‘Ready for a rowdy night out, DS Blackford?’ he says, and smiles.
Roger, the Chief Super, has booked a private room at The Wiltshire pub. The truth is, I’m not good at social dos. I’m good at my job; that’s where I feel secure. But socialising isn’t my thing. Still, I have to go to the Super’s retirement do.
Dario, on the other hand,isconfident, and he strides into the pub. We’re about to go downstairs to the Pablo room when someone calls my name.
I turn to see Gil Peterson sitting on a stool at the bar. I’ve known Gil since we were both involved in a case; that of an abused child. It was one of the worst experiences of my life as a police officer, and it tore us all apart for severalmonths. Dr Joanna Neal, Gil and I, along with several other officers, attended the funeral. I remember Joanna Neal being inconsolable at the time.
‘Wow, look at you, Miss Glam,’ Gil says admiringly.
‘It’s not that fancy,’ I say, playing it down. ‘It’s a retirement do, so I thought I should make an effort.’
‘Ooh, room for a promotion?’ she asks. She’s all dolled up, a glass of red wine clasped in her hand.
‘You’re the glam one,’ I say.
‘Hot date, darling.Ifhe turns up. Half of them don’t.’
‘Not another Tinder, I hope,’ I say.
‘Yep.’
‘Text me if he turns up and say where you’re going. If I don’t hear from you after an hour, I’ll phone.’
‘A bit dramatic, don’t you think? You’re worse than Jo.’
‘Not these days. Anyway, if he doesn't turn up, join us downstairs in the Pablo room.’
‘Thanks, I might do that.’ She nods towards Dario, who is waiting for me. ‘I don’t suppose he’s on Tinder?’
‘Not his scene. Hope the hot date turns up.’
The Pablo room is buzzing. Prosecco bottles are being popped open, and hors d'oeuvres are being placed on a long table.
‘Prosecco?’ asks Dario. I nod. Then I force myself to mingle, saying hi to my colleagues and introducing myself to new acquaintances. Those who know me ask where Geoff is. That soon becomes tiring, so when Gil walks in, I’m relieved.
‘Bugger didn’t turn up,’ she says. ‘Don’t know why I’m not surprised.’
We sit with bowls of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of Prosecco and get slightly tipsy. Gil flirts unashamedly with Dario and keeps trying to push Prosecco onto him.
‘I’m driving,’ he tells her. Then, ‘Can’t you tell her I’m gay?’ he whispers to me.
‘Well, that would be lying, wouldn’t it? I don’t think that will stop her, anyway,’ I say, and laugh.
The Prosecco is making me light-headed, and I grab some sausage rolls from the food table. When I return, I hear a ringtone.
‘Is that your phone?’ I ask.
Gil dives into her bag. ‘Perhaps it’s Mr Tinder,’ she says, then giggles. She seems to recognise the voice and laughs, saying, ‘Hello, Mr Romantic.’
‘Mr Tinder,’ I say, and smile at Dario.
‘No, we parted ways after our swim. Why?’ says Gil, her expression changing. ‘Just after five, I reckon. Why, Danny?’
She stands up and excuses herself. I immediately sense something is wrong, but I don’t like to ask what. She returns looking worried, and I ask her if everything is okay. She forces a smile and finishes the remains of her glass. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she says.
Some time later, she makes a call and says she has to go.
‘Be careful,’ I say. ‘Text me later.’
