He stares at me. I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing.
‘I just mean – I know they aren’t easy, these cases,’ I add quickly. ‘You don’t always get the right result.’
DCI Carter grimaces and rubs his palm against the back of his head, his hair flecked with grey.
‘No, Katie,’ he says. ‘You don’t.’
HELEN
It is still warm for September, the leaves on the trees still green and shimmering as I make my way across the park and through the quiet streets around Royal Hill. Rachel is sitting in the pub’s outside area at a painted wooden table, the sort that are permanently damp with beer. Strings of white fairground lights trail in a canopy overhead.
When Rachel had asked if I want to meet again today, I’d decided it wouldn’t be all that bad. I’ve nothing else planned. I wonder if I can persuade her against the pub this time, though. Perhaps we could have a glass of lemonade but then go for a walk up to the Observatory, or to shop for nursery things near the market. Something I can upcycle into an anecdote to drop into conversation with Serena and Rory when we see them for dinner this weekend.
The pub is busy. When she sees me approach, she grins and motions that she is going to the bar for us, leaving her bag to save our place. I ease myself onto the wooden bench, extract a tissue from my bag to wipe down the surface.
As I wait for Rachel to return, my eyes drift over to the antiques shop opposite. It is selling huge, old-fashioned ship lights, mounted on teak and metal tripods. Some are set out on the pavement, hand-drawn price tags on brown cord hanging around their necks. Greenwich is full of strange objects like this, from a time when ships mattered in a way that it is difficult to fathom. They are old collectors’ items these days, their tarnished bronze, copper and chrome just a fashionable design quirk. Serena has a light like this in her study, which I have admired before. I don’t think I really like them, now I look at them. They look a bit like spacecraft, their single alien eyes cocked at us from the other side of the road.
Rachel returns from the bar with an orange juice and lemonade for me and a pint of Guinness for herself.
‘Full of minerals,’ she says. Then, after seeing my expression, she adds quickly: ‘I’ll only have a few sips.’ She sets it down carelessly on the table. Foam spills out onto the already beer-soaked wood.
Clouds chase each other across the sky, the sun disappearing behind them, then appearing again. I close my eyes, feel the sunlight on my face. The warmth is dwindling now. We’ve missed the best part of the day. Still, I find myself happy to be out.
‘So, what have you been up to, hon? Apart from practising your breathing exercises.’ She sets her phone down on the table next to her pint. She sticks her little finger into the top of her Guinness and slops the finger full of froth into her mouth.
‘Oh, this and that.’
The truth is, I’ve been doing almost nothing. I’ve rattled pointlessly around the house, trying to think of jobs to do. I have sorted out all my bedroom drawers, made and frozen meals. I have read my baby books, tested the breast pump. I am painfully bored already. I’ve still got nearly three months.
I’ve tried to arrange things, but somehow it never seems to quite fit with people. None of my friends from the advertising firm I work for replied to my message asking if they fancied a coffee – despite saying how much they’d love to keep in touch. I know their lives are full of meetings, work drinks, conferences – things I stopped being invited to almost as soon as my bump started to show. Then there’s Katie, who is always busy at the newspaper. Serena is away. And I’d even considered contacting my little brother, Charlie. It would be good to use this time to try to reconnect. But then I thought about how much of a hassle it would be, getting the train all the way over to Hackney. Also, Charlie is basically nocturnal – he works as a DJ, which he insists is actually a real job – and tends to be asleep until three in the afternoon, when he goes to collect his daughter Ruby from school. The only person who always seems to be free is Rachel.
She is patting at her denim jacket now – first the breast pockets, then the hips, as if giving herself an airport security check. It takes me a moment to realise she is looking for a packet of cigarettes. She pulls out the packet, plus a plastic lighter. The lighter is adorned with a green cannabis leaf design on one side and a cartoon portrait of Bob Marley on the other. As she flicks the yellow-blue flame to life between her thumb and knuckle, she gives me a sideways glance. I try and arrange my features into a fixed expression, but even so I feel my eyes dart left and right, hoping no one from the office walks past.