Part 17 (2/2)
”Come on, babe.” Gently he pulled her into an embrace. ”It'll be OK.”
Angry she shook him off. ”Easy for you to say, Sammy.” Saliva glistened in the corner of her mouth. ”You're not the sucker who's been jerked round all night.”
”Yeah, but I was right behind you, babe.”
”You won't be tomorrow.” She rose, wrapped her arms around her waist.
”But, Dee...”
”For G.o.d's sake. Tonight's charade was a little test. Remember what he said? No cops? No clown? The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's been on the phone. He saw you, Sam. We have one last chance to get it right.”
Bev clocked Oz first. No surprise given she'd been watching for him from the sitting room window. For the nth time she told herself he was here on biz. Whether Fareeda Saleem's exile was voluntary or not, Oz had thought it worth pursuing a chat with the father. The Small Heath visit was pencilled in for tomorrow, Oz was dropping by Baldwin Street to say hi. Given they'd barely exchanged two words since the break-up, how come she felt like Bridget Jones on a v v bad day? No time to explore that one, he was locking the motor.
Play it cool, girl. She took a deep breath, twitched the curtains to, licked her lips, smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks, hitched the skirt, tugged the T-s.h.i.+rt, glugged on a gla.s.s of Pinot, fell off a three inch heel in the dash to the door. Miss Cool-io opened it before the bell rang.
”Wotcha, Khanie.” Hand against jamb, heart racing, she gave a lazy smile.
”h.e.l.lo, stranger.” Oz brushed her cheek with his lips before stepping inside. ”How've you been?” G.o.d, she'd missed that smell.
”Tickety. You?” Hardly worth asking. He looked tastier than ever. Four Michelin stars just for starters.
”I'm good.” The small talk wasn't doing a bunch to hike the word count. Standing around in the hall shuffling their feet didn't help either, especially with a snapped heel. After a few seconds' silence they kicked off together.
”Fancy a...?”
”How 'bout...”
”You first...”
”Nah, you...”
The laugh was only a tad forced as she led the way to the kitchen praying the limp wasn't too obvious. ”Have you eaten?”
”Have you cooked?” Like she could've been performing open heart surgery with a spatula.
”Guinea fowl slow-roasted on a bed of squash served with pomegranate and rhubarb jus. How's that sound?”
”Like a wind up.”
She sniffed. Was a time he'd have fallen for it. ”Or beans on toast.” She peered into the bread bin. ”Without the toast.” A smiled tugged at his lips. She'd forgotten how it did that. ”Fancy a takeaway?”
”I'm fine, Bev, honest.” She stared as he straddled a chair. Lucky chair. ”Wouldn't say no to a c.o.ke though. What's wrong with your foot?”
”New shoes, mate.” She tottered to the fridge found him a can, helped herself to a top-up. She chilled as the chat flowed: his new flat in Fulham, films they'd caught, books they'd read. He asked after her mum and gran. Social wheel-oiling; surface stuff.
”So how's Byford these days?”
She almost choked on the wine. Even without dodgy footwear, the personal question had caught her on the hop. She gave a casual shrug hoping to restore equilibrium. ”Up against it. We all are with the Sandman out there.” Oz wasn't talking work pressures. She was aware of that. He knew they'd had a thing going, held the guv partly responsible for her inability to commit.
He gave her time to elaborate then arched an eyebrow. ”Back off, shall I?”
Head down, she sensed his gaze on her. ”We're not together if that's what you mean.” Was he weighing up his chances? And what the h.e.l.l would she say if he came on to her?
”Who you with now, Bev?” Briefly she closed her eyes, recalled the male tails she'd chased of late: f.u.c.king waste of time.
”Brad Pitt's getting pushy.” She studied her nails. ”Thinking I might need an injunction.”
”Footloose then?”
”Yeah.”
”Was a time I thought you and the guv would tie the knot.” So had she, and the thought it had pa.s.sed still hurt like s.h.i.+t.
”'Nother c.o.ke?”
”Sure.”
”The Saleem stuff?” She handed him a second can. ”How'd you want to play it? I'll need a bit of notice, got shed-loads on tomorrow.” His turn now to avoid eye contact.
”Yeah right. Thing is, Bev... I've just come from the house.” The hum of the fridge had never sounded so loud.
”What?” Sinking back into the chair, she lowered the volume. ”Why?”
He pulled the ring can, swallowed several mouthfuls before answering. ”Being completely upfront, Bev having you there wouldn't've helped.”
”Don't hold back, mate.” Scowling, she folded her arms.
”I'm only telling it like it is.” Saleem, as he'd told her before, was unlikely to open up in the presence of any woman, especially a young white cop. ”Plus I have to get back to London earlier than I thought. It was kind of now or never.”
She didn't return his smile. His reasoning had logic, it didn't stop her feeling cheated; riding shotgun to Oz had definitely held appeal. ”So what happened?”
Saleem had been hostile initially but Oz spoke the same language: literally and culturally. ”I couldn't go in casting allegations. I made it clear we knew about his daughter's injuries, and that she was no longer around.”
”And?”
”He claims not to know why she left home in the first place or have any idea where she is now.”
”There's a surprise.”
”I think he was telling the truth, but if he's a better liar than I give him credit for, at least he knows his card's marked.”
”Great. No worries then.” Remind me to mention it when Fareeda turns up as fertiliser.
”Bev.” He leaned forward elbows on table. ”Girls do run away. If they're escaping abuse, violence, forced marriage, whatever, they don't want to be found. Fareeda could well be staying with friends some place.”
<script>