‘I can help you plan your wedding!’ Alison had squealed when Rachel had finally told her she was seeing someone, that it had been going on for several months.
‘Be your funeral,’ Rachel said.
‘But there’s a wedding fair…’
‘Enough.’ Rachel had held up her hands. ‘It’s not on the cards, it’s not on the horizon, it’s not even in the same solar system at the moment.’
Alison was always wittering on about Rachel needing a social life, trying to get her to do things: a night out with Alison’s social-work pals, all dangly earrings and peculiar footwear, a trip to Les Mis in London on a coach, a book group. A book group, for fuck’s sake!
‘Do they read true crime?’ Rachel asked her.
‘No,’ Alison tutted. ‘Don’t you get enough of that at work? Fiction, Rachel. Booker prize, the Costa. Orange. We have some great discussions.’
‘Spare me,’ Rachel groaned, changing the subject by asking about one of the kids, guaranteed to get Alison warbling on for half an hour at least, like winding up a clockwork toy.
Rachel opened a bottle of red and poured herself a good measure. She got her daybook out of her bag and checked back through, all as it should be. She had a stack of reports from the National Police Improvement Agency – homework. The NPIA was where Gill Murray had worked before she headed up the syndicate. Called the Crime Faculty back then. Hard-to-solve cases from all over the country. That usually meant stranger murders. Interrupted by the take-away delivery, Rachel paid the guy and ate while she continued reading. She refilled her wine then texted Nick: You busy? Gud day?
He replied in seconds. Cd take a break?
Rachel smiled. She had an idea, would he be up for it? Won’t know till you try, kid, she said to herself. Dyin for a shag, she texted.
!!! He came back.
Phone sex, she typed. Call me if u want sum. She set the work files aside and had a long swallow of wine. Settled herself down on the sofa. The mobile rang. She picked it up.
‘So,’ she heard the laughter in his voice, ‘tell me what you’re wearing, you slutty girl.’
RACHEL WAS STILL working out who was who as the DCI briefed them on the murder. She had already clocked that Kevin was a bell-end. The sort of guy who wants to be one of the gang but gets it wrong every time, his humour off-colour, his instincts non-existent, social skills strangled at birth. The sergeant, Andy Roper, seemed OK, no pervy looks from him and he didn’t pull rank with any little jibes like some of them did. Dressed well, too. Bit old for Rachel but he wasn’t a bad looker. The other DCs – the tall bloke Mitch, Pete the stocky one and Lee, the only black guy on the team – she hadn’t got the measure of yet.
