restaurant on the eastern outskirts of Ealing, two coffee cups on the table between them.
Angela was fiddling with the wrapped sugar cubes that had come with the coffee, piling them one on top of the other and then knocking over the small stack with a flick of her elegant forefinger. She paused in her repetitive construction and demolition operation and looked at him.
“Oh, it’s nothing of any importance. I’ve had an e-mail from a man I’ve worked with in the past, out in Cairo. He’s apparently been given an old piece of parchment to work on—he’s an ancient document specialist—and he’s asked me if a couple of the names in the text mean anything to me.”
“And do they?”
Angela shook her head in mild irritation.
“That’s the trouble. One of them is quite obvious—it’s just the old name of a town in Judea—but the other one is only a partial name, just the middle section, and I’m quite sure I’ve seen or heard it before, but I just can’t think where. It’s not important, or at least I don’t think it is, but it’s just a kind of niggle, you know? Like an itch you can’t scratch.”
“I’m sure it’ll come to you.”
“It probably will,” she replied, “and probably at about three in the morning.”
Bronson nodded, then lifted his hands into the air and tried to get the waiter’s attention. The waiter, who had studiously ignored them for most of the meal, finally noticed and disappeared behind the bar, eventually returning with the bill.
* * *
It had been raining earlier that evening, but when they stepped out of the restaurant onto the pavement, the slabs were already dry and, despite the illumination provided by the streetlamps, a few stars were clearly visible above them.
“I suppose you were expecting to stay the night?” Angela asked, as they walked the few hundred yards back from the restaurant to the apartment block where she lived.
Despite their divorce of a few years earlier, Bronson and Angela had remained good friends, sharing holidays and other exploits, occasionally even sharing a bed. Despite this, Angela still insisted she was not ready to have another go at their marriage—indeed at any marriage—though Bronson himself would like nothing better. While this arrangement occasionally caused heartache on both sides, it seemed to be the one that worked best for them both.
“I’d like to,” he replied quietly. “I’m not working for the next few days,” he added. “I just finished my part of a major investigation, so I’m due some leave.”
“How nice. You can have a lie-in, then, while I brave the rigors of the District Line to central London,” Angela said, rather waspishly for her. “Unlike you, I have a proper job to go to, with proper working hours, Monday to Friday, nine to five. That kind of thing.”
“I think being a police officer does count as a ‘proper job’ these days,” Bronson replied mildly. “But I’ll get up at the same time as you do and then we can ride the Tube together. There’s some stuff I need to do at my house tomorrow morning, so I can go on from there straight to Tunbridge Wells.”
Angela nodded, but didn’t reply.
“Is everything OK?” Bronson asked.
“Not entirely, no,” she replied. “Perhaps next time you’re pretending to be a gentleman you can escort me to a decent restaurant, one where the waitresses aren’t all tarts.”
“What?” Bronson felt entirely confused.
“I noticed you looking at that waitress, the one with the butt.”
Bronson colored slightly.
“I like to look,” he protested, “but I never touch. And so what if she’s got a nice butt?”
“Well, when you’re with me, Chris, I prefer it if you
don’t
look, OK? It doesn’t make me feel good about myself when the man I’m sharing a meal with spends most of his time looking at everyone but me.”
Bronson was silent for a moment, conscious that he’d severely ruffled Angela’s feathers, and without even
Angela was fiddling with the wrapped sugar cubes that had come with the coffee, piling them one on top of the other and then knocking over the small stack with a flick of her elegant forefinger. She paused in her repetitive construction and demolition operation and looked at him.
“Oh, it’s nothing of any importance. I’ve had an e-mail from a man I’ve worked with in the past, out in Cairo. He’s apparently been given an old piece of parchment to work on—he’s an ancient document specialist—and he’s asked me if a couple of the names in the text mean anything to me.”
“And do they?”
Angela shook her head in mild irritation.
“That’s the trouble. One of them is quite obvious—it’s just the old name of a town in Judea—but the other one is only a partial name, just the middle section, and I’m quite sure I’ve seen or heard it before, but I just can’t think where. It’s not important, or at least I don’t think it is, but it’s just a kind of niggle, you know? Like an itch you can’t scratch.”
“I’m sure it’ll come to you.”
“It probably will,” she replied, “and probably at about three in the morning.”
Bronson nodded, then lifted his hands into the air and tried to get the waiter’s attention. The waiter, who had studiously ignored them for most of the meal, finally noticed and disappeared behind the bar, eventually returning with the bill.
* * *
It had been raining earlier that evening, but when they stepped out of the restaurant onto the pavement, the slabs were already dry and, despite the illumination provided by the streetlamps, a few stars were clearly visible above them.
“I suppose you were expecting to stay the night?” Angela asked, as they walked the few hundred yards back from the restaurant to the apartment block where she lived.
Despite their divorce of a few years earlier, Bronson and Angela had remained good friends, sharing holidays and other exploits, occasionally even sharing a bed. Despite this, Angela still insisted she was not ready to have another go at their marriage—indeed at any marriage—though Bronson himself would like nothing better. While this arrangement occasionally caused heartache on both sides, it seemed to be the one that worked best for them both.
“I’d like to,” he replied quietly. “I’m not working for the next few days,” he added. “I just finished my part of a major investigation, so I’m due some leave.”
“How nice. You can have a lie-in, then, while I brave the rigors of the District Line to central London,” Angela said, rather waspishly for her. “Unlike you, I have a proper job to go to, with proper working hours, Monday to Friday, nine to five. That kind of thing.”
“I think being a police officer does count as a ‘proper job’ these days,” Bronson replied mildly. “But I’ll get up at the same time as you do and then we can ride the Tube together. There’s some stuff I need to do at my house tomorrow morning, so I can go on from there straight to Tunbridge Wells.”
Angela nodded, but didn’t reply.
“Is everything OK?” Bronson asked.
“Not entirely, no,” she replied. “Perhaps next time you’re pretending to be a gentleman you can escort me to a decent restaurant, one where the waitresses aren’t all tarts.”
“What?” Bronson felt entirely confused.
“I noticed you looking at that waitress, the one with the butt.”
Bronson colored slightly.
“I like to look,” he protested, “but I never touch. And so what if she’s got a nice butt?”
“Well, when you’re with me, Chris, I prefer it if you
don’t
look, OK? It doesn’t make me feel good about myself when the man I’m sharing a meal with spends most of his time looking at everyone but me.”
Bronson was silent for a moment, conscious that he’d severely ruffled Angela’s feathers, and without even
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