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“No,” she said. “I don’t want a personal friend in Jesus.” I showed her my warrant card. “But have you let the Metropolitan Police into your heart?” I asked.
When Nightingale was training me he said that if you’re not dead in the first instance, then your chances of survival are much improved. “By how much?” I’d asked. “That depends,” said Nightingale. “On what?” “On what happens next,” he said.
Judging by the roar of the straight-six engine and the siren, he’d been proceeding at an unsafe speed in a built-up area.
I hoped they weren’t carrying firearms in my city—otherwise we’d have to have words. Some of which would be about having the right to remain silent.
She had wide-spaced brown eyes behind archaic half-moon reading glasses and a narrow thin-lipped mouth. Even without the cardigan or knowing she was an associate of Stephen’s, I would have pegged her as a librarian. Something about the cheerfully suspicious way she regarded me. As if wondering if I was going to start talking loudly or fold over a page corner to mark my place.
He’d obviously wanted to tell someone about it for a long time and I was a convenient ear. I get that a lot. Stephanopoulos calls it my secret weapon. “It’s that vacant expression,” she’d said. “People just want to fill the empty void.”
Stephen gave me a sideways glance and I realized that they planned to double-cross me. That was fine, since I was planning to double-cross them—it was just a question of who got their betrayal in first.
asking a stupid question often gets you the most information.
It was the worst kind of police aggro you could think of short of facing down a street full of Millwall supporters after a disappointing showing at the Den.
