Death & the City Book Two (8 page)

"Yeah, I know," I sigh. I feel embarrassed about crying, and awkward that he feels responsible for me. "Sorry about earlier, I don't know…"

"No, it was me," he interrupts. "I wasn't thinking before opening my mouth."

"It's no big deal, you could have dropped me off home."

"I didn't want to."

I stop before protesting any more, because he looks at me steadily for a moment, and I feel suddenly like an animal does when frozen in front of car headlights. Knowing that something is coming fast, but not what it is. The kettle boils on cue, and he looks away again to make the tea.

I get to my feet, not sure whether I want to try and escape or what else is bothering me, but he's already ahead of me in that sense.

"You can watch me make it," he says calmly, pouring out the water. "I won't put anything in it. Not even aspirin."

He turns to the refrigerator to get the milk out, and looks me in the eyes again briefly. I sense an unspoken challenge.

"It's okay, I'm just going to the bathroom," I say, taking a deep breath. "You go ahead, I trust you."

I don't wait for a response, but head through the living-room, towards the small downstairs shower and toilet next to the study/office. I shut myself in, lean on the sink, and breathe slowly until I feel calm again. Then I shed my work blazer, use the toilet and wash my hands.

The stupid thing is, I don't even know why I'm panicking, unless it's just because he's seen me cry, which is new. I feel more vulnerable now because of that. But it's true. I do trust him. Whether that's wise or not, I don't know yet either.

I just don't seem to have any control over my adrenaline response.

I emerge from the bathroom carrying my jacket, just as he's switching off the kitchen lights, holding the two mugs of tea in one hand. He crosses the living-room towards me, takes my hand with his free one and gives me a kiss on the lips. It feels like a silent thank-you.

"Bedtime," he says. "You can borrow my t-shirt again."

I just nod, and follow him upstairs.

"You know, I have seen your underwear once already," he says, teasing, emerging from the walk-in wardrobe wearing pyjama bottoms and nothing else. Which I try not to notice, as I push my clothes out from under the bedcover where I'm hiding modestly, and quickly pull his t-shirt on over my head, wriggling it down my body under the covers. He clicks his tongue theatrically, picks my stuff up from the floor beside the bed, and puts it on a nearby chair. "Shouldn't have done that. Out of reach now for the morning."

"I'll just have to make sure I get up before you."

"Like to see you try," he chuckles, and stands by the edge of the bed, draining the last of his tea, before putting his empty mug down next to mine. "No bets, I am actually getting under the covers this time. Is that okay with you?"

"It's your bed," I mutter, feeling myself colour slightly, and mentally measuring the amount of space likely to be between us before he gets in, wondering if I should inch back a bit to make more room. When he picks up the corner of the duvet and sits down, I scoot back automatically, worried that the mattress might suddenly dip in the middle, pitching me into an involuntary tangle. But he's careful, pulling the covers up to his chest once he's settled, and we're lying side-by-side quite platonically. Again though, with the adrenaline problem. My pulse feels like it's going to blow my eardrums if it doesn't slow down.

"Do you want me to leave the lamp on?" he asks, indicating the bedside light.

"Maybe for a bit," I admit, and he nods. I stare at the ceiling trying to slow down my heart rate. I risk a glance across at him after a minute or two, and his eyes are closed. But he seems to sense my eyes on him, and heaves a sigh.

"Do you want a cuddle?" he asks quietly, eyes still closed. I realise it means I have the option of not replying, and could pretend to be asleep myself. But as I study his face, considering more honest communication, I catch sight of a tiny pulse in his temple, racing as badly as mine. Self-control on overtime, I think, reaching up with the back of my fingers - and stop short of touching him, wanting to soothe it, but more worried about making things worse.

I start to withdraw my hand, but he catches it in his, on the pillow between us.

He opens his eyes and looks at me.

"Is that a yes?" he asks.

'Yes' I say, but the sound doesn't come out.

It doesn't need to. He turns over to face me, and reaches his arms around, one arm under the covers and one above, scooping me against him gently so that we're tucked together like a cocoon in the duvet, his upper hand brushing my hair aside and settling down to stroking my arm, idly and comfortingly.

"Better?" he asks, and I nod. He kisses me lightly on the ear. "Good. I said the other day in the kitchen, that you owed me a spoon."

It makes me smile, and after a few moments he only moves his arm temporarily, to turn the bedside lamp off.

I drift awake once or twice, aware of unfamiliar proximity to someone keeping me in a state of hyper-sensitivity, but his body heat is soothing, and feels more secure than threatening. So I barely open my eyes each time, and doze off just as quickly.

The third time I'm dreaming, unable to get Terry Dyer into an ambulance in time, and wake with an involuntary small jump. I feel Connor react, and he takes his upper arm off the outside of the covers and slides it underneath, around my waist, locking me against him more securely.

"It's all right," he whispers. "Go back to sleep."

I'm sure there's something sedative about passive human contact, because I don't wake up again until I feel Connor move away from me. Daylight is edging in around the curtains. I turn onto my back carefully in case he's still asleep, but when I look over, he's just resting up on one elbow and starting to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"I didn't jump you in the night, did I?" he asks.

I do a mental stock-take. The t-shirt and underwear are still on.

"No," I reply.

"Must have dreamt it." He finishes cleaning up around his eyes. "You'd definitely have remembered."

I wonder what I missed out on, while dreaming about ambulances instead.

"You could tell me the P.G. version," I suggest.

"That WAS the P.G. version," he insists, and leans over to kiss me briefly. "That's the P.G. version. If you want to know the rest, I'll have to check your I.D. first. And I'd probably insist on written consent as well."

I like his sense of humour about the situation, and as I smile he strokes my cheek, and I feel his fingertip trace a line where I was crying yesterday. He gives me another quick kiss before he gets up, picks up the empty tea mugs, and heads out of the room.

I stretch and wiggle my fingers and toes, feeling my muscles wake up in my limbs. I notice my pulse feels normal too. That wasn't too scary, then.

"Your car's in the garage." Connor hands me a cup of tea as I enter the kitchen. He's already in jeans and a skull-print t-shirt, and I'm back in last night's uniform. "Turned up on the driveway by itself. Yuri said he GPS'd your phone signal, and they drove it over by remote. He reckons they're going to get a map-reader out of an old Scud missile and install it next."

"Fun," I concede. "Is it true? They only make this stuff to test out and compare theories about what all the criminals and terrorists are making elsewhere, out of scrap and iBay parts and spares? Or is there another legitimate application for it?"

"You'd be surprised what people arm themselves against at the moment," he comments. "Some of the stuff I've seen in Forensics already… I blame substance abuse. Delusional on a scale that you've probably only seen a splinter of. Especially with the amount of crap feeding their imagination on the internet."

"Yeah, I imagine it starts with lucky rabbit's foot and horseshoe, and works its way up through Voodoo dolls to fatwahs," I remark.

"Something like that," he nods. "Got to go over more stuff there today. Should be fun. Someone dumped our tramp's body in the river, that we left behind 21 Black's. Must have thought it would upset the Health & Safety inspectors."

"Yeah, you hope it's that straightforward," I agree. "Perhaps they thought he died eating leftovers out of their bins."

"I'll mention that at work, sounds like it could be a motive." He switches off the oven, and takes out a small round pan. "Speaking of leftovers, this is meant to be breakfast. I do the Spanish thing and put all leftovers in an omelette next day. You can try it if you want."

"Frittata," I say.

"No need to be rude." He grins at me over his shoulder, and winks. "Want some?"

"Sure."

"Yuri said on the phone that they want to see you and the car later, so I'd give them a ring when you're finished if I were you," he suggests, pushing a plate and fork towards me, and sitting down opposite. "Then you and me have got our fake date tonight. Half Moon Inn. Remember?"

"Yeah." I nod, and take a bite of Spanish omelette. It's potato, green beans, peas and bacon. "This is nice."

"You sound surprised," he jokes. "Reckon you and me are ready to take on a fake date stakeout? Or do you think someone will clock us?"

"What, as, undercover police?" I ask. "Or escaped mental patients?"

"Either," he replies. "What with you jumping out of your skin every time I so much as breathe on you, I reckon we'll last about five minutes."

"I thought the idea was to look out for targets," I remark. "Not play
Celebrity Mr
.
& Mrs
."

"Just that the two of us out sober, trying to look like loved-up Blues fans, with you yelling 'What?!' every look I give you isn't going to stop us standing out a mile."

"Sounds normal to me," I shrug. "I think you'll find that's why most couples who go out socializing together in the evenings in public usually get drunk. To act more relaxed together."

Connor smiles and sips his tea.

"How good is your aim drunk?" he queries.

"Depends," I say thoughtfully. "How far do I have to throw the snooker table?"

"You've been getting drunk with entirely the wrong crowd, by the sound of things," he chuckles.

"That's why I don't drink anymore," I agree.

"You'd be safe with me."

"On a fake date, maybe," I muse. "I've never drunk alcohol on a real date."

"Good," he says. "Tonight can be your test run for the real thing."

I ring Warren while Connor clears away and loads the dishwasher.

"Morning, Trouble," Warren greets me. "Pleased to hear your car got back all right. Took a few signal boosters, but it did the trick. Yuri refers to it as The Tank now. At least it's better than the espionage Citroen 2CV's we've been watching in Moscow. Like trying to navigate shopping trolleys around B&Q."

"I was worried you were going to turn it into an anti-congestion slot street car," I remark. "Where you stick your money in and destination, and it drives you there by sat-nav at three miles an hour."

"No, that's what these cars do when they retire," Warren laughs. "Moscow has a bit of a problem already with tourists, trying to get into the 2CV's thinking they're city tour taxis, while they're really out on surveillance. Twelve o'clock today, Britten Airfield for some road tests. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Don't be late." He disconnects the call.

"I gotta go," says Connor, wiping his hands on a tea-towel. "Stupid Forensics lab to go to."

He reaches out to me as I put my phone in my pocket, and pulls me into his arms. He smiles as I try to suppress my reaction to being caught by surprise, which is mixed with a somewhat traitorous feeling of disappointment that he's already leaving for work.

"If Warren asks you to hold anything out of his toolkit for him, say no," he warns me.

"Still picturing a Taser," I nod.

Connor kisses me, with more intimacy than earlier - maybe because the risk of being in bed already is no longer an issue. But it does feel nice. When he stops I really am sorry that he's going. He rubs my back and lets go.

"Think we might get away with our fake date stakeout later," he admits, picking up his jacket and keys. "Just about."