Private London (Private 4)

‘Because you’ve got a label still on the back of your trousers.’

The receptionist chuckled and held out a chair for Kirsty. I swept my hand around the back of my trousers. There was nothing there.

‘You’re too easy,’ said Kirsty as she sat down.

I joined her and picked up the wine list. ‘So why were you running late?’

‘I had to see someone.’

‘So are we celebrating?’

‘Did I get the job, you’re asking?’

I nodded.

‘As far as that goes, no, we are not celebrating.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Sorry that I’m not moving to Manchester?’

I looked at her. Her emerald green eyes still the kind that a man fell into and drowned. ‘Sorry that you didn’t get what you wanted,’ I said.

‘Are we still talking about the job?’

‘What are you going to do now?’

Kirsty picked up the menu. ‘I’m going to consider my options’

‘I’ve heard the prawn cocktail is very good,’ I said.

She laughed. I liked the sound of it. Gave me an idea I’d probably regret.

Twenty minutes later and our starter arrived. I was having creamed truffled goat’s cheese, with asparagus and pickled beetroot. My partner, as they say, plumped for the twice-baked Norfolk dapple soufflé with a mixed-leaf salad and a herb vinaigrette. No drop scones and fish eggs for us.

I took a sip of my lager, picked up my fork and was about to spear a beetroot when my mobile phone rang. Noisily. I smiled apologetically at the diners at the neighbouring ta

ble and fished it out of my pocket.

Even as I looked at the caller ID Kirsty snatched it out of my hand. She saw who was calling too and switched the phone off, throwing me a withering look as she did so.

‘I cannot believe that woman.’

Alison Chambers, of course.

Moments later her own phone trilled – a lot more quietly than mine had. I shrugged at the neighbouring diners again. What could you do?

‘Kirsty Webb?’ she answered. A degree of coldness that would have chilled an Inuit creeping into her voice.

She listened for a moment or two and then nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll tell him.’ She hung up without waiting for a reply and served me a cool look.

‘That was Alison,’ she said.

I had gathered that much.

‘She’s down at Paddington Green nick.’

‘And …?’