Love You Dead

101 Thursday 12 March

The buzz of the gin had worn off and Norman Potting — or as he had to keep reminding himself, J. Paul Cornel — was contemplating ordering another. He was also wondering just how long he would have to stay here before declaring Jodie Carmichael a no-show.

The bar had filled up and although he had done his best to defend the seat next to him he’d finally had to concede it, and was now sandwiched between a large man, who sounded Scandinavian, engaged in loud conversation with a Brit beside him, about nuclear power, and a couple of gay guys talking affectionately to each other. He’d had the liberal policies of Sussex Police drummed into his head by Roy Grace, under pain of being kicked off the Major Crime Team, so he was doing his best to be more broad-minded. But he was in a world that had changed so much since he had first joined the police, and he found it increasingly hard to understand.

A stunning woman entered the bar. He’d been a copper long enough to tell the difference between someone casually glancing around and someone casing a joint.

She was casing the joint.

And her eyes alighted, fleetingly, on him.

She was in her mid-thirties, in a silky grey dress that clung to every contour of her slender body, and stopped short of her knees. Her legs were long and slender, and she wore glittering high heels. Her hair was long and dark, elegantly styled, and her neck and wrists were adorned with tasteful jewellery and a classy watch.

She gave him a second glance, and possibly a smile, before sitting a few places away, at the end of the bar.

Was that her?

And if it was, how did he make the next move? He had a dinner reservation for 8.00 p.m. An hour’s time. He was peckish and looking forward to a good meal, courtesy of Sussex Police.

Maybe, if he played it right, he could get her to join him. If it was Jodie Carmichael.

Whilst pretending to be texting on his iPhone, he leaned forward to catch her order to the barman. A glass of Chardonnay. Then, continuing his pretence of texting, he looked at the photographs he had been given of the woman.

It was her!

He drank another Perrier. The irritating Scandinavian and his pal, to his left, climbed down off their stools and walked away. Ten minutes later the two other couples between him and his target had also left.

Potting looked across and caught her eye again. He gave her a friendly smile, which was returned. He turned to the barman and in his best J. Paul Cornel accent asked him to offer the young lady at the end of the bar a glass of champagne, on him.

It had the desired effect. Minutes later, glass in hand, the young woman slid off her bar stool and sat down next to him. ‘Thank you! Drinking alone?’ she asked.

‘Drowning my sorrows.’ He smiled.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘that people who drink to drown their sorrows should be told that sorrow learns to swim.’

‘That right?’ Cornel said.

‘In my experience, uh-huh!’ She grinned.

‘I’ve buried two children and a wife,’ he said. ‘And I’ve never learned to swim.’

‘It’s never too late to learn anything.’

They clinked glasses. ‘Let’s hope not. So, to paraphrase one of my favourite movies, out of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, what brings a beautiful lady like you into mine?’

She smiled. ‘I could ask you that same question!’

‘Be my guest!’

‘So?’

He shook his head. ‘I’d like to give you a smart answer, but I don’t have one. I grew up in this city — well, it was a town back in my youth — and I’ve lived away for many years. Now I’m near the end of my life, and I decided to come back to my roots. You?’

She plucked an olive from a bowl in front of them. Then she sipped her champagne and ate another olive, giving him a seductive look. ‘I’m trying to get over the train crash that I call my life. This is the first night I’ve been out in a long while. I was meant to be meeting an old friend here, but he’s just stood me up — gave me a lame excuse about having a flat tyre.’ She shrugged. ‘Guess he had a better offer.’ Looking deliberately vulnerable, she twiddled with the chain of her locket.

‘A better offer than you?’

‘He’s an old flame. We’re just good mates now. But you know, men...’

He smiled. ‘Tell me about the train wreck.’

She shrugged. ‘You know, it’s very weird being here in this hotel.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, the thing is, I met my husband here. He died just after we were married — he was bitten by a snake, in India.’

‘That’s terrible,’ he said.

‘We were so in love.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s very sweet of you.’ Her eyes locked on his. They were mesmerizing eyes. He was aroused by her stare, and had to focus hard through the alcohol he had consumed.

He held out his hand. ‘Paul Cornel.’

Shaking it, she replied, ‘Jodie Carmichael.’

‘Good to meet you,’ he said.

She stared back into his eyes. ‘It’s good to meet you, too,’ she replied. ‘So tell me the real reason you’re in town?’

‘I’ve come home to die.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t die too soon — we’ve only just met. I think that would be rather impolite.’

He laughed. ‘OK — I’ll try to last out the evening — but on one condition.’

She held out her glass. ‘And that is?’

He clinked his glass against hers. ‘That you join me for dinner here — if you’re free, that is?’

She gave him a faraway look. ‘Well, that puts me in a difficult position. I’ve got a lasagne-for-one defrosting in my fridge right now. So it’s a choice of that or dinner with you here. Hmmmn. Any other inducements?’

‘All the champagne you can drink.’

She spiralled her index finger, flirtatiously signalling, More?

‘The restaurant here, GB1, is meant to be one of the best in the city. Oysters, lobster, Dover sole.’

Again she spiralled her finger.

‘And they have a great wine list, I’m told.’

She spun her finger again.

‘A few hours of my scintillating company?’

She grinned and nodded. ‘OK, now you’re starting to convince me.’ She looked mischievously into his eyes.

‘I don’t like dining alone. You’d be doing an old man a big favour by joining me.’

Another spin of her finger.

‘I think you’re incredibly beautiful.’

‘You are too kind.’

‘No, really, you are!’ he said. ‘And I think your evening would be significantly improved by spending it with me.’

‘Oh, yeah? Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t drawn in by your charm.’

‘Now you’re talking bullshit!’

‘No, I always tell the truth. And I’m seriously in need of cheerful company. I’d be delighted to have dinner with you. But I do warn you, I have expensive tastes.’

Very fortunate Sussex Police have given me an almost unlimited budget, Potting thought. ‘Well, that makes two of us,’ he replied.

She dipped her finger into her glass and held it out to Cornel, touching his lips with it. He licked the champagne off the tip.

Christ, he thought. I can see why men fall for her.

And he was uncomfortably aware that the two officers, outside in their car, were listening to every word.