Blue On Blue

By Dal MacLean

After three years working as a private investigator, newly reinstated Detective Inspector Will Foster still holds himself responsible for the death of an officer under his command. But he’s returned to the Met bent on redeeming himself and that means bringing down gangland boss Joey Clarkson.
Will’s prepared to put in long hours and make sacrifices for his work, even if it comes at a cost to his nascent romance with international model, Tom Gray. After all, Tom has a history of wandering but crime is a constant in London. And Will has committed himself to the Met.
But when a murder in a Soho walkup leads Will into the world of corruption, he finds himself forced to investigate his own friends and colleagues. Now the place he turned for redemption seems to be built upon lies and betrayal. And someone is more than willing to resort to murder to keep it that way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blind Eye Books
• Release date: Mar 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781935560692

Book preview

1

There had been a funeral. A coffin carried shoulder-high.

Then a hearse, driven down a cordoned London street between rigid lines of Metropolitan Police Service officers, heads bowed, all clad in No. 1 uniforms. Fitted, silver-buttoned tunics and trousers in a navy blue so dark, it was almost black. White shirts and black ties or checked cravats. Peaked caps, helmets or bowler hats, all according to rank and sex. White gloves.

Brian Singer had been an unarmed beat constable who’d tried to shield a woman caught in the crossfire of a gangland drive-by shooting. Wild West London, the media called it, then forgot about it when the next victim came in.

It had been unseasonably bright and sunny all the spring day, totally wrong for a funeral, but now as dusk drew in, dark gray clouds were piling up on the skyline like dirty cotton wool.

Detective Inspector Will Foster slid from the back seat of a black Mercedes saloon into the cool early evening air, reflexively straightening his tie and his peaked cap, tugging down his tunic with his free hand. His white cotton gloves were held in the other. It had already been a very long day.

Just twenty minutes before, Will had hovered at the edge of Singer’s modest, grief-hazy funeral reception. Now he had to try to get his head around the polar opposite—a party to celebrate beginnings, held at one of London’s most expensive addresses.

He stood for a moment taking in his surroundings, and the architecture enthusiast in him could only be impressed.

The whole long curved terrace of Grosvenor Crescent was faced with white-painted render and limestone, Victorian houses five stories high, with metal, tree-lined balconies perched on the grand white-colonnaded porticoes sheltering their front doors. The street breathed history. Exclusivity. Money.

Further along the Crescent, Will could see the flags of a couple of embassies. Belgium looked to be one of them, he thought. The UAE maybe. Maybe not. He wasn’t hot on Flags of the World.

A small knot of men and a couple of women were leaning, smoking, against a silver people carrier parked about twenty feet along the road—and watching the Merc with too much interest. But the large open camera bags at their feet explained that. Paparazzi, drawn in by the party’s extensive celebrity guest list, like flies, buzzing round a pool of honey. Or shit, Will thought with the bred-in gut-hostility of a copper to the media.

Predictably, when Will’s companions emerged from the car a second or two later, one of the paps straightened and shouted, and like a choreographed routine, the others scooped up their cameras and rushed forward in a pack. The smug peace of the street exploded into a red carpet insanity of flashes and shouts and hungry click-clicking.

In the chaos, an identical black Mercedes purred into a space behind the first, to the vocal delight of the paps, and two more uniformed officers—one male, one female—climbed out of the second car and joined Will’s group, steadfastly ignoring the relentless intrusion of the photographers.

Five guests in total had come straight to Belgravia from the funeral reception: Will, Detective Chief Inspector Jo Ingham, Assistant Commissioner Christine Hansen, Deputy Commissioner Sir Robin Dunn, and Commissioner Sir Ian McMahon.

Sir Ian was the reason of course, for the pap’s excitement. His photos would sell. Will just wished he didn’t have to be part of the background set dressing.

Right! Sir Ian said with a grin so brilliant it had to be for the benefit of the cameras. We’re all here. Everyone look happy!

Hansen, Sir Robin and Ingham grinned on cue, as the cameras flashed. Will didn’t.

This is excellent PR for the Met you know. For our inclusivity drive. Sir Ian’s unnatural grin melted into genuine wry mischief, Well . . . apart from the billionaire bit. That’s not quite so inclusive.

Will at last felt able to smile cynically back.

It wasn’t every day, after all, that the gay policeman-son of a vastly powerful and globally connected oil magnate, got engaged. But they all knew that the billionaire bit, rather than the inclusivity bit, was the real reason why the top brass of the MPS had opted to attend the celebration party of a lowly Detective Inspector.

James Henderson was Sir Magnus Henderson’s son and heir. That was the crucial fact.

Okay. Let’s go in. Sir Ian set off, tall and straight-backed, across the street, and Will and his fellow officers followed like a pack of obedient Labradors.

All of the residences on the wide, curved street were predictably splendid, but the townhouse they headed for stood out in the smooth elegance of the terrace as a center of celebration. Strings of white fairy lights festooned the immaculately manicured topiary that flanked the front door, and every huge, multipaned window for three floors was lit up and glowing gold in the gathering gloom. Sounds of music and gaiety became more and more audible, the closer they got.

Finally, they gathered on the front steps, like five black crows.

If this were a fairy-tale, Will thought idly, they’d be the harbingers of doom. As it was, they were just late.

Sir Ian rang the bell.

Will always thought Sir Ian looked as if he’d been picked by an unimaginative casting agent for the job of Good Guy in Charge. He was in his late forties, tall, lean and sternly good-looking, with good-humored shrewd brown eyes and a face that seemed too young for his short silver hair. He had a superlative record as a serving police officer who’d risen through the ranks, and in his three years as Commissioner, he’d built a quasi-celebrity persona in the press as The People’s Policeman, listening to the concerns of ordinary Londoners, even as he lived a gilded life with a high-powered politician-wife.

Will used to be of the opinion that their PR people deserved every penny they got polishing that turd, until a close member of his own team had been killed in the line of duty, and Sir Ian had given the eulogy. Will had needed to hear every well-judged, understanding, compassionate word.

He’d become an admirer after that. Sir Ian may be glitzy, but that was a public facade. A mask he wore. He had substance, and he was a copper through and through.

Sir Ian turned as they waited, and gave another wide, white smile for the paps. All right? You all look great.

The door opened before anyone had to answer.

A woman stood in the doorway, regarding them without any expression; a wicked witch for the fairytale, on cue. Certainly, jollity appeared alien to her and her appearance was on the edge of parody: black dress, high-necked and long-sleeved, ugly shoes, dark, graying hair pulled back into a severe bun.

Sir Ian introduced them, although their police uniforms should have given a clue.

"I am Mrs. Morris, Sir Magnus’s housekeeper, the woman said when he finished. You’ll find most of the guests are in the ballroom, on the first floor, to the right." She began to gather their hats and gloves.

Sir Ian turned to give them all the benefit of another bracing smile. The ballroom then. Let’s mingle.

He strode off toward a wide stone imperial staircase that dominated the back of the hall, and began to trot up the steps. Sir Robin and Hansen followed obediently, again, after him.

Ingham didn’t move. She glanced down at her uniform and sighed. "Really looking forward to mingling with the elite, dressed like I’m ready to lift them."

Will grimaced in agreement. The original plan had been for the senior officers representing the South Kensington murder investigation team at the funeral to go back to the station after the reception, to change into their party clothes. Until midnight, the South Ken unit was still on its duty week, and would be required to take on any new murder cases in West London. And since Will was the senior investigating officer on call, he’d volunteered to drive. But they hadn’t reckoned on The People’s Policeman deciding to offer them all a lift to Sir Magnus’s house, in his own and Sir Robin’s chauffeur-driven cars.

Will would have sidled out of it, but Hansen’s urgent eye contact had made it clear that no one who valued the prospect of future advancement could refuse Sir Ian’s gesture of largesse to the minions. So no chance to stop off to change into civvies.

Sir Ian was a notoriously teetotal fitness enthusiast, so perhaps it hadn’t occurred to him that none of them were allowed to drink alcohol in uniform. Or perhaps he didn’t care.

Ingham looked around the huge hallway with its grand white-washed columns, its lofty ceiling and gorgeous black-and-white tiled floor. To think Jamie wanted a tray of sandwiches at the pub, she remarked.

You know his dad wants to book Kensington Palace for the wedding. Will glanced at her. But Jamie said it’d be vulgar.

Ingham snorted. She was a tough, shrewdly intelligent half Jamaican woman from Essex—roughly five foot three, somewhere in her forties and known to the South Ken unit she headed, as Herself. But she looked unfamiliar in her uniform. Her bouncy dark corkscrew ringlets had been pulled back into a ruthless bun, and her pale brown skin looked subtly darker against the white of her collar. She seemed older, a figure of authority.

C’mon DI Foster. She nodded at the staircase, with the rueful remains of her smile. Through the looking glass we go.

They walked side by side up the carpeted stone stairs, until the staircase divided into more steps, leading to two opposite landings. But they didn’t need the housekeeper’s instructions to know which direction to go. The cacophony of celebration emanated from one of the doorways on the landing to the right.

The ballroom that Will and Ingham entered, was enormous, full to bursting with glamorous people dressed in bright evening clothes. From somewhere, a string quartet was playing something discreet.

The walls were pale and trimmed with elegant gilt detail; the floor, a glowing golden-brown parquet. The room was lit by cleverly placed wall-sconces and enormous glittering chandeliers, reflecting off three huge uncurtained windows in the far wall.

Will and Ingham stood just inside the door, taking stock of the sheer grandeur on display. And as they did, a few partygoers glanced at them, fixed on them, then looked pointedly away. It felt exactly as Will had expected it to feel—like turning up in fancy dress to the wrong party. Maybe the guests thought it was a raid. Or that they were strippers.

Will realized he was standing to attention so he deliberately relaxed his posture. There were other uniformed officers here, he reminded himself, except their uniforms were so emblazoned with badges of rank, that they looked like party clothes themselves.

"Fuck. This, Ingham muttered. Right, if there’s a bar, my old man’ll have found it. She gestured toward the heart of the crowd. Coming? I’ll stand you a lemonade."

But Will shook his head. Think I’ll hang on here for a bit, Boss. Get my bearings.

Ingham considered him for a moment, as if she understood the fragility of his mood.

Don’t let it get to you. Her voice was soft. Remember . . . it’s a celebration. She held Will’s eyes, then turned and threaded her way through knots of chattering people, until the crowd swallowed her up.

Will clenched his jaw and moved along the side of the room until he reached a colonnade to lean against.

She was right. He was wallowing.

It had been the shock of familiarity; that was all. A brutal sensory echo of the last time Will had put on this uniform: to attend the funeral of his own sergeant.

Sanjay’s family had asked Will to be a pallbearer.

Ready to lift.

Lift!

The heavy weight of his friend in that oak box.

Treacherous memories had ambushed him all day, one after the other, exquisitely sharp as slivered glass, sliding into his flesh.

Sanjay had been driven, in accordance with Hindu custom, past important places he’d known in his life, on the way to the crematorium. And Will and the others from his team had gone on ahead to the police station to wait for the cortege to pass them. They’d lined up outside, dressed in their No. 1s, members of the public gathered all along the other side of the road, waiting too, with that same, eerie communal almost-silence, broken only by the odd sniff, a cough; now and then quiet sobbing.

Bowed heads. Best uniforms. White gloves.

Another good man whose life had ended so some gangster scumbag could make a point.

A familiar lump of emotion had lodged in his throat most of the day. Rage. Guilt. Impotence. It was hard to swallow round it.

Will shifted restlessly against the pillar.

He needed to retrench. And he needed to stop thinking about it. He’d got a second chance in the Met. He couldn’t let the past throw him like this.

He forced himself to focus instead on the buoyant crowd in front of him, until the individuals in it became real. He made himself take them in.

Will came from an average background himself: his father worked for British Telecom, his second-generation British-Italian mother was a secretary in the National Health Service. He’d been lucky enough to live near a good state school, got to uni, and worked to help support himself all the way through.

This kind of environment—James’s natural habitat—was another country altogether.

He’d always thought that truly wealthy and successful people were a breed apart. They wore their own uniforms. There was a tanned sleekness about the men, whatever their girth, while the women were uniformly slender and groomed, all in fitted dresses to set off their glossy hair and gym-honed bodies.

He idly ticked off faces he recognized: top businesspeople, the odd politician, a number of A- and B-list celebrities. All friends and acquaintances of James’s dad, who was apparently a believer in taking advantage of all available networking opportunities, including his gay son’s engagement party.

Then, across the room, Will spotted a couple of people he knew in real life. His old friend and one-time fuckbuddy Mark Nimmo—a criminal solicitor with the instincts of a starving shark—was standing beside his boyfriend Pez Brownley. Tall, slim, dark-haired, painfully on trend. Not Will’s friend really. Something more complex and antagonistic than that.

Pez looked thrilled to be regaling a very recognizable celebrity, who gave every appearance of enjoying it. But, Will thought meanly, the man was an actor.

You’re scowling. A glass of clear fizzing liquid was thrust in front of Will’s nose. Sparkling water, sadly.

Will fumbled to take the glass as Christine Hansen moved to stand at his side, so they were both positioned to monitor the party.

Will muttered his thanks and threw her a cautious side-eyed glance.

Hansen was in her midforties, medium height, athletically fit and tanned. Her cropped platinum hair stood out spectacularly against the severity of her dark uniform, though, compared with Will’s jacket, hers was almost gaudy. He just had two Inspector’s silver stars—pips—on his epaulettes. Hansen’s uniform was embellished with oak leaves and crown insignia on her shoulders, red gorget patches on the collar; a multicolored ribbon sat on one side of her chest; her name and rank was embroidered on the other. The whole effect spoke of importance and authority.

You look good in the uniform, Hansen remarked, as if she’d read his mind. She nodded toward the crowd. I’d say more than a few of them are hoping you’ll read them their rights sometime tonight.

Will looked, despite himself, into the milling people in front of them, catching the fascinated eyes of a tall, auburn-haired man who held his stare just too long, before he smiled and turned back to his companion.

Thank you Ma’am, Will said stiffly. You look very smart yourself.

Hansen’s laugh sounded genuinely amused.

For as long as Will had known her, she’d worn pale pink frosted lipstick. It wasn’t fashionable, Will gathered, but it suited her perfectly somehow.

It tasted of artificial strawberries.

Will straightened uncomfortably, pulling away from the colonnade.

Ian’s on the other side of the room, you know, Hansen said. You can loosen your stays. She took a sip of her drink. We haven’t spoken for a long time, outside of work.

Will held his poker face.

This was a social gathering. It was appropriate to say what he wanted to say to her here, outside an operational setting. But he was aware his heartbeat had elevated.

I haven’t had the chance to tell you I appreciate what you did Ma’am. He sounded stilted and awkward even to himself. She turned her head to study him again. Talking me into reapplying. Letting me choose South Ken.

Hansen regarded him without expression. Will, we’re so understaffed, I could’ve got next door’s Yorkshire terrier in.

Will snorted, relieved that she hadn’t picked up his earnestness. But then her expression softened. I meant all I said at the time though. You were born to be a copper. You never let anything get in your way.

Despite Will’s best efforts, heat flooded his face. He was mortifyingly sure that his flush of pleasure was visible even on his olive skin. Her approval still meant something. It meant a lot.

It was a mistake to let you go in the first place, Hansen added quietly.

I quit, Will said. No one could’ve talked me out of it.

Hansen shrugged. So how’re you fitting in?

The crowd shifted in front of them, and by serendipity, a little tableau presented itself: Ingham and her husband, talking with James’s father, the tall, sternly handsome Sir Magnus Henderson—a take-no-prisoners global businessman, a celebrity, a knight of the realm. But together, the three of them looked comfortable.

It’s a bit like a family, he said. That I’m not really part of.

His reputation from his first stint at the Met had gone before him, so he’d been welcomed into the unit with respect. He had a burgeoning friendship with James Henderson. He’d even got to transfer in his own former sergeant, Des Salt. But he still felt like an outsider; nose pressed against the glass.

They’re a close team, Hansen agreed, and Will realized she’d been studying the same interactions. But when Jo Ingham moves up, it’s going to change. You know that third pip’s yours, if you want it.

Will’s stomach tensed. It should go to James, he protested weakly. But excitement was part of the mix. Or someone else with uninterrupted . . . .

James knows it’s too soon for him. And you were being fast-tracked to DCI when you left. I told you it was on the cards before you came back. Anyway, James’d like it to be you. So would Jo.

Will turned to stare at her. They would? You asked them?

Hansen raised impeccably plucked eyebrows and her mouth twitched with amusement. It may have come up in conversation.

Will allowed himself to relax enough to smile at her.

Hansen blinked. Tom’s not here with you? she asked. It sounded oddly abrupt, almost harsh.

Will blinked back.

He didn’t know why he felt thrown.

Except, she’d never directly referred before to his relationship to Tom Gray. Will had assumed it was of no interest to her.

He’s been held up in LA. He’s been doing a couple of big shoots. Armani fragrance and Ralph Lauren, two of the biggest contracts Tom had kept on after he’d withdrawn from full-time modeling to pick up his postponed postgraduate degree.

That’s a shame, Hansen said.

Tom’s apologetic text had arrived the previous night in fact, while Will was on duty at the station. It hadn’t helped his mood.

Nor had the photograph that had arrived in the early hours from an unknown U.S. number, of Tom sitting on a bench in T-shirt and jeans, with his arms folded over his chest, legs straight and ankles crossed, head slumped to his left, asleep. Another man sat beside him in a mirrored position, also fast asleep and propped against Tom, their heads touching. It looked intimate, and it had made Will’s stomach roll.

You know, I had no idea you fancy men too, Hansen remarked.

It took Will a full couple of seconds to accept that she’d actually said it.

His reply was deliberately cool, There was no reason to advertise it.

Hansen gave a slow, considering moue. Have you told him?

Will thought he should probably be less surprised that she’d finally asked, than that she’d waited so long to secure her own back.

He allowed himself no expression, certainly not the uneasy nervousness he felt. The slight hollow of sickness in his belly.

I wouldn’t be the only one affected, he said. He looked away again into the crowd.

It was just . . . an old, pointless secret that wasn’t only his and meant nothing. Though that wasn’t really why he hadn’t told Tom. At first it had been none of Tom’s business. Then Will’d had too much to lose to risk rocking an already dodgy boat.

He’d been a young PC not long out of university, drafted in with a colleague to escort the then-Commander Hansen on a trip to Ireland. And he hadn’t stood a chance. She’d turned the considerable force of her professional and personal charm on him, and he’d gone under, dazzled. It hadn’t mattered that she was fifteen years older and a superior officer. She was strong, sexy, self-possessed, talented at her job and in bed. A fascinating woman all round.

Of course, he’d worried in his saner moments about the consequences for both of their careers, but he hadn’t resisted her invitation to keep the affair going when they got back to London, meeting secretly at her flat. She’d told him she was separated, childless, and her soon-to-be ex-husband lived in the country.

It had felt real to him. As if there was a genuine connection between them.

Until one day, he’d heard canteen gossip about the blind eye the top brass turned to the rumors surrounding Hansen—her serial flings with young officers. The husband she successfully kept in the dark. She was police royalty—her father was a retired, highly successful chair of the Association of Chief Police Officers. So, the canteen consensus had been that she was bulletproof.

Will had listened and understood what he was to her.

He’d ended their fling in a flurry of recrimination that Hansen had treated like a childish tantrum, as if it were appallingly gauche of Will to make a fuss about her marital status. And her easy acceptance when he didn’t go back—never contacting him again, never interfering with his career in payback or in remorse, not even when he left the Met, depressed and raging and ashamed—it had proved to him how little the episode had meant to her.

There had been no hard feelings for her. No deep emotion at all.

Will sensed that Hansen had turned to look at him, but he kept his own gaze fixed straight ahead. Across the room Pez spotted him, gave his uniform an exaggerated once-over and snapped off a mocking salute.

I appreciate your discretion, Hansen said. She sounded subdued. Then: Does he make you happy?

Will turned his head to look at her with disbelief. "Does your husband make you happy?"

Their eyes locked for challenging beats of silence. Will couldn’t decipher her expression.

He wrenched his gaze away again, torn between defensive anger and unnerved bewilderment, and at that moment a tall man in a black tux and a wing-collared shirt emerged from the crowd to stand in front of them. Will took him in—glowing navy blue eyes, a luscious mouth, pale gold skin and long silky dark curls.

Will thought he was probably half in love with Ben Morgan, but so was just about everyone who knew him.

"Fucking hell! Ben exclaimed. Please tell me Jamie has a uniform like that?"

Will didn’t get a word out before he was yanked into a powerful hug. He hugged back just as hard, beyond relieved that unnerving conversation with Hansen had been interrupted.

When they broke apart, Will grinned. Congratulations. Sorry I missed the speeches.

Be glad. Ben beamed. "And you had more important things to do. Honestly, Will, you look incredible in that! Then he obviously noticed Hansen, also in uniform, and without missing a beat he added: And so do you."

Will suppressed a snort of amusement. AC Christine Hansen, Ben Morgan. It’s his party too.

Hansen tilted her head. Ben Morgan? She sounded almost fascinated, as if she’d suddenly been confronted by a rare species. And at the same moment Ben seemed to properly take her in too, and to register her badges of rank.

The silence stretched too long.

To think Jamie just wanted a few beers down the pub, Will tried.

Ben visibly forced his focus back to him. And that disconnect was unnerving, because Ben was one of the most effortlessly charming and socially relaxed people that Will had ever met.

He’s protesting too much. Ben smiled, but it looked strained. He’s secretly thrilled Magnus was so desperate to make a fuss.

At least you get to go on holiday tomorrow, Will said with too much cheer. No one’s had leave for months.

Jamie still doesn’t believe it’s not going to get whacked. Ben sounded far too hearty as well. The conversation was like wading through mud. Though we’re only going as far as Cornwall, just in case.

There was another stiff silence.

So, who proposed? Hansen asked.

Jamie, Ben replied. But I’ve had rings stashed for more than two years, waiting to grow the balls to ask. He looked away again.

Well. I wish you every happiness. Hansen gave an all-encompassing social smile. It was lovely to meet you, Ben. Will. She nodded and withdrew, to be swallowed in the crowd.

Ben had focused somewhere beyond Will’s shoulder. He seemed far away.

Where’s Jamie? Will asked deliberately.

Ben blinked, and he was himself again. It was like pressing a button.

Oh. With Alec. He grinned. Who’s trying to persuade him to choose someone else as best man. ‘Someone who can make a fancy speech’ Ben’s try at a Glasgow accent wasn’t bad. Like yon Benedict Cumberbatch.

Jamie knows Benedict Cumberbatch? Will asked, impressed.

No, Ben said.

They both began to laugh, and they were still laughing when a woman slid in on Ben’s right side and tucked her arm round his.

I’ve been looking for you everywhere! she exclaimed. "You look fabulous, sweetie!"

Will put her in her late forties, tall, with a cultivated air of wealthy bohemian. Her dark hair was cropped short, with some of the tips dyed crimson, her spectacle frames were purple, and there could be no question that serious money had been involved in the long-sleeved maroon dress draped around her slightly rounded frame.

Catherine, Ben exclaimed after a second’s pause, then they hugged and went through the regulation media-community double-cheek kiss of greeting. Ben fitted easily into the social milieu of the fashionable elite, just as Tom did, whereas Will had to stone-face his discomfort at all of the mwah-mwah affectation of it.

Tom said he should be less judgmental. And he tried. But . . . .

New season Stella? Ben asked.

Catherine gave a comical ‘you caught me’ grimace. "Yes. I’m trying to rein in my conspicuous consumption but . . . ." She sighed and shrugged. What can you do? "I’m vegan now though and I’m offsetting loads of my emissions! Baby trees everywhere darling! Come to think of it, I shouldn’t really be drinking an oil tycoon’s champagne should I? But anything for you and Jamie."

Will began to think up swift exit lines.

Will, Ben said. This is Catherine Millar. You just escaped her clutches. Catherine, DI Will Foster.

Will took the woman’s outstretched hand. No diminutives, he noted automatically. No Cathie or Cat or Kate. Catherine.

"Crimewatch, Catherine explained. I co-produced for a while before it got the chop. That’s how I met Jo Ingham and Jamie. And darling Ben of course."

Oh, Will said. Well, he’d guessed she wasn’t the caterer. It finished before I came back to the Met.

You work with Jamie? Catherine asked.

Yep. With #hotcop himself.

God, Ben said fondly. He really hated that.

He still does, Will said. And they don’t let him forget it. He grinned. #arrestmesergeant. He bangs his head on the desk till it stops.

Ben gave a bark of delighted laughter but Catherine’s attention remained fixed on Will.

"What a shame we missed you, she said. Will’s smile faded. Her assessing stare made his jaw clench with the sudden beginnings of embarrassment. He noticed that her eyes, behind the lenses of her glasses, were brown, hooded and shrewd. He got the impression of intelligence and determination hiding behind that OTT persona, like some stereotype of a media person. For a brief moment, she reminded him of Pez. But Witness is doing much better than anyone expected, she continued. We’re on for the next couple of months. And when Will didn’t respond, she said, It’s a roadshow format."

"Too much of a straight old fart to talk to us now then?" A man had arrived at Ben’s left shoulder with a small group at his heels. All of them looked anxious.

Olly, Ben said. His voice sounded flat, almost weary.

Will had met the group before, he realized—Ben’s friends—on the couple of nights when he and Tom had joined Ben and James at their regular pub, the Trafalgar on King’s Road. He’d particularly noticed the guy—Oliver—on those nights because he’d looked at Ben like an addict eyeing a stash. He was very attractive of course, like all of Ben’s friends, with good bones, light brown hair and green eyes. Right now, Will was pretty sure he was on a coke high.

Ben ran a hand back through his curls, and Oliver’s hungry eyes followed the movement.

You all know Will, Ben said. "This is Catherine. She used to do Crimewatch with Jamie."

The group behind Oliver made impressed sounds as Catherine nodded majestically in greeting. But Oliver frowned at Will as if he’d only just registered he was there. A six-foot-one-inch policeman in uniform was hard to miss from a few feet away, but Will entirely believed Olly hadn’t noticed him. All his buzzed focus was on Ben.

Will even knew he should be able to empathize—he’d done agonized unrequited love himself and had got the T-shirt—but something about Oliver sparked his visceral contempt. If someone didn’t return your feelings, however much it hurt, you backed away. You kept your dignity. You didn’t . . . do this.

Did Oliver want Ben to pretend to love him? Out of guilt? Or pity? What the hell could be worse than that?

Perhaps, he recognized with a flash of stinging self-awareness, it was just too close to home.

Oliver had turned back to Ben as if magnetized. We were all just saying. Steggie’d have laughed his bollocks off.

"Shut the fuck up, a man in the group hissed. Glynn, Will thought. And he had the feeling that whoever Steggie was, he was a sensitive subject. He took a few lines," the man—Glynn—confided to Will, then his eyes widened with abject horror.

Will suppressed a sigh.

Of course I did, Oliver spat. "How the fuck else would I get through this elitist heteronormative bullshit?"

Oh Emily’s here! Catherine exclaimed. "Lovely to meet you." She gave a dazzling, fake smile of farewell and wove in between groups of chattering people, until she reached a willowy blond woman with whom she fell into animated conversation.

"And we were going to find Jamie. Will put a hand on Ben’s back. Sorry," he added with an insincere smile and propelled Ben into the crowd.

Fuck, Ben breathed when they stopped on the far side of the room. Thanks. He gave a spasm of a smile. Don’t mention that to Jamie. Will held his eyes. I don’t want him upset.

A few yards away, listening solemnly to Sir Ian, James Henderson looked startlingly beautiful in a black evening suit, his light hair shining like gilt under the chandeliers.

Will watched him and wondered yet again how he could possibly have failed to notice James during his own first stint in the Met, when James had been a new PC and apparently fancied him. Some part still wondered what would have happened if he’d seen James then and got to know him. If they would have worked. If it would have felt more . . . even than himself and Tom.

Will had always held to the rational belief that everyone had multiple potential partners, any of whom could make them equally happy. And he’d clung to that belief through the past, seismic breakup with Tom—You’ll find someone else. Someone better. You’ll forget he exists.

But it hadn’t worked. Not for him.

The pull had been purely superficial at first—overwhelming attraction to Tom’s beauty and intelligence; the sexual electricity between them. A bit like Hansen at the start, when he thought of it, with her unshakable self-belief and her power.

But that was just . . . at first. Will had quickly succumbed to the relentless challenge Tom presented—his fanatical self-reliance, his intelligence, his courage and his prickly aloofness, his humor, his sexiness, his loyalty and instinct to kindness. His deep—always dangerous—hang-ups.

No one else had ever come close to Tom’s impact on Will, even though he’d spent two years never wanting to see Tom again as long as they lived. The knowledge of how deep Tom’s hold went, made Will feel helpless sometimes. Apprehensive.

I always forget you’re bi, Ben remarked. Then I see you schmoozing some woman, and it all. . . .

"I wasn’t schmoozing, Will said, outraged. I was being polite to a colleague."

Uh huh. You don’t even realize it. It’s almost okay, then you smile and it’s game over.

The hard vibration of Will’s phone in the pocket of his uniform tunic halted his indignant reply and his stomach began a Pavlovian flutter. Nerves and churning anticipation. Relief. But by the time he’d wrestled the phone out, the call had cut off, and the caller display showed Des Salt, Will’s DS.

Not Tom.

Ben peered at it and grimaced. You’re going to be called in. He sounded charmingly devastated.

Well, it’s me or Jamie, Will pointed out.

Ben didn’t miss a beat. Magnus has a fleet of cars outside. Pick any one.

Will laughed. You are so whipped.

They both looked automatically at James, still chatting to Sir Ian, one social equal to another.

Can’t argue, Ben said. His expression made Will feel oddly lonely, but he kept his smile in place.

You’ll get better reception by the window, Ben said. Magnus has some weird security thing that affects the signal. But don’t leave without saying goodbye.

The uniform made it easier for Will to cut a path through the crowd to one of the bare, multipaned windows lining the far side of the ballroom, each with wooden shutters folded to the side.

Will’s own uniformed reflection in the glass startled him—his skin ghostly against his dark hair; his hazel eyes, big black holes in his face.

He moved closer until the reflection vanished into the view outside. It had started to rain.

Down in the street, he could see the same huddle of press photographers near a black SUV, hoods up, fumbling weather protection onto their equipment, and the line of parked saloons. A couple of the paps noticed him framed in the window, and their cameras rose with hopeful instinct, then drooped again when they realized he was just a copper.

He looked down at his phone then glanced up again, caught by the echo of a sudden, definite movement.

A shaven-headed, stocky man had left the press group and was striding along the pavement until he reached a black limousine, parked several cars along. Medium height, Will cataloged automatically, early thirties IC6 . . . Middle Eastern or North African. He didn’t seem bothered by the rain.

It was only as he opened the driver’s door of the car though, that Will noticed an open window at the back, and a passenger peering out and up.

Another man, and he was looking at Will.

The shock of recognition was startling. Sleek, brushed back silver hair. Chiseled features. A mature face. As close to a consigliere as Joey Clarkson employed.

Charles fucking Priestly.

The right-hand man of a gangland boss monitoring a police party? Monitoring James’s engagement party?

Outrage fought apprehension.

Charles’s presence felt like a warning. A challenge.

The steady rain turned in the space of a second to a downpour, bouncing and dancing off the roof of the limousine. Will’s phone began to buzz in his hand, but his attention was locked on Charles’s expressionless face, as the car window slowly rose to conceal it, inch by inch. As if Will had only imagined he’d been there. But he could still feel those detached eyes on him, and he glared back blindly.

And in a flash of unwanted déjà vu, he was back outside a brutal murder scene ten months before, staring it out with the Godfather himself, Joey Clarkson, invisible behind the same blackened windows.

The phone’s persistent buzzing finally broke his concentration.

He raised it to his ear, but his attention remained fixed on the limousine as it slowly began to pull away onto the street.

Salt’s unmistakeable Northern Irish accent: Sorry Guv. We’re on.

2

"Where’s your car? An’ you wore that to the party?"

DS Des Salt looked and sounded utterly scandalized as Will stepped from the back of another black Mercedes.

Actually, Will said as he straightened up. I was the belle of the ball.

But Salt wasn’t listening. His eyes had bugged, fixed on the man who’d emerged from the other back door of the car.

To add to an epically shitty day, Sir Robin Dunn, the Deputy Commissioner, had decided to mimic his boss’s earlier egalitarian gesture and offer Will a lift to the crime scene, since he’d been leaving the party early too. So, with miserable inevitability, Will had been trapped again in a vehicle with the top brass.

Next to Sir Ian’s tall, handsome charisma, Sir Robin had the kind of faded, mousy features people easily forgot until he became their superior officer. But perhaps because he had so little star power, he was also less intimidating. He was smaller, quieter, more self-contained. Will would have found it easier to relax