some of my colleagues. Oneâs a real expert on buttons. Dâyou fancy dropping round to here in your lunch hour? Iâll stand you a sarnie in the Edwardian Tea Rooms.â
Lunch hour? Now that was a nice civilised concept. She looked at her watch. Didnât time fly when you were enjoying yourself! âSounds good. In about half an hour?â
Â
She was just leaving the building when she heard Grahamâs voice behind her. Turning, she stopped to wait for him.
He looked very tired, very grey. But his face lit up in an answering smile and he took the last four or five steps at a run. âAny news of your buttons?â
âIâm just on my way to find out. Stephen Abbott â heâs in charge of finds like mine â phoned me a few minutes ago. It concentrates the mind on the paperwork, taking a lunch break. How are you?â She hoped she didnât sound as concerned as she felt. To cover, she asked, âHow was your weekend? Did you get away from Birmingham?â
âFine. Yes, fine. This gathering tomorrow nightââ
âGaffer?â
âAh, you probably donât know. Thereâll be a note on everyoneâs desk by two. Rod Nevilleâs just heard heâs going to head up one of these MITs. Heâs inviting everyone to a jar or two after work.â
âThatâll be good,â she said, without emphasis. âWill you be going?â
He pulled a face. âOh, I donât know. Iâve really got such a lot onââ
âGraham: you should be there. You really should. Or people will say itâs sour grapes because you didnât get it.â OK, sergeant talking to DCI this wasnât. More friend to friend. Which they were. But it wasnât always a good idea to speak so bluntly.
He stared. âIt was always going to be just a sideways move for someone.â
âYou might know that. He might know that. But you know the smart money was on you.â
âSo whoever put it on lost it. Well, weâll see about tomorrow night,â he said at last. âI take it youâll be going?â He turned towards Colmore Row. âYou know, Neville thinks a great deal of you. As a police officer.â
Kate fell into step with him. Shoving her hands deep into her pockets â the wind was cold despite the bright sun â she grunted non-committally. It was interesting that Graham should need to qualify such an apparently innocent remark. She wouldnât mention â not to him, not to anyone â that she suspected Neville found her attractive. It was bad enough that being on the accelerated promotion scheme gave her a reputation as a Butterfly, a PC Curriculum Vitae, without giving anyone cause to suspect she might fancy sleeping her way to the top. Goodness knew there were enough rumours about her and Graham. And she couldnât, after that strange moment in Aunt Cassieâs room, deny the tension between the two of them. It might ebb and flow. But it was always there. Even when, maybe especially when, he was angry with her. And if his anger was unjustified, as it often was, what was the cause of it?
âAndâ â the sound of his voice made her jump â âas a woman. I rather think.â
She wouldnât bite. âYou know they call him Superintendent Smarm?â
He managed a laugh. âHeâs a good officer,â he conceded. âGood to work under.â
She might just risk it. âDonât you think, Gaffer, that that could have been better expressed?â
Chapter Eight
Stephen unlocked another door deep in the entrails of the museum, ushering her through into a vast but dingy corridor. He gestured. âI suppose if you go backstage anywhere â even somewhere as prestigious as Symphony Hall â you get the same difference between front of house and backstage areas.â
âLike in a stately homeââ
âThatâs right. Magnificent