Peter Lovesey - The Secret Hangman

‘You mean this has a sad ending?’

‘No, someone else picked up the pup. At least I was able to say whose it was and return it to the little girl. I met the mother and we tightened the collar a notch and all was well again. Happy ending.’

‘Depends what you mean by happy. In the meantime I’d destroyed your shopping.’

She gave the sort of smile that forgives without a word being spoken.

‘It wasn’t a pretty sight,’ he added.

He collected a trolley and they started shopping. She said she couldn’t remember what she’d bought.

‘Don’t you have a list?’

‘In my head usually,’ she said. ‘All this has played havoc with my concentration.’

He named the free-range eggs and the minestrone and told her about the dispute with the woman who could smell garlic. She laughed and said she hadn’t realised what a rough time he’d had. They walked the aisles trying to refresh her memory. A few items went into the trolley, but not enough to fill two bags. He suspected she was keeping the bill down.

At the checkout he gave his credit card to the cashier.

‘You said help with the bill, not pay it all.’

‘It’s OK.’ He had already keyed in his pin number.

On the way out she said with more seriousness, ‘It isn’t OK. I’m sorry, but I’m uncomfortable with this.’

‘Don’t be. I drove over two of your bags. This is only one.’

‘At least let me buy you a drink.’

‘Now? I’ll be driving home and so will you, I expect.’

‘Later, then.’

He was unprepared. He didn’t know how to respond.

She said, ‘My treat.’

‘Tonight, you mean?’

‘Say about eight thirty. Are you local?’

‘Not far.’ This had thrown him. He’d turned down her offer of a drink more sharply than he intended. She was insistent that she wanted to square things. She couldn’t have been more reasonable about losing her shopping. To walk away now would sour a pleasant encounter. ‘All right. You’re on.’

‘How about meeting here?’

‘The scene of the crime.’

I n his own house with all its memories he was less comfortable about what he had agreed. He hadn’t gone out for a drink with a woman in years, except for police colleagues when there was some work topic to be discussed. If he was going to take the plunge he’d have preferred not to be pulled in. ‘You won’t believe this, Raffles,’ he said as he opened a tin and forked tuna flakes onto the cat’s plate. ‘I’m going for a drink with a woman and I don’t even know her name.’

It wasn’t in his make-up to break a date with a lady, so he showered and thought about what to wear. He decided his daytime suit wasn’t right for this adventure. So what did he have in the wardrobe that was more relaxed and didn’t look as if it came out of a charity shop? Leather jackets had never gone out of fashion and they were safe from moths. He took his off the hanger for the first time in a couple of years and decided it would fit the occasion even if it didn’t fit the body. He wouldn’t button it up. Under it he’d wear a check shirt, jeans and trainers. He looked in the mirror to see if he needed another shave. Stubble was sexy these days, wasn’t it? Man, oh man, you’re acting like a sixteen-year-old, he told himself.

He drove back to the car park where all this had been set in motion and chose a slot at the opposite end from where he’d been before. Early as always, he sat listening to a football commentary without caring who the teams were. At eight thirty he got out and looked across the roofs of the parked cars to see who was about. Nobody he recognised. He locked up and strolled towards the spot where he’d driven over the bags. Sainsbury’s staff had done a good job of clearing up. Just a few bits of eggshell were lodged in a crack in the tarmac. It wasn’t all that long since he’d worked as a trolleyman and dogsbody himself in London, at that low point after he’d resigned from the force. He knew what it was like to be called to a mess with his mop and bucket.

He stood there, whistling quietly.

Ten minutes passed and he was getting reconciled to her not coming. Reconciled? Relieved, really. Sensible woman, she must have decided she’d acted on impulse. Just as he had.

Then a horn sounded behind him and he saw her at the wheel of a silver sports car. ‘I’ll find a space and join you,’ she called out.

He pointed to one in the row behind. She raised a thumb.

‘Nice little run-around,’ he said when she got out.

‘It gets me where I want to be,’ she said. She, too, had decided on a change of clothes, a blue and yellow jacket patterned with chrysanthemums and worn with a terracotta top and white linen slacks. She’d put up her blonde hair with two combs. A musky scent was part of the makeover.

‘We could have that drink right here in the Brasserie,’ he suggested to keep it simple. The Brasserie was part of the old Green Park station complex. It had once been the booking hall and wasn’t a bad place for a drink.

‘Uh-uh,’ she said, wagging her finger and smiling. ‘My treat, remember?’

‘Got somewhere else in mind?’

‘I phoned ahead. It’s not far.’

Phoned ahead? That sounded ominous.

‘You look worried,’ she said. ‘Are you thinking it might rain?’

‘Hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’m Peter Diamond, by the way.’

‘Paloma Kean. And before you ask, the nearest my parents got to Spain was the paso doble at the local Mecca ballroom. They simply liked the sound of Paloma.’

‘So do I. Good taste.’

‘I didn’t think so when I was going through school. I was known as Plum.’

‘Did you mind?’

‘I got used to it. There are worse names.’

She stepped out across James Street with him at her side trying to guess where they were heading. No bar he knew in Bath insisted on advance bookings.

‘We agreed just a drink,’ he reminded her a little way up Charles Street.

‘Why — have you eaten?’

‘No, but I will later.’

In Saw Close they passed the theatre and she stopped next door, at Strada, an Italian restaurant newer and smarter than Tosi’s.

‘You’re not bringing me here?’ he said in concern.

‘Why not? They’ll serve us a drink. I often come here.’

To Diamond, this was unfamiliar territory. For years, it had been Popjoy’s, known for its fine cuisine and high prices. You couldn’t see any of the interior from the street. It had been a private house that had once belonged to Beau Nash, the man who made Bath fashionable in the eighteenth century. They were admitted by a waiter who greeted Paloma as Mrs Kean and showed them to a reserved table in the Georgian sitting room.

She was handed the wine list, and she asked what he would like.

‘Do they stock a low-alcohol lager?’

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Live dangerously. They do a good range of wines.’

‘No, I mean it.’

‘Worried about the drive home?’

‘I’d better come clean with you. I’m in the police. The sure way to put a damper on the evening.’

‘I can’t think why,’ she said without even blinking. ‘You won’t find my name in your files.’

If she wanted some banter, he was up for it. ‘Is that because you’re good, or good at getting away with it?’

‘I leave you to guess.’ She ordered champagne for herself.

‘Now I know why they call you Plum.’

Another waiter approached with the menu.

Diamond started to say, ‘I really didn’t-’

Paloma made a slight downward movement with her hand. ‘It’s my choice.’

He stopped protesting, ordered a mushroom risotto, and then said, ‘I owned up to my job.’