He looked back down at his phone and the glowing red button marked DIAL. ‘I’m going to phone an old friend.’

Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Priest sat back in an extraordinarily uncomfortable office chair as best he could and watched Detective Chief Inspector Tiff Rowlinson read through his statement. It was less than ten degrees outside but Rowlinson’s windowless space situated in the middle of the eighth floor of Holborn Police Station was curiously warm. Priest had removed his jacket but hadn’t ruled out the possibility that Tiff kept the temperature deliberately high to make his guests feel prickly. So far, Rowlinson hadn’t said anything but the wry smile spread across his face suggested that he found great amusement with Priest’s latest predicament.

Finally, he put the statement down and stared across at him.

‘I leave you alone for five minutes and now look what you’ve got yourself into.’

Priest clicked his tongue. ‘How long have you been on secondment here?’

Rowlinson had been part of the South Wales Police Major Crime Unit before he had been brought across to fill in while the Met reshuffled its budget-struck pack, again. They had previously worked together when Priest was a detective inspector (Rowlinson had started his career in London at a similar time to Priest, although he was a few years older). Indeed, Rowlinson represented about the only friend Priest had retained after he had left the police and the pair had found themselves forged together again last year when investigating a series of gruesome murders that turned out to be the work of a secret neo-Nazi cult known as the House of Mayfly. It was a case that had scarred them both, in different ways.

‘A few weeks. Part of the Met’s efforts to learn from other forces and possibly also because half the staff here are off with some strange sickness bug.’

‘Or stress,’ Priest suggested.

‘Yes, and that.’ Rowlinson cupped his hands behind his head and leant back in his chair. ‘I interviewed your new friend Elinor Fox earlier, by the way. She’s a looker, if ever I saw one.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Are you still single, Priest?’

‘Tiff – you know it would never have worked out between us,’ Priest said. He wasn’t in the mood for humour and Rowlinson’s enjoyment of the situation was irritating. Rowlinson laughed – he had a good-natured laugh, Priest considered. Not like his own, which was more like an old car stalling.

‘Her story holds up,’ Rowlinson commented. ‘The car’s parked outside her house in Blackheath. She keeps the keys on the side in the kitchen. It’s normally locked but occasionally she forgets. She left home at seven and parked her car around the corner from the High Court. What puzzles me is how she knew to find you on Bristol Road.’