‘Tidy, I was going to say. Christ, the state of your office at Chiswick.’
‘Ah well, that’ll be Gracie, God love her. She comes in twice a week, keeps the place looking half-respectable.’
We smile at the understatement. Steele sits down next to me.
‘So when did you and Moira call time?’ she asks.
‘Oh, a while back, 2014. You hit that age when you realise you’ve only a limited amount of time left, and you start thinking, Is this what I want for the rest of my life? Are you what I want? Moira decided no.’ He scratches his jaw. ‘We’d had twenty happy-enough years, but sure, with no kids, no grandkids, no family to keep it together for, we’d drifted apart. Anyways, I got the house, even though it’d been Moira’s big project. She got everything else and less of a guilty conscience in return. She’s living in Toronto now. We speak occasionally. I wish her well.’ He might be braving it out but there’s a hollow, forlorn look about him. Not so much a fish out of water as a pig up a tree; a man completely at odds with the surroundings he’s found himself in. He eases himself to the edge of the chair. ‘So, enough about my woes, what’ll you both drink? I’ve a lovely Barolo out there, although you won’t mind if I don’t join you. I’ve felt like boiled shite all day.’ A sheepish grin. ‘I may have had a bad pint last night.’
I laugh. ‘Was it the sixth one or the seventh, you reckon?’
‘Ah now, will you stop?’ Shtop, the Irish ‘h’. He reminds me of my Grandad Pat, and come to think of it, he looks a bit like him. ‘Blame that lush, Tess Dyer. I told her I’m not able for it these days, but sure, you might as well talk to the wall. She has hollow legs, that one.’
Steele turns to me. ‘You’d never think this man used to drink ten pints in the evening, then run 10K in the morning. Isn’t age a sickener?’
‘You’re telling me, Katie, love.’ I can’t help it, the Katie kills me. Cairns clocks my grin and raises his voice, pretending to scold. ‘And I don’t know what you’re smiling at, young one. It’ll happen to you, you can be sure of that. One minute it’s all discos and twelve-hour shifts on two hours sleep, the next you’re eyeing up shoehorns and taking naps in the day.’
Steele smiles. ‘And how are you, besides the bad pint? I heard you hadn’t been well?’
‘Rheumatoid arthritis.’ Not one ounce of self-pity. ‘’T’wasn’t too bad at first. I mean, sometimes I’d hardly recognise me own feet, toes pointing off in all directions, and the bunions – Christ, don’t get me started. But like I said, ’t’was manageable, anyhow.’ He sighs, pulling at the crook of his neck. ‘Then a few years ago, they tell me my immune system’s attacking the joints in my spine, and that’s a whole different ball game. I packed up the job soon afterwards. Always thought I’d make it to sixty-five, but sure, like a lot of things, ’t’wasn’t meant to be.’
‘Do you miss it?’ I ask.
‘Do I miss it?’ he echoes, as though he’s never actually considered it. ‘I miss the routine. Having a reason to set the alarm, you know? But I don’t miss the job, not really. The Met runs on caffeine and goodwill these days, Cat. Good people, overworked people, doing difficult jobs for not much more than you’d pay a postman – no disrespect to them o’course, grand job they do. And I’d felt removed from it for years, truth be told. I wasn’t a police officer anymore, I was a Yes Man, a well-paid administrator. Do you know what made me call it a day in the end? ’T’wasn’t really my back.’ He shakes his head at the memory. ‘This young lad, a young DC, hands me his resignation, and as God is my witness, I’d never laid eyes on the fella. He was part of my team on a fecking wall chart somewhere, and yet I could have walked past him in the street, wouldn’t have known him from Adam.’ He shoots Steele a reproachful look. ‘Christ, I should watch my mouth in front of the young one. The Met’s short enough on detectives as it is. Don’t want another one walking.’
‘Ah, don’t worry. She’d never leave me, would you, Cat?’
‘Stockholm syndrome,’ I confirm.
Cairns laughs, attempting to heave himself out of the chair. ‘Right, will I pour you a glass of that Barolo?’
Steele’s hand’s up, stopping him. ‘No, no, we’re fine, Olly. Sit down, honestly. We can’t be too long, anyway – the young one has a date.’
He flashes me a crooked grin. ‘I’d say she’s not short of them.’
‘And I’ve no idea what Barolo is,’ I admit. ‘It’d be wasted on me.’
‘Me too, until a few years ago, but I’m quite the wine connoisseur, these days. Sure, you have to fill the time somehow.’ He settles back down again, crossing his stiff long legs at the ankle, his shrewd gaze shifting from me to Steele. ‘So if you don’t want my wine, and I doubt you want my company, what is it you ladies want, need I ask?’
For possibly the first time ever, Steele looks nervous, properly so.
‘OK, so I could have picked her up wrong, Olly, and even if I’ve picked her up right, I’m not questioning your judgement, I want to be clear about that. I’m just picking your brains, that’s all.’
‘Well now, that’s quite an opener, Katie, love. I might need that glass of wine yet.’ His eyes are narrow. ‘But be my guest – you know me, I’m an open book.’
‘It’s just that Tess said, implied, that certain avenues she wanted to explore during “The Roommate” case were shut down by the powers-that-be.’ Her voice is steady but she’s scratching at a nail, defiling her gel manicure. ‘Holly Kemp’s boyfriend for one, but in particular . . .’
‘The boyfriend had an alibi, Kate. And look, I know we’re hardwired to always suspect the partner, but Holly was seen entering the house of a convicted serial killer and never seen again. I think that gets the boyfriend off the hook, don’t you?’
‘Possibly. But Tess also implied that you shut down the idea of Masters having an accomplice. Obviously it’s something we’re now open to considering, but I want to know why you didn’t buy it. I assume you’re the powers-that-be she’s referring to?’
‘I suppose I must be, although she flatters me, bless her. I was a middle-management cog in a very big wheel.’
‘Are you saying you were told to forget about an accomplice?’
‘Well, no . . .’ He straightens up a little, fingers drumming both knees. ‘I wasn’t told to do anything because I didn’t discuss it with anyone.’
‘What?’ Steele’s face creases. ‘You didn’t raise it with John Turvill? He was Commander at the time, right?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Short. Sharp. Final. A reminder of who was once boss, who showed her the ropes, who taught her to tie her investigative shoelaces.
‘Ah, come on. No? That’s it? Olly, this is me you’re talking to. What are you not saying?’
‘You need to understand the context, Kate.’ Katie, love has now left the building. ‘That case was two weeks of pure bedlam. Three separate incident rooms to cope with the chaos. A few thousand calls every day and three quarters of them stone mad. I don’t know how many door-to-door enquiries were made, but we’re talking thousands again, and God alone knows how many hours of CCTV, for all the good it did. Every day a new development, a dud lead, and constant pressure to make quick decisions. And all of this under fierce media scrutiny – fierce.’ He pauses, letting us feel the lead weight of it. ‘The real powers-that-be – Turvill, DAC Dempsey – wanted the case closed, is what I’m saying. They wanted the good people of Clapham sleeping easier in their beds.’