The Advent Killer by Alastair Gunn Page B

approached them. His smile was warm, and his brown eyes flicked between them alertly.
    ‘Mike, good to see you.’ Kirby-Jones’ double-handed shake might as well have been a hug. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’
    ‘My pleasure, Lawrence. Great to be back. Hey, Antonia.’
    Lawrence!?
    ‘Hi.’ She nodded as her stomach turned over, trying desperately to keep the dismay from showing on her face when she suddenly remembered how awful her hair looked.
    ‘Well, I must get back to Hendon,’ Kirby-Jones said. ‘Just wanted to say hello, but Hawkins can fill you in. We must play a round when the case is closed.’ He smiled again at Mike and strode off, leaving them in uncomfortable silence.
    Hawkins watched him go, wondering how the man always managed to make her feel insignificant. Usually his presence alone was enough; today, however, his exit had achieved the same thing.
    And she really didn’t have time to deal with ex-lovers, incensed or otherwise.
    ‘Well, then …’ she looked at Mike, removing the hand that had drifted up to her dishevelled hair, trying to think of something else to say.
    Mike studied her before he spoke again, in the melodic Philadelphia accent she’d always found so irresistible. ‘How’s it going?’
    ‘I’m … good.’
    ‘And Paul?’ There was no hint of sarcasm.
    ‘He’s fine.’
    ‘That’s great. You know I heard some rumour that you guys broke up?’
    ‘Oh.’ She didn’t know where to look. ‘We did.’
    ‘For real? Damn, Antonia, I’m sorry …’ He held up his hands. ‘Look, you want to get some coffee?’
    Hawkins nodded. Her only regret was when she realized he meant together.

11.
     
    ‘After you, ma’am.’
    Mike held the door of Café Noir for an elderly woman dressed head to foot in tweed before he followed Hawkins in.
    They were the first words either of them had spoken since she’d suggested the four-minute walk from Scotland Yard.
    There was a Starbucks on the corner, both nearer and less pretentious, but this place made reporters far easier to spot: the combination of discreet atmosphere and sound-absorbent décor attracted everyone from perjurers to mafia bosses. Not to mention higher-ranking cops.
    They were shown to an enclosed booth with green velvet curtains and no hint of Christmas decoration, where they were given leather-bound menus.
    ‘Just two strong coffees, thanks.’ Hawkins handed her menu straight back to their waiter, who looked more Greek than French.
    ‘Certainly.’ The man’s expression clouded for a second before he collected Mike’s menu, whirled and left. Obviously coffee-only tables weren’t big tippers.
    ‘You went brunette,’ Mike said without warning. ‘That’s fresh. Better, I mean.’
    ‘Er, thanks.’
He wanted to talk about hair?
    He grimaced. ‘That sounded a lot smoother in my head.’
    ‘It’s OK. I certainly wasn’t expecting compliments.’
    ‘You know what?’ He sighed. ‘I messed up, Toni – should’ve called. I just figured you and Paul deserved a chance.’
    She studied him. He appeared genuine enough; maybe it was best to get this out of the way.
    ‘Two coffees.’ The waiter broke their eye contact as he leaned across to set out serviettes.
    On the other hand, if Mike didn’t care enough to be even
token
angry, then why should she?
    She took the opportunity to dig in her bag for the investigation file. They’d have plenty of time to discuss their situation later, and not diving into a guaranteed argument now would give her time to think.
    The waiter made a fuss of placing their coffees, milk and sugar bowl just so, and checked they had everything they required. His face creased again before he left. Perhaps it was a tic.
    She handed Mike the folder. ‘So how much has the DCS told you?’
    He paused before reaching for the file. ‘I got highlights, but I saw the news, too. Those guys are all over this.’
    ‘Yep, they know everything except the MOs, and some finer details