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“No, he did.”
“Who?”
The barman glanced to his right. “Oh, sorry, he’s gone.”
A voice behind her said, “Me.”
She turned. Standing before her was very obviously an out-of-town businessman. His dark hair had a hint of grey around the temples, with George Michael designer stubble. The open black shirt he wore was a size too small. The usual gold medallion and chain swung loosely in the black bush of chest hair. The trousers were definitely a waist size smaller than they should be.
“Nigel,” he said, offering his hand.
She didn’t take it, nor had she picked up the glass that had been put near her. When she’d arrived, she’d ordered a Baileys, and would only accept it from the barman after she’d requested he wash the glass in front of her.
Nigel lowered his hand. “Do you come here often?” he shouted.
She stole a glance at Critchley. He was leaning over the balcony, staring into the crowd. “Never,” she replied. “Which is probably more often than you.”
He wasn’t put off, and for the next half hour he tried his best to ply her with drinks, slobbering over her with his life story. It was the usual shit: boring job, working long hours, away from home, his wife didn’t understand him.
“She has my sympathy.”
“Pardon?” he shouted.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Her loss.”
“I somehow doubt that,” she replied. Another comment he never heard.
The volume of the music had notched up somewhat; they were now resorting to shouting, which Grace wouldn’t tolerate much longer. She’d achieved what she came here to do. She glanced over at Critchley, who constantly checked his watch – his expression growing more miserable by the minute.
“What say we move on, sweetheart?” said Nigel. “Go and find somewhere more comfortable.”
“Sorry?” replied Grace, still glancing in Critchley’s direction, before staring at Nigel. “Are you still here?”
“I said–”
Grace held her hand up. “I know what you said, Nigel, but you’re obviously not very good at reading body language, or taking the odd hint, so perhaps I should spell it out for you.”
“Pardon?” he shouted, leaning in much closer than Grace would normally have allowed.
She backed away, as far as the bar would allow her, before slipping sideways and creating more room for herself. As she did so she noticed that Critchley had disappeared.
Nigel was about to speak but Grace cut him off. “If you continue to harass me, Nigel, there’s only one place more comfortable that you’ll be going.”
His expression changed to one of mock disappointment before he smiled and asked, “Where might that be, sweetheart?”
“The morgue, Nigel.”
Grace placed her glass on the bar, noticing the barman smirking.
She turned to Nigel. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have a much more pressing engagement.”
Grace pushed her way through the crowd and bolted down the stairs. At the bottom, she saw Critchley slip out of the front door toward a taxi rank. There were two in line. He caught the first.
She ran to the second, jumping in. “Oh my God,” she shouted.
“What’s up, love?” said the Asian cabbie.
