‘Stop acting like a kid, Heck, and get in. At the very least, I can give you a ride home.’
Heck fumbled his way around the vehicle, and all but collapsed into the front passenger seat. Gemma leaned across him to check that his seatbelt was secure. As she did, he tried to nuzzle her neck. She pulled back sharply, glaring at him.
‘Don’t even go there. That’s not what this is about, and you know it.’
He shrugged as she put the car in gear and drove them away from the kerb.
‘What is it about?’ he asked sulkily.
‘I wanted to talk some business, but by the looks of it you’re in no fit state.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.’
‘Will you, indeed.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s difficult enough getting you to exercise good judgment when you’re stone-cold sober. It’d be a laugh a minute watching you try to do it tonight.’
Cherrybrook Drive was a cul-de-sac, with Heck’s place situated at its far end, where a ten-foot-high wall of soot-black bricks separated the residential neighbourhood from a stretch of tube running overland. The houses, which faced each other in two sombre rows, were tall and narrow, and fronted straight onto the pavement. Heck occupied an upstairs flat in the last one, accessible via a steep, dingy stairway. When he’d swayed up to the top, he flicked a light on, revealing a threadbare carpet and walls stripped to the plaster.
‘Nothing like living in style,’ Gemma observed.
‘I forgot … you haven’t been to this pad, have you?’ he replied. ‘Well … doesn’t matter, does it? I’m hardly ever here.’
The apartment itself was warm and not quite as gloomy as its entrance suggested. The kitchen was small but modern, and very clean – every worktop sparkled (though this might have been because food was rarely prepared here, as a bin crammed with kebab wrappers and pizza boxes seemed to suggest). There was a basic but surprisingly spacious lounge-diner, which would have been fairly pleasant had it not been for its window gazing down on the trash-filled cutting where the trains passed, a bathroom and a bedroom. The final room, separated from the hall by a sliding screen door, was box-sized and windowless. Its dim interior appeared to be scattered with disordered paperwork, but Heck closed the door on that before Gemma had a chance to check it out properly. It was his office, he said, though at present it was more like a junk room.
‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘Tea? Something stronger?’
‘Coffee’s fine,’ she said.
He went into the kitchen, filled the kettle and prepared a single mug. As the water boiled, he took a tumbler and a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and poured himself three fingers. Walking back into the lounge, he threw his jacket across the armchair and hit the button on the phone-messaging system. There was only one message. It was from his older sister, Dana: ‘Mark, when am I going to see you? It’s been ages. I mean, if you’re not coming up, you can at least call.’
He pressed ‘delete’.
‘You and Dana still not getting on?’ Gemma asked.
‘Everything’s fine. I just can’t be bothered.’
‘Charming.’
Gemma glanced around at the lounge. It was neat enough, but very functional. The word ‘minimalist’ wouldn’t cover it – ‘Spartan’ would be more accurate. The walls were bare of paintings, the sideboard and shelves empty of flowers or photographs. The red and orange flowered curtains, blue vinyl sofa, and mauve carpet were a tasteless mish-mash.
‘Still no sign of a woman’s touch,’ she said.
‘Surely that doesn’t surprise you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
He swilled his whisky, and went back into the kitchen.
She took in the room again. A few books sat on a sideboard, all recent titles from the bestseller list, covering various genres, which again was no surprise – it suggested Heck had neither the time nor inclination for a more specialised interest. DVDs occupied a wooden tower alongside the television, their cases thick with dust. It was clearly a while since he’d sat down and watched one of them. Next to the sofa there was a newspaper rack, but it contained only one item – yesterday’s edition of the Standard. Periodicals and style magazines of the sort that cluttered most people’s lounges were noticeably absent. Heck returned, carrying her coffee. She noticed that he’d poured himself another two fingers.
‘Have you got a drink problem that I don’t know about?’ she asked.
He dropped into the armchair. ‘The only problem I have is that I don’t get enough time to drink. Until now of course. Cheers!’
She placed her coffee down. ‘You know, there are times when a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Okay … you’re right. Thanks for the lift home.’
‘You’re as impossible now as you were …’
‘As I was then?’
She bit her lip and shook her head, as if suppressing a response that she’d regret.
For some reason, this half-conciliatory act warmed Heck inside. He added to it by swilling more whisky. ‘Well … I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.’
Gemma sighed. ‘Heck, I’ve defended your corner for a long time. But there’s only so much even I can do if you insist on winding up Jim Laycock every time you meet him.’
‘Oh, so that’s what this is about …’
‘No, it isn’t. And don’t start giving me attitude, Heck . . . because I’m not going to put up with it either.’ She paused, picked her coffee up and took a sip. ‘My God, that’s foul. You know they call me “the Lioness”?’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘Yeah, well that’s except where you’re concerned. Where you’re concerned, they call me “the Pussy Cat”. Now what do you think that’s doing to my self-esteem, eh?’
‘Alright, I’m sorry.’ He grabbed at his tie to loosen it, only to find that he wasn’t wearing one. ‘But he’s got to get off my back …’
‘For Christ’s sake, Heck! He’s a commander, you’re a sergeant!’
‘Yeah, and I close cases he wouldn’t have the first idea how to approach.’
‘That’s not the point. History’s written by the top brass, not the cannon fodder. So would you mind, now and then, just trying to make my job a little bit easier?’
‘I said I’m sorry.’ The thread of conversation was beginning to elude Heck. No doubt it was the booze. On the subject of which – he drained his glass, and lurched back into the kitchen for a refill.
‘That’s really going to help,’ Gemma said, following him.
‘It helps me,’ he retorted, though the corners of his vision were fogging badly.
‘Good Lord,’ she said, as he filled his glass almost to the brim.
‘It’s not like I’ve got something to get up for in the morning, is it?’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’
Even in Heck’s state, he detected meaning in those words. He swung round to face her. She was watching him carefully, suspiciously.
‘Don’t