Warman looked mildly chastened, but rallied after a moment. ‘My understanding is that you can’t provide a useful description.’
‘He was ten yards away from me when I identified myself,’ Rowan said. ‘He wore a hooded jacket and a scarf. You can hardly see your hand in front of your face out there.’
Rowan had showered and changed, rubbing shower gel into stinging grazes and cuts, but Warman looked at her like she’d missed a spot of crud on her face.
‘So, we’re looking at a substantial insurance pay-out to the haulage company — and for what?’ Warman said. ‘God help us if the driver of the truck makes a compensation claim.’
‘We’ve got a lot more on the Furman than we had before,’ Rowan said, hearing the belligerence in her own voice, but powerless to do anything about it.
‘Oh, of course — how could I forget — we do have his shoe,’ Warman said, sarcasm oozing from her pores. ‘Perhaps we should go knocking on doors.’
‘Um . . .’ Finch had finally roused himself. ‘I could find out where it retails,’ he suggested, timidly. ‘If it was a credit card purchase, it could take us straight to him.’
Warman considered. ‘Worth a try. Well done, Finch.’
He flushed with pleasure.
‘We also have his DNA,’ Rowan said, lifting her chin, and looking Warman in the eye.
The Chief Inspector’s gaze was cold and grey. ‘Well, we’ll just have to hope the scientists know how to do their jobs, won’t we?’
Rowan felt a surge of hot anger at the injustice of it. She hoped that Wicks had lost a sack-load of dosh on his bet. And she fervently hoped that every off-duty CID turned up at the pub to take him up on his offer of free ale.
CHAPTER 4
It was just after ten p.m., her injuries documented and report written, that Rowan was given the all-clear by the police surgeon. She headed straight for the Baltic Fleet. The pub was an inconvenient distance from the Albert Dock for the tourist trade, and it prided itself on an absence of slot machines and juke boxes. A refurb and the addition of outside seating had brought it into the twenty-first century, but the clientele didn’t come for the hipster vibe. It had a reputation for keeping a range of local craft ales, so the Baltic was a magnet for serious beer drinkers.
Rowan inched down Wapping at ten miles an hour. The pub’s bow-shaped westerly frontage rose out of the fog like the prow of a ship, and she half-expected to hear a foghorn blast from its bows. Then it slipped back into the greyness, and she almost missed her turning into a side street.
Her mobile rang as she locked up. It was Tasha McCorkindale.
‘Hey,’ Tasha said, her tone warm and full of concern. ‘I heard you had some trouble — are you okay?’
Of course, the girls on the street would have let Tasha know — although she’d quit street work since her near-miss with the Furman in October, she’d stayed in touch with the working girls.
‘I’m fine,’ Rowan said, but despite the bravado she heard a wobble in her voice. ‘He came off worse.’
‘Want to come over, compare battle scars, share a bottle of wine?’
Rowan dithered on the foggy pavement; it was tempting. Then a shout of laughter went up in the pub, and Rowan realised she didn’t really have a choice.
‘There’s free ale going at the Baltic Fleet,’ she said. ‘If I don’t show up, I’ll look like a wuss.’
‘Nuff said. But we’re still on for Friday?’
Rowan groaned.
‘Hey!’ Tasha laughed.
‘Sorry, Tasha,’ Rowan said. ‘It’s not you — it’s the thought of dragging around town looking for frocks.’
‘Clothes shopping is supposed to be fun, missy.’
Under other circumstances, it might be. It was the reason why she had to go clothes shopping that was the problem: a family wedding. And in the Rowan household, family weddings were especially complicated.
‘Friday it is,’ she said, knowing that she sounded like a doomed woman.
* * *
The bar was crammed and noisy — it seemed her wish had come true — the place was heaving with off-duty police. Rowan was welcomed and the crowd parted for her. She had tied her hair back from her face, and even in the mellow light of the bar she knew that the bruises and grazes must look painful. That attracted a few comments from the older men, and their avuncular expressions of concern surprised a tug of emotion in her which she quickly reined in.
Tomorrow, she would try to cover the worst with make-up. For now, she was too sore. And if it caused Wicks some embarrassment, even better.
He was standing at the bar; Rowan saw a gap to his right and plunged in. Wicks exchanged a word with the man next to him, then looked over his shoulder at her. ‘You here for the free ale?’
‘Well, it’s not for the pleasure of your company, Roy,’ she said. Stan, the barman, gave her the nod and poured her a vodka tonic. ‘Anyway, I earned this.’
Wicks raised his glass. ‘To near-misses.’
‘To teamwork,’ Rowan countered.
He took a breath, then let it go. Was he scared she might’ve told Warman what really happened? Good.
His gaze flickered to her eyes and mouth, trying to gauge her mood, maybe trying to estimate how much he could get away with. But Rowan had perfected her poker face at the age of eighteen. Getting away with telling lies to professionals who were lied to every day took work — and a certain amount of natural talent.
In the end, he caved. ‘You shot off like a rabbit, Cass,’ he said.
‘You were in a car, Roy.’
‘The fog . . .’
‘The fog, your two flat feet — and a bet you lost.’
‘How did you know—’ Wicks’s mouth quirked into a smile. ‘Finch . . .’
‘Finch didn’t tell me,’ she said, taking a sip of her drink. ‘You just did, just now.’
He shook his head, even managed a chuckle. ‘Cassie Rowan, you sly fox.’
The man standing the other side of Wicks paused mid-sip and leaned forward to get a look at her.
Rowan met his gaze and something contracted inside her. It felt like a cramp — a spasm of fleeting anxiety, perhaps. Or anger. After what she’d just been through, those two emotions had got hopelessly churned up. ‘Do I know you?’ she said.
The man looked away, staring ahead at the bottles ranged above the bar, and the anxiety, or anger — whatever it was — faded. He took an unhurried sip of his beer and placed the glass squarely on the mat without looking at her. ‘Apparently not,’ he said.
The doors opened and another gang of off-duty police came in, the grey air wrapped around them like a shroud. A shout went up and Wicks jogged her elbow.
‘Bloody hell, Cass — this lot’ll beggar me!’ he complained.
When Rowan turned back, Wicks’s friend was gone.
CHAPTER 5
Tuesday, 18 November, evening
Watching them sets my senses alight. It sears like acid through my veins, drawing me to the quiet backwaters, the shortcuts and alleyways that reek of excitement and danger and sex.
* * *
Forecasters had predicted a change in the weather, but for the second day the fog rose from the sumps and hollows, the river exhaling it like ectoplasm. For an hour or two after midday it looked like it might lift, but by three in the afternoon the sun was no more than a bloody thumbprint near the horizon. Now, all over the university campus, students were emptying out of lecture theatres and seminar rooms as groups came together to chat and make plans for the evening.