holding his hand through another attack of the galloping guilts.”
The reply was vintage Emily. She'd long ago relegated sex to just another aerobic activity. Barbara said, “Have you time for chat, then? About what's going on?”
The DCI hesitated. Barbara knew she would be considering the request for its propriety. She waited, understanding that Emily was unlikely to agree to any action that would jeopardise either the case itself or her newly acquired position. She finally glanced back at the building and seemed to come to a decision of some sort. She said, “Have you eaten, Barb?”
“At the Breakwater.”
“That was courageous. I can imagine your arteries hardening even as we speak. Well, I haven't had a bite since breakfast and I'm heading home. Come along. We can talk while I have my dinner.”
They wouldn't need the car, she added as Barbara fished her keys from her lumpy shoulder bag. Emily lived just at the top of the street,
Similar Books
