Free False Friends by Stephen Leather

spent the weekend in Hereford and was on his way back to London when his mobile rang and he took the cal using his hands-free. ‘Can you talk?’ asked Hargrove. He spoke with no introduction because he had no way of knowing if Shepherd was alone.
    ‘I’m driving, but yes, go ahead,’ said Shepherd. ‘Charlie told me back in May that you might be cal ing.’
    ‘The operation I’m working on has taken longer than I expected,’ said Hargrove. ‘It’s just about coming together now. Are you in London? Be handy to have a chat.’
    ‘I’m here most of the time at the moment, so whenever works for you is fine,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘Sooner rather than later,’ said Hargrove. ‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to swing by Broadway?’
    Broadway was where New Scotland Yard was based, just down the road from St James’s Park tube station.
    ‘I’d rather not,’ said Shepherd. ‘The job I’m on is local and I’m keeping a low profile.’
    ‘Where’s your base?’
    ‘Hampstead.’
    ‘Anywhere near the King Wil iam? A col eague told me that’s a good place for a meet.’
    ‘No problem. It’s just round the corner from my flat.’
    ‘We can catch up over a drink,’ said Hargrove. ‘How’s an hour from now for you?’
    ‘Traffic’s not great,’ said Shepherd, ‘but yeah, I should be able to make it.’
    Shepherd ended the cal . The traffic wasn’t as bad as he’d thought and he had more than enough time to find a resident’s parking space close to his flat and to grab a Jameson’s and soda and a corner table before Hargrove arrived.
    Hargrove seemed a bit heavier since Shepherd had last seen him and his overcoat was a little tighter round his midriff. As he walked into the pub he undid the buttons of his coat and revealed a dark-blue pinstriped suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie with light and dark blue stripes. He looked around, saw Shepherd at the table and waved. He ran a hand through his greying hair as he walked over, and when they shook hands his cuff edged out of his jacket sleeve revealing a gold cufflink in the shape of a cricket bat.
    ‘You’re looking wel ,’ said Hargrove.
    ‘You too,’ said Shepherd. He grinned over at his former boss. ‘You know this is the oldest gay bar in London?’
    ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Hargrove, looking around. There were no women in the pub, although that wasn’t especial y unusual for London. But the clientele was mainly under thirty, wel groomed and with a fashion sense that was definitely a cut above that found in the average London hostelry.
    Hargrove chuckled. ‘I see what you mean.’

    ‘It’s not cal ed the Wil ie for nothing,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s been an openly gay venue since the 1930s, back in the day when they sent you down for being gay. But they’re not prejudiced, they’l serve anyone. So what can I get you?’
    Hargrove rubbed his stomach. ‘I’ve had to give up the beer,’ he said. ‘Cutting back on the calories. Gin and slimline tonic wil be fine. Ice and a slice.’
    He took off his coat, draped it over the back of a chair and sat down. He was adjusting the creases of his trousers when Shepherd returned with his drink.
    ‘Stil running?’ asked Hargrove.
    ‘I’m on the Heath every day, pretty much.’
    ‘You stil doing that thing with a rucksack ful of bricks?’
    ‘Builds stamina,’ said Shepherd. He clinked his glass against Hargrove’s. ‘Anyway, good to see you.’
    ‘And you,’ said Hargrove. The two men drank. Hargrove smacked his lips and put down his glass. He patted his stomach again. ‘I’m going to have to start doing something.’
    ‘Running is good,’ said Shepherd. ‘With or without the bricks.’
    ‘It’s the wife that’s the problem,’ said Hargrove, stretching out his legs. ‘She’s been watching al those cooking shows. Loves Gordon Ramsay.
    Anyway, she started cooking herself and went on a few courses and I have to say she’s bril iant. She was always a good cook but