Stone Cold Red Hot - [46]

“Hiya, Stuart. How ya doing?” Maybe one of her lonely-hearts dates. She’d been on plenty. That’s how she’d met Desmond. What would she tell him about her reunion with Ben? Anything?

Stuart glanced my way a few times. He was attractive but I observed him dispassionately. I’d got out of the habit of clocking the talent, or of acting on it. Pretty men were like beautiful gardens; something I noted as I walked on by.

Well, they were usually.

“This is Sal,” Diane said, “Stuart Bowker.”

He gave me a smile and asked me a question, looking intently at me as though I was the most interesting thing in the universe. I can’t remember what it was or how I replied, I was too mortified trying to control the blush that was colour-washing my whole body. So humiliating.

He had good teeth, even, with a slight gap in the middle, a large mouth. I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were blue or brown, a mix perhaps. His hair was grey, cut extremely short. He laughed at something I said. Or maybe he was laughing at me. At last he turned back to Diane. I tried to compose myself.

“Catch you later,” he said.

I felt sick. As he moved away the volume of noise from the punters at the bar seemed to mushroom. Another crowd came in, the girls wore what passed for underwear in my day and the boys looked ready for the ski slopes, all thick fleeces and puffer jackets. They clustered by our table. We were hemmed in.

“So, what do you think?” Diane asked.

“I prefer our usual. It’s too loud and it’s hardly relaxing. I’m ready for off.”

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“What?”

“Stuart. What do you think of Stuart.”

So that was it. She’d lured me here to weigh up a new conquest of hers – or someone she’d got her eye on.

“Don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate?” I pulled my jacket on.

“Not me. You.”

It was my turn to glare. “Diane! What do you think you were…” raising my voice above the racket made me cough as the smoke caught in my throat.

I fought my way out and she followed. We went round to the car-park where our bikes were.

“What did you tell him?” I was all outrage.

“Nothing, give me some credit. But if you’re interested I can always invite him to something.”

“I don’t need a matchmaker. I’m not looking for a match. I’m perfectly happy as I am. Just because you want…”

“Go on,” she said dangerously.

“I’m not you,” I pointed out. “You want a relationship, you’ve done the ads, you’ve met Desmond. That’s great but don’t assume I want the same.”

“You don’t want a relationship? Not ever?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“They don’t fall from the skies you know, you have to go looking. You fancied him, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I muttered, trying to get my key in the bike lock.

“He’s a lovely man,” she said.

“So how come he’s available then?”

“Divorced.”

“Oh,” I groaned.

“And over it,” she insisted. “Good relationship with his ex. They share the kids, all very amicable.”

He had children.

I got the lock sorted out and put my helmet on.

“Think about it,” she said.

He might not fancy me, though.

“Anyway, if he’s such a lovely man, what’s he doing in a place like this? It wasn’t just coincidence. Did you tell him to come?” I got all agitated again.

She laughed. “No. There was a pretty good chance he’d be here, anyway. He’s the boss. This is his place.”

Later I was still a bit peeved that Diane had engineered the meeting without asking me about it first but there was also a positive side to it. My mind got sidetracked into weaving fantasies about Stuart Bowker and that left me no room to dwell on the fate of Jennifer Pickering, my row with Ray or the plight of the Ibrahim family.

Bedtime was more fun than usual.

Chapter seventeen

Next morning there was a message from Roger on the ansaphone at the office. He was eager to know what I’d found out. I wasn’t ready to give him a full report yet. I wanted to talk again to Mrs Clerkenwell. I needed to try and fix as much as I could about the last known movements of Jennifer and something was niggling at me. I was sure there was some significance behind the incident when Jennifer had turned and run from Frances’s. Once I had checked that out I would tackle Mrs Pickering and see if she had anything to say that would disprove my theory. Then I’d go to Roger.

In the meantime the least I could do was give him the bald facts about my research. No baby, no marriage, no death and tell him I was making a few final enquiries to verify everything before I gave him my complete report.

When he answered the phone I proceeded to flatten the hope in his voice.

“Isn’t there anything else you can try?”

“No. I don’t think so. I’m sorry,” I concluded. “Can we meet next Monday perhaps, lunchtime, say twelve-thirty? That’ll give me time to write up all the details for you.”

“So it’s just a dead-end?” He asked.

I closed my eyes at the irony. “It looks that way.”

Mandy Bellows was off sick. When I asked if anyone was covering her work-load I got laughed at. “She should be in next week though.” And until she was, nothing was going to move forward for the Ibrahims.

Mr Poole was dismayed when I called him. “I’m going to have a word with the councillor about this. One person’s off and the whole thing grinds to a stand-still.”