‘Ava,’ I snarled.
‘Yeah, her. She told me.’
‘I’ll kill her.’ I pinned my eyes on his. ‘And you didn’t tell anyone in the Met about it?’
Terry stalled and scratched his nose. ‘I might have mentioned it in passing,’ he said lightly. He tried to clear his throat, but his voice didn’t improve. ‘To a couple of people, maybe.’
He saw me open my mouth to rail at him but got in first. ‘But I didn’t mention cold cases, or you not having any patients or discuss anything about how you’ve always loved the idea of having a go at police profiling…’
By the end of his defensive tirade, he was grinning at me.
I stayed put on the mat, forcing him to keep the door open. Either that, or he’d have to let it spring shut in my face – and I knew he wasn’t the kind of man who would ever do that.
‘How did you know that about me?’ I snapped. ‘About police profiling? And I’m not coming in.’
‘You told me.’
‘When?’
‘During a sushi meal we had in Soho… in June, I think it was… last year.’
‘Flippin’ heck.’ I dropped the bag at my feet and stood tall, my hands on my hips. ‘That’s the problem with you,’ I said, trying not to laugh. ‘You’ve got a bloody good memory and you’re too good a listener.’
He pulled a silly face and blew a raspberry at me.
‘So, you told Claussen you’re not doing it then?’
‘Not exactly,’ I muttered, not looking at him, reaching down for my belongings.
Another blast of curry enticed me to linger, together with the strains of smooth jazz and a crackle from the wood burner.
‘So, all in all, everything’s turned out in your favour then,’ he said. ‘Is that it?’
I stared at him, trying to keep a straight face.
‘Are you coming in or not?’ he said, pretending to sound exasperated.
‘No,’ I said, stepping inside after all.
As soon as he took my coat, my petulant toddler act fell apart. He accidentally brushed his sleeve against my cheek and I took in the visceral rubbed-sage aroma of his jumper. What was it about this man, who seemed to have the capacity to win me over, like no other?
‘It’s good to see you,’ I said, softening my tone. ‘Did I say that earlier?’
‘No, I don’t think you did.’
He hung my coat in the hall and led me through to the living space. I’d been to his apartment only once before and remembered how different it was from my flat. Situated in a refurbished mansion block in Earl’s Court, it was basically a one-room open-plan living space, with an en-suite bedroom. But what a space. Sleek high-gloss units lined the kitchen-diner, with an L-shaped sofa just the right toe-toasting distance from the wood burner. At the far side, floor to ceiling windows were draped with made-to-measure silky curtains. They flowed over the carpet like the gown of a monarch. The words stylish, plush and exclusive came to mind.
By comparison, I rented a first-floor flat within a tatty Victorian house. It had narrow rooms, creaking floorboards, and something different broke down virtually every week. So much so that I had the maintenance guy on speed dial.
The previous week, it was a leaking shower. The week before, the door of the washing machine wouldn’t shut. Everything about my home was battered and shabby – but it was my blissful sanctuary. Originally only meant to be a stopgap, I’d put down roots there deeper than I could ever have imagined. It would take a lot to get me to move on.
‘It’s good to see you,’ I said, trailing my fingers over the cool marble of the kitchen island, ‘it’s been a while.’
‘Too long,’ he said, avoiding my eyes.
He offered me a seat on the plump sofa and brought over a glass of wine.
When we were flung together the previous year on the case of the Regent’s Canal murders, there was definitely a spark between us. I’d known him for an age, since we were students, but I’d always thought of him as a loyal ‘brother’ figure. Until last summer. He seemed keen on me and we even went on a few ‘dates’ during the investigation. But nothing happened and our contact fizzled out. I’m not sure why.
Terry had gone to Italy on holiday once the case was resolved, then I started my new training at Guy’s and things just didn’t seem to get off the ground between us. We exchanged a few texts and phone calls, but they were polite and stilted. Various phrases were batted back and forth: ‘hectic at work’, ‘no time off’, ‘when I get a moment’. Neither of us was prepared to make the next move. Were we both scared? Not ready for a full-on relationship?
‘I’ve made too much chicken korma, so you’d better be staying,’ he said, throwing his comment over his shoulder as he stirred the contents of a pan.
I made a point of looking at my watch as if weighing up his offer. Then I realised he wasn’t even looking my way.
‘Mmm, I think that would be okay,’ I said, taking a sip of wine, tasting citrus and a flinty flavour, but not too chalky – exactly how I wanted it. I had the feeling his choice wasn’t an accident.
Since our near miss over summer, there’d been no one else for me, but I wasn’t sure if Terry was still single. As he poured boiling water on the rice, I glanced around the flat, looking for signs. Had he met someone by now? Was it all too late?
6
Terry beckoned me over to the shiny pebble-dash dining table and presented me with a plate so pungent with cumin, ginger and coriander, I was virtually drooling.
‘I’ve not had anything like this for weeks.’
‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ he said, offering me a bowl of dukkah for sprinkling. ‘These are Moroccan, I’m afraid, not Indian,’ he admitted, as if it were a crime.
The flavours burst open on my tongue the instant I tucked in. I sat back in admiration. ‘When did you learn to cook like this?’
‘Been on a course myself,’ he said, holding his knife and fork on end, either side of his plate, like a child.
‘The only courses I ever do are for work,’ I told him. ‘Memory loss, trauma, delusional behaviour – you name it, I’ve got the T-shirt.’
‘But nothing just for fun? Just for you?’
‘I used to do meditation and spinning at the gym, but…’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘I don’t know. Things fall by the wayside.’
His hair looked freshly washed. Soft dark hair that hung in sculpted curves. Too long to be on trend, too short to make him look vain. He’d always had something old-school and erudite about him. Perhaps it was the battered brogues he was wearing even indoors, the colour of treacle. Or the turned-up collar on his ribbed M&S sweater.
He offered me a naan bread drizzled in rosemary oil. I tugged off a huge chunk, then put half of it back. ‘Sorry, I need to lose weight and get some regular exercise again,’ I admitted, pulling a guilty face.
‘You look fine to me.’ Again, deliberately not looking at me as he spoke.
I shook my head. ‘Seriously, I’m so unfit.’
‘You don’t have to become a copper on the beat for this new project at the Met, you know. You won’t be expected to chase suspects down the street.’