Branson gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I don’t know how he’s got to where he is. His entire career, he just seems to have failed upwards. Where does he go next – Chief Constable or Commissioner of the Met?’

Jail, hopefully, Grace thought, but did not say. Other than to Cleo, he’d not breathed a word about the evidence he had against the ACC. Maybe this would be the last time Pewe would mess things up for him, he hoped. But he was getting increasingly concerned that no action, as yet, had happened against the man, and he was starting to have doubts. Had he made a big mistake, trusting the word of a disgraced former officer, no matter that they had once been friends? Had he been stupid to ignore Cleo’s warning that this could all backfire on him? Professional Standards normally acted swiftly to suspend an officer if there was any whiff of suspicion – but now eight days had gone by since he had given the information to Alison Vosper. Although, of course, they would need to secure the evidence before taking any action.

Could he have made the biggest mistake of his career?

‘Still with us?’ Branson asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Grace smiled. ‘At the moment, yes.’

98

Monday 9 September

Rebecca Watkins and Niall Paternoster sat, side by side, on a curved banquette in a corner booth of the rammed Green Dragon on Croydon High Street. Rebecca had in front of her a half-eaten plate of prawn salad and Niall a beef-and-mushroom pie. He raised his pint glass, which he had nearly drained, and clinked her glass of white wine. ‘To the future!’

‘To our future,’ she corrected.

‘To our future!’

They clinked glasses again and locked eyes. Niall’s right leg pressed tightly against her left. They were so absorbed in each other that neither of them noticed the lean woman with long hair, wearing ripped jeans and a lightweight jacket, who was standing at the bar, drinking a lime and soda and picking at a sandwich, who kept glancing in their direction and then making notes in what looked like her diary.

‘How’s your week looking?’ Rebecca asked.

‘Pretty dull – so long as I’m not rearrested for my beloved wife’s non-murder. Otherwise I’m free all week.’ He gave her a cheeky look. ‘Do you have something in mind?’

Her hand was sliding provocatively down between his legs and pressing against his crotch. ‘Hmmn, maybe,’ she said, nudging up closer to him. ‘I have the thing I’m holding in my hand very much in my mind.’

After a quick glance around, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘And I have you very much in my mind.’

She squeezed him a little harder and he gasped. ‘We have our annual sales conference this week, at the Grand in Eastbourne. Hubby’s not coming, of course, he’s away. I have to make a presentation on Thursday afternoon, then put in an appearance at the dinner – but I thought, if you’re up for it, we could have ourselves a cosy rendezvous late night after I’ve escaped.’