Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

'I feel underdressed,' I said, looking at her.

'Oh, rubbish,' she replied, slipping on her coat. You look great.'

I handed her a brown paper bag.

She took it and looked inside. Her face widened in delight. 'Kona coffee?' she asked. 'Now it's my turn to say "wow".'

'It's just coffee.'

'It's Kona coffee, David.'

'Now you'll be forced to think of me as you drink it.'

She smiled. 'That won't be a hardship.'

The restaurant was three miles away, right on the edge of Gunnersbury Park. On the way over, we talked about our days. When it was my turn, I left out the bit about ending up at a crime scene and spending three hours at a police station. Liz looked at me a couple of times, as if she knew I'd not told her everything, but she didn't probe.

At the restaurant, the owner - her client — gave her a kiss and a hug, then found us a table near the back, with views out across the park. On the walls there were black- and-white pictures of old Italy: cobbled streets; shuttered windows looking out over small town squares; stony- faced men and women outside cafes, their skin etched with age, their colour darkened by the Mediterranean sun. I ordered a bottle of white wine and some water, and then — once the waiter had gone — I turned to find her looking at me.

'You okay?'

'I'm fine,' she said. 'Are you okay?'

'Yeah, I'm good.'

There was a slight hesitation between us. This was a very different road from the ones we'd walked before. She could see the apprehension in me, and I could see it reflected. It was nearly two years since Derryn had died, and in that time it had been a meal, or a coffee, or some company at the end of a hard day. Now it was the beginning of something more.

I eased us back into conversation by asking about her daughter.

Liz had met her ex-husband straight out of university, and been married at twenty-two. A year later, Katie was born. She'd told me a bit about her background before.

Her husband had battled her for custody of their daughter, but came out second best. 'He could be a little… She looked up at me. Violent. I nodded that I understood. 'Never seriously. And he never, ever touched Katie — but any future I had seen for us rapidly went down the toilet when he started on the booze.'

'When did you decide to get out?'

'When Katie was two. I packed her off to my parents for the weekend, and sat him down and told him I was leaving. He took it badly, as you might expect. I think any man, even a drunk, feels wounded when you tell him he's not providing for his family.'

'Does she still see him?'

'He moved up north. She hasn't seen him for eight years.'

Our meals arrived a few minutes later. 'So what about you?' she asked, as we started eating.

'What do you want to know?'

'Did you ever think about starting a family?'

'We talked about it a lot, especially when we hit our thirties. I always imagined my work would put me off wanting to have kids - all the tragedy and the heartbreak I got to see — but it never did. We definitely always wanted them. In the end, though, Derryn found out she had cancer and… well, it became less important.' I smiled at her, letting her know everything was fine. She seemed to understand the gesture, but I could tell the conversation had led somewhere neither of us wanted it to go. I made an attempt to redirect it: 'My mum used to tell me she loved me more than anything in the world — but that I'd put her off having another baby for the rest of her life.'

Liz smiled. 'Really? So you've always been naughty then?'

'Apparently they could never find my heartbeat when she was pregnant.'

'So, what — you're a vampire?'

I laughed. 'Not a vampire. But definitely a pain in the arse.'

'When did your folks pass on?'

'Mum was just over five years ago. When I was young, my dad used to take me out shooting in the woods close to our farm. Dad had this whole thing about me being a marksman in the army. When I became a journalist and crushed his dream, I agreed to go shooting with him on Sunday mornings as often as I could get down to see them. One morning we got back to the house and mum was lying on the bench outside the house. She'd had a stroke. Dad died a couple of months later.'

'I'm sorry.'

I shrugged. 'It's weird. The only time it ever really registered with me that my parents were getting old was when they talked about their age. I never really noticed otherwise.'

'You must miss them.'

'Yeah, I do.'

'Do you ever get over that feeling?'

'You want the honest answer?'

She nodded.

'When you love someone, I'm not sure you do.'

I left Liz chatting to the owner while I walked to get the car. The rain had eased off, but there was still a chill in the air. The BMW was parked close to a cemetery and in view of the motorway, cars flashing past beneath a permanent orange glow.

'David.'

I turned around, my key in the door. On the other side of the road, just coming out of a pub, were Jill and Aron. They crossed the road towards me.

'Wow,' Jill said, smiling as they approached. 'Talk about coincidence!'

I shook hands with Aron. 'How are you guys?'

'We're good,' Aron replied.

Jill held up her mobile. 'I tried calling you earlier, but you weren't picking up. I figured you were busy with work.'

I fished in my pocket for my phone. It wasn't there. Then I remembered I'd left it on the bed at home.

'That's because, brilliantly, I've forgotten to bring it with me.'

Aron smiled. 'Forty - it happens to us all.'

Jill laughed. 'Oh well, never mind. I was just calling to see if you wanted to come out for a drink. Remember I mentioned it?'

'Oh, of course.'

I did remember. I hadn't purposefully forgotten, but I was glad to have gone out to dinner with Liz instead. Even from the limited conversations I'd had with them both, it was obvious their friendship was developing in a way both of them were enjoying. I didn't want to get between that.

'I'm really sorry,' I said, lying. 'That would have been great.'

'Next time maybe,' Jill said.

I glanced at Aron. He was smiling, and looked as if he wasn't worried whether I said yes or no. If it was for show, or to avoid making me uncomfortable, he was doing a good job.

'Next time,' I said.

'I wanted to thank you, actually, David,' Aron said.

'Really?'

'For going round to see Jill the other night.' He looked at her. She smiled at him. 'I was up in Manchester at a work function, and had my phone off all night.'

'It doesn’t matter,' she said.

'It Does matter,' he replied softly. He turned back to me. 'Anyway, I wanted to thank you for stepping in and helping out.'

I held up a hand. 'Really. It was nothing.'

'Well, it was very good of you.'

I nodded at him. 'Can I give you guys a lift somewhere?'

'Oh, no, don't worry,' Jill said.

'It's only about a quarter of a mile to my place,' Aron added, nodding across the cemetery to where a bank of newly built homes had gone up on the other side. 'You should come over one day. We can celebrate the onset of old age together.'

I smiled. 'I like to live in denial.'

'Then we can live in denial together.'

I shook his hand, but Jill seemed hesitant as I turned to her. I'd promised her I'd make a few calls, though had also said it would be after I cleared the Carver case. It had only been a day since I'd offered. But I could understand her impatience. She wanted to know what happened to Frank, and she didn't want to have to wait now she'd found someone willing to help. I'd left a message with an old contact of mine, who used to work in the National Criminal Intelligence Service before they became part of SOCA. But I hadn't chased it up.