Private London

Chapter 116

If the cool blonde at reception was pleased to see me back at the restaurant once more there was no clue to it in her perfectly made-up face.

I was wearing my blue tie again, with a black linen suit this time. It gave me an air of casual sophistication, I thought. I didn’t want to send out the wrong signals. After all, it was just a dinner. Not a dinner date. We had both been clear about that. Very clear.

Blondie ran her finger down the list of bookings again, her left eyebrow raised a minuscule amount once more, enough to make a point.

‘Ah yes, Mister Cotter. I remember you couldn’t stay very long with us on your last visit.’

‘It’s Carter,’ I said. ‘Dan Carter. And no, I am afraid something came up. Work. You know how it is?’

‘Might I recommend you turn off your mobile phone?’ she said. ‘You were very lucky we were able to fit you in again at such short notice. I’d hate for another evening to be spoiled for you.’

Frankly, it looked like that was exactly what she would have liked. And she was right. I should have turned my phone off. But doing so then, after being practically told to do so by a jumped-up waitress, was never going to happen.

‘I can’t do that, I am afraid,’ I said. ‘I’m a surgeon. Heart surgeon. Paediatric heart surgeon.’

See, that’s the trouble with lies – they can run away with you. My companion snorted but said nothing, and the receptionist inched her eyebrow a scintilla further heavenwards.

‘Follow me, then, please, Doctor Carter,’ she said.

‘That’s Mister Carter,’ I replied. I guess she’d thought she’d catch me out. She’d have to get up a lot earlier in the morning to do that.

‘That a new suit, Dan?’ asked Kirsty as we were led to my table.

I laughed. ‘Hardly. Why do you ask?’

‘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 souffle 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 table 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…?’

‘And she’s there representing one of your clients.’

‘Good for her, but I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t wait until morning.’

‘Sean Chester has just been murdered.’

I put my fork down, the uneaten beetroot still speared on its tines. Sean Chester had been one of our clients. The ex-producer on one of the biggest continuing dramas as they called them nowadays.

‘What happened?’

‘He was shot dead two hours ago, Dan. And they’ve arrested your favourite star Melinda Hamilton for it.’

Another one of our clients. ‘They booked her?’

‘No. She’s not been charged yet, but your hotshot lawyer girlfriend reckons it’s a matter of hours, not days.’

I sighed, finished my beer and reached for my jacket.

‘Well, are you coming or not?’ I said.

‘I’m off the job,’ Kirsty replied.

‘Not any more,’ I said, standing up and giving her the full Dan Carter wattage.

‘Welcome to Private.’