time. I’ve got absolutely nothing to say to you.’
‘Come on, Eve. Give me a break, will you?’
His voice boomed out and a series of shouts pierced the air from below, accompanied by a long, shrill wail. Eve looked over towards the church where Tasha stood, with her arm raised high, pointing up at Eve and Walsh, the sea of faces that surrounded her all looking in the same direction. Even though the wind drowned out most of her words, the gist was clear. A series of brilliant flashes erupted from the cameras down by the gate and she collapsed into Paul Dent’s arms.
‘That’ll make a nice spread,’ Walsh said grinning. He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, cupped his hands against the wind and lit up. As he took a drag, he edged closer to Eve. ‘So tell me, when’s the disciplinary hearing?’
‘Piss off.’
Not caring if Walsh followed her, she was about to strike off back across the fields, when her boss, Detective Superintendent Nigel Kershaw, broke away from the group below and started striding up the hill towards her. She backed away from Walsh, wanting to put some distance between them.
‘You’d better go. There’s nothing for you here.’
He was still smiling. ‘Come on. They’ve hung you out to dry. You don’t owe them nothing. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know any more than you do. Probably less, in fact.’
With a glance towards Kershaw, he leaned towards her. ‘Why don’t you tell me quickly what happened, in your own words?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘That’s not what I hear. My sources say you shouldn’t have gone to that house.’
‘No comment.’
‘Is it true you and Jason Scott were more than just good friends? Would you care to comment on that?’
She folded her arms tightly across her chest and shook her head. ‘I told you before. You’re wasting your time.’ She spoke as loudly as she dared. Kershaw had come up behind Walsh and she hoped he had heard.
‘Hop it, Walsh,’ Kershaw said. ‘You’re on private land. DCI West has nothing to say to you.’ He was a big man, with a deep and gruff voice and a thick South London accent, and he towered over them both.
Walsh looked unfazed, but gave a slight shrug and held up his hands. ‘No problemo.’ He glanced over at Eve. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, making the sign of a phone and pointing his finger at her as he turned away. He pulled the peak of his hood over his face and, shoulders hunched, started ambling down the hill, whistling, towards the main entrance.
‘Right, Eve,’ Kershaw said. ‘You better come with me. There’s another gate just over there. Let’s go and find somewhere quiet to sit down. We could both use a drink.’
THREE
They walked together without another word into the village, Kershaw’s large black umbrella sheltering them both, his driver following slowly behind in the car. It was the first time she had seen him on his own since she had been suspended and the silence was awkward. Their working relationship had been relatively good, as far as it went, but the idea of a quiet drink, just the two of them, had an ominous feel.
The Cricketers’ Arms was the first pub they came to and she followed Kershaw inside into the main bar, which was still almost empty.
‘What’ll you have?’ he asked, as he placed his dripping umbrella in the stand by the door.
‘Coffee, if they have it, please. With a little milk.’
‘Nothing stronger?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Of course, I forgot, you don’t drink.’
She was surprised that he remembered, although in the after-hours heavy drinking culture of the Met, a non-drinker stood out like a beacon. He strode up to the bar, while she chose a table by the open fire. She caught sight of herself in the oval, brass mirror above the mantelpiece and grimaced. Her hair had been turned into a mass of stupid curls by the rain and her face looked pasty and drawn, with dark shadows under her eyes. She took a rubber band out of her bag and scraped back her hair, applied a thin layer of lipstick to her dry lips, then turned her back to the fire, trying to soak up as much of the meagre heat as she could. Seeing Kershaw returning with their drinks, she pulled up a chair and sat down.
‘This should warm you up,’ he said morosely, plonking a cup of milky coffee in front of her. ‘You look drowned.’
He put a full tumbler of what looked like whisky and soda down on the table and sank heavily into a leather armchair opposite. He ran a hand quickly over his thick, greying hair, and leaned back in his seat. He loosened his tie and undid his top button.
‘That’s better.’ He reached for his glass, took a mouthful, then shook his head. ‘I never dreamt you’d come to the funeral, otherwise I’d have said something. You must’ve known it was a bloody stupid thing to do, surely?’
His roughly hewn face, with its square, pugnacious jaw, glowed in the firelight. Although he spoke quietly, she sensed anger close to the surface and made no reply. With Kershaw, silence was often the best policy. Let him run, get things off his chest and eventually he’d calm down. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and gazed into the flames for a moment, then glanced over at her.
‘Why come here, when chances are you’d be seen? I’ve been trying to cool things down, put the lawyers back in their sodding boxes, keep everything under wraps and let the grieving widow have her day. I’ve done everything I can to limit the fallout to you, and to us. Then you turn up, with that effing reporter in tow, and all hell breaks loose again.’ He took another large gulp, then caught her eye again over the edge of his tumbler. ‘You’re reckless. Like you just don’t care about the consequences. Either to yourself or anybody else. Same with the shooting. You have to take everything to the bloody line. All the bloody time.’ He sighed heavily, still looking at her. ‘You baffle me, Eve. You know that? You could’ve got yourself killed.’ He raised his eyebrows, as though expecting a reply.
What could she say? The thought that she might have been killed, meant nothing, but he wouldn’t understand. She had worked for him for nearly twelve months and had always found him fair and relatively straightforward to deal with. From what she had heard, he had stood up for her, as far as he could, after the shooting and she wished things hadn’t turned out this way. Although barely fifty, he was heading towards retirement in a few months and had been anticipating a smooth ride. Instead, he and his team were now under the spotlight of a major internal investigation, with all the ensuing questions and political ramifications. She had compromised him and for that she was sorry.
‘Nick Walsh is nothing to do with me. I haven’t talked to him or anyone else and I had no idea he’d follow me here.’
He leaned forwards. ‘Don’t be so bloody naïve. They’re all over this like the pox, trying to dig up the dirt. I don’t need you giving them more ammo by creating a scene.’
‘I didn’t create a scene. I didn’t mean for anyone to see me.’
‘Really?’ He slammed his glass back down on the table, making the teaspoon on her saucer jingle, and looked at her searchingly. ‘Did you think you owed it to Jason to be there, is that it? Is that why you came?’
‘Owed?’
‘Felt you ought to be here.’
‘There’s no “ought” about it.’
‘Why, then?’
She met his eye. Did he really imagine that she could have sat at home, on her own, while the funeral took place, as if it had nothing to do with her? As if Jason had meant nothing to her? Standing in the churchyard, seeing Jason’s