a half-smile, a million miles away from her earlier expression.
âI thought it might fit in with the Jagger profile.â
He acceded to the notion with a slight shrug and nod of the head. There was a knock on the door and a barmaid came in bearing a heavy tray with two plates on it, both stacked with wonderful smelling food. She placed it on the table and Jagger almost swooned at the aroma from the grilled chicken and potatoes. The girl bobbed back out to the corridor and returned instantly with two bottles of red wine and two glasses. Then she left.
âThe food I need; the wine might have to be avoided.â
âUnderstandable. I thought it might ease the meal down.â
âWhilst calcifying my liver, or whatever it does.â
âUp to you.â She smiled beguilingly and Jagger thought how completely different she looked out of uniform. Quite stunning, actually.
âSo, Detective Chief Superintendent Makin of Scotland Yard,â Jagger said in a mock Queenâs-English, upper-crust way, âcan we dispense with the formalities and can I tell Frank Jagger to go to hell for a while?â
âWell, Detective Chief Inspector Christie of the numbty constabulary, Hickshire, I think that might well be in order.â
And with that, Henry Christie, a DCI from Lancashire Constabulary, divested the mantle of Frank Jagger, his alter ego, his nom de plume, his legend, someone he had pretended to be for the last three weeks.
With a large sigh of relief he became himself again, at least for a short while, and said, âIn that case itâd be rude not to give the wine a try, wouldnât it?â
Three
D rinking the wine had been a mistake, even if it did ease the meal down. Problem was, one bottle became two and then, despite his best intentions, Henry drank too much and embarrassed himself, although on reflection he might have been more inclined to use the word âhumiliatedâ rather than embarrassed.
It was just fortunate that the debrief was done over the first bottle, before the alcohol had any chance to skew his recollections.
âSo how dâyou think it went?â Andrea Makin asked, eyeing Henry across the rim of her wine glass.
âYou can only go so far with it,â he answered, âotherwise suspicions get aroused.â He looked into her eyes, thinking â inappropriately, as usual â that suspicions might not be the only thing to get aroused tonight.
âYeah, I know. Itâs a delicate path to tread.â
âHaving said that, I think he pretty much took the bait ⦠weâll just have to wait and see, I guess.â
âYou think he was interested, then?â
âHe wanted my phone number ⦠letâs just hope he doesnât want a date.â Henry forked a tender chunk of chicken into his mouth and chewed it pleasurably. âHeâll have a nibble,â he said, and immediately regretted the possible double entendre as Andreaâs eyes glazed over, the corners of her mouth twisted upwards and then she turned her head away at a coy angle, blushing. And Detective Chief Inspector Henry Christie wondered how the hell heâd managed to get himself into such a predicament: somewhere between a deadly, high-class criminal and a sultry, sexy woman detective whose only goal in life seemed to be the capture of that criminal, and maybe Henry Christie on the side. A bit like a salad.
Four weeks earlier, Henry Christie had been sitting at his desk in his office set in one corner of the larger office housing the Headquarters Special Projects Team. He was shell-shocked and staring into space.
He was in that frozen state of mind in which he often found himself in the blurred but hurly-burly aftermath of the attempt to assassinate the American State Secretary on her official visit to Blackburn, Lancashire, some nine months previously. It had been an attempt that Henry had had a hand in thwarting â but at what cost? he