parts?’
‘Dave is still chasing.’ Chang jerked his head in the direction of Dave Wightman,
phone cradled under his ear.
‘I’ll be back for the meeting later on. Any news on the Dillon case?’
‘Haven’t heard anything, they’re all out.’ Chang hesitated before adding, ‘How’s
Sam?’
Tartaglia stared at Chang, knowing that it was a loaded question, but Chang’s broad
face gave nothing away. ‘She’s not good, as you can imagine. You should go and see
her.’
Chang nodded vaguely. ‘I’ll leave it a few days, let her have some space. Send her
my love.’ He swung back to his computer.
It was well known that Chang and Sam Donovan had had some sort of relationship before
she left the Met, and it had possibly continued for a while after, although he had
also heard via the grapevine that she had broken it off and that Chang had been upset
about it. He had no idea why Donovan hadn’t stuck with Chang. He was tall, nice-looking
and bright, and had the settled air of someone comfortable in his own skin with nothing
to prove. From a male perspective, he came across as a decent sort and interesting
to talk to, although Tartaglia had long since given up thinking he could anticipate
what a woman, and particularly Sam Donovan, would find attractive in another man.
As far as he could tell, Chang was a much better bet for a long-term relationship
than most, himself included, but Donovan had never seen sense on that score. He remembered
a time when she had been edging towards some sort of involvement with another policeman,
Simon Turner, a dysfunctional, difficult man and a serial adulterer. He had been
totally unable to fathom what had attracted Donovan to Turner. At least Turner was
well out of the picture, but it was a shame that things hadn’t worked out with Chang.
He wondered how Chang felt about it, and if Chang minded Donovan staying in his flat.
No doubt Chang wasn’t happy with the idea; he himself wouldn’t have been, in Chang’s
place.
‘Call her,’ he said firmly to Chang, before turning to go. ‘She needs her friends
around her.’ He knew it was a disingenuous remark, but what else could he say? The
more people who went to visit Sam the better, and he was sure Chang was man enough
to cope.
Eleven
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Nicola Dawson said, her swollen eyes focussed on Sam
Donovan. ‘It doesn’t seem real. I mean, I only saw her two days ago and she . . .’
Tears began again.
Sam Donovan nodded, biting her lip as she reached out to Nicola and clasped her hand
across the table, squeezing it for a moment. The bare contact gave her more comfort
than anything that anybody had said or done in the past twenty-four hours. But what
could she say? Nothing could make it any better for either of them.
They were sitting by the window of a Starbucks near Baker Street tube. Large patches
of condensation obscured the glass, providing a welcome screen from the people hurrying
past in the dark street on their way home. Nobody would probably give a damn about
two women crying together in a café, but Donovan was happy to have some privacy.
Small and plump, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair, Nicola had been Claire’s
assistant for over ten years and knew her better than most. She was a single parent
and Claire had been godmother to her six-year-old daughter. They lived in Neasden
and Nicola had agreed to meet Donovan on her way home from the office in Chancery
Lane. She had said she needed to be home by seven but, like Donovan herself, she
didn’t appear to be in a hurry, welcoming the opportunity to talk about Claire.
Donovan wondered whether they would have been better to go to the pub and have a
few drinks, but in her current state she knew coffee was a more sensible option,
particularly as she was going to see Steele afterwards.
‘Did they say anything this morning about what had happened?’ she asked Nicola after
a moment. Detectives – people she knew and had once worked with –
‘Dave is still chasing.’ Chang jerked his head in the direction of Dave Wightman,
phone cradled under his ear.
‘I’ll be back for the meeting later on. Any news on the Dillon case?’
‘Haven’t heard anything, they’re all out.’ Chang hesitated before adding, ‘How’s
Sam?’
Tartaglia stared at Chang, knowing that it was a loaded question, but Chang’s broad
face gave nothing away. ‘She’s not good, as you can imagine. You should go and see
her.’
Chang nodded vaguely. ‘I’ll leave it a few days, let her have some space. Send her
my love.’ He swung back to his computer.
It was well known that Chang and Sam Donovan had had some sort of relationship before
she left the Met, and it had possibly continued for a while after, although he had
also heard via the grapevine that she had broken it off and that Chang had been upset
about it. He had no idea why Donovan hadn’t stuck with Chang. He was tall, nice-looking
and bright, and had the settled air of someone comfortable in his own skin with nothing
to prove. From a male perspective, he came across as a decent sort and interesting
to talk to, although Tartaglia had long since given up thinking he could anticipate
what a woman, and particularly Sam Donovan, would find attractive in another man.
As far as he could tell, Chang was a much better bet for a long-term relationship
than most, himself included, but Donovan had never seen sense on that score. He remembered
a time when she had been edging towards some sort of involvement with another policeman,
Simon Turner, a dysfunctional, difficult man and a serial adulterer. He had been
totally unable to fathom what had attracted Donovan to Turner. At least Turner was
well out of the picture, but it was a shame that things hadn’t worked out with Chang.
He wondered how Chang felt about it, and if Chang minded Donovan staying in his flat.
No doubt Chang wasn’t happy with the idea; he himself wouldn’t have been, in Chang’s
place.
‘Call her,’ he said firmly to Chang, before turning to go. ‘She needs her friends
around her.’ He knew it was a disingenuous remark, but what else could he say? The
more people who went to visit Sam the better, and he was sure Chang was man enough
to cope.
Eleven
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Nicola Dawson said, her swollen eyes focussed on Sam
Donovan. ‘It doesn’t seem real. I mean, I only saw her two days ago and she . . .’
Tears began again.
Sam Donovan nodded, biting her lip as she reached out to Nicola and clasped her hand
across the table, squeezing it for a moment. The bare contact gave her more comfort
than anything that anybody had said or done in the past twenty-four hours. But what
could she say? Nothing could make it any better for either of them.
They were sitting by the window of a Starbucks near Baker Street tube. Large patches
of condensation obscured the glass, providing a welcome screen from the people hurrying
past in the dark street on their way home. Nobody would probably give a damn about
two women crying together in a café, but Donovan was happy to have some privacy.
Small and plump, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair, Nicola had been Claire’s
assistant for over ten years and knew her better than most. She was a single parent
and Claire had been godmother to her six-year-old daughter. They lived in Neasden
and Nicola had agreed to meet Donovan on her way home from the office in Chancery
Lane. She had said she needed to be home by seven but, like Donovan herself, she
didn’t appear to be in a hurry, welcoming the opportunity to talk about Claire.
Donovan wondered whether they would have been better to go to the pub and have a
few drinks, but in her current state she knew coffee was a more sensible option,
particularly as she was going to see Steele afterwards.
‘Did they say anything this morning about what had happened?’ she asked Nicola after
a moment. Detectives – people she knew and had once worked with –
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