The Wire in the Blood. Val McDermid

because of commercial confidentiality, but I’ll be there in the car park, I promise. We’ll put you up for the night, then first thing in the morning, you do the screen test.’

      ‘But my mum’ll panic if I stay out all night and she doesn’t know where I am,’ she protested reluctantly.

      ‘You can phone her as soon as we get to the studio complex,’ he told her, his voice rich in reassurance. ‘Let’s face it, she probably wouldn’t let you take the screen test if she knew, would she? I bet she doesn’t think working in TV is a proper job, does she?’

      As usual, he’d calculated to perfection. Donna knew her ambitious mother wouldn’t want her to throw her university prospects away to be a game-show bimbo. Her worried look disappeared and she peered up at him from under her eyebrows. ‘I won’t say a word,’ she promised solemnly.

      ‘Good girl. I hope you mean that. All it takes is one wrong word and a whole project can crash. That costs money, and it costs people’s jobs too. You might say something in confidence to your best friend, but she’ll tell her sister, and her sister will tell her boyfriend, and the boyfriend will tell his best mate over a frame of snooker, and the best mate’s sister-in-law just happens to be a reporter. Or a rival TV company executive. And the show’s dead. And your big chance goes with it. Let me tell you something. At the start of your career, you only get one bite of the cherry. You screw up, and no one will ever hire you again. You have to have a lot of success under your belt before the TV bosses forgive a bit of failure.’ He leaned forward and rested a hand on her arm as he spoke, invading her space and making her feel the sexual thrill of his dangerous edge.

      ‘I understand,’ Donna said with all the intensity of a fourteen-year-old who thought she was really a grown-up and couldn’t understand why the adults wouldn’t admit her into their conspiracy. The promise of an entrée into that world was what made her so ready to swallow something as preposterous as his set-up.

      ‘I can rely on you?’

      She nodded. ‘I won’t let you down. Not with this or anything else.’ The sexual innuendo was unmistakable. She was probably still a virgin, he reckoned. Something about her avidity told him so. She was offering herself up to him, a vestal sacrifice.

      He leaned closer and kissed the soft, eager mouth that instantly opened under his primly closed lips. He drew back, smiling to soften her obvious disappointment. He always left them wanting more. It was the oldest showbiz cliché in the world. But it worked every time.

      Carol wiped up the remaining traces of chicken jalfrezi with the last chunk of nan bread and savoured the final mouthful. ‘That,’ she said reverently, ‘was to die for.’

      ‘There’s more,’ Maggie Brandon said, pushing the heavy casserole dish towards her.

      ‘I’d have to wear it,’ Carol groaned. ‘There’s no room inside.’

      ‘You can take some home with you,’ Maggie told her. ‘I know the kind of daft hours you’ll be working. Cooking’s the last thing you’ll have time for. When John was made up to DCI, I considered asking his Chief Constable if the family could move into the cells at Scargill Street since that seemed to be the only way his kids would ever get to see him.’

      John Brandon, Chief Constable of East Yorkshire Police, shook his head and said affectionately, ‘She’s a terrible liar, my wife. She only says these things to guilt-trip you into working so hard there’ll be nothing left for me to worry about in your whole division.’

      Maggie snorted. ‘As if! How do you think he ended up looking like that, eh?’

      Carol gave Brandon a shrewd look. It was a good question. If ever a man had been born with a graveyard face, it was Brandon. His countenance was all verticals, long and narrow; lines in his hollow cheeks, lines between his brows, aquiline nose, iron-grey hair straight as the grid line on a map. Tall and thin, with the beginnings of a stoop, all he needed was a scythe to audition for Death. She considered her options. It might be ‘John’ tonight, but on Monday morning it would be back to, ‘Mr Brandon, sir.’ Better not push her informal relationship with the boss too far. ‘And there was me thinking it was marriage,’ she said innocently.

      Maggie roared with laughter. ‘Diplomatic as well as quick, eh?’ she got out at last, reaching across to pat her husband’s shoulder. ‘You did well to get Carol to abandon the fleshpots of Bradfield for the back of beyond, my love.’

      ‘Speaking of which, how are you settling in?’ Carol asked.

      ‘Well, this is a police house,’ Maggie told her, waving a hand at the brilliant white walls and paintwork, a depressing contrast to the hand-marbled paintwork Carol remembered from their Bradfield dining room. ‘But it’ll have to do us. We’ve rented out the house in Bradfield, you know? John’s only got another five years till he has his thirty in, and we want to go back there. It’s where our roots are, where our friends are. And the kids will all be out of school by then, so it’s not like they’ll be uprooted again.’

      ‘What Maggie isn’t saying is that she feels a bit like a Victorian missionary among the Hottentots,’ Brandon said.

      ‘Well, you’ve got to admit, East Yorkshire’s a bit different from Bradfield. Plenty of scenery, but there’s not a decent theatre within half an hour’s drive of here. There seems to be only one bookshop on the whole patch that sells more than the bestsellers. And as for opera – you can forget it!’ Maggie protested, getting to her feet and gathering the empty plates.

      ‘Don’t you feel happier about the kids growing up away from the influence of the inner city? Out of the reaches of the drug lords?’ Carol asked.

      Maggie shook her head. ‘They’re so insular round here, Carol. Back in Bradfield, the kids had friends from all kinds of backgrounds – Asian, Chinese, Afro-Caribbean. Even one Vietnamese lad. Out here, you stick to your own. There’s nothing to do except hang around on street corners. Frankly, I’d take a chance on them having the sense to stay out of trouble in the inner city as a trade-off for all the opportunities they had in Bradfield. This country living is well over-rated.’ She marched through to the kitchen.

      ‘Sorry,’ Carol said. ‘Didn’t realize it was such a sore point.’

      Brandon shrugged. ‘You know Maggie. She likes to get it off her chest. Give it a few more months, she’ll be running the village, happy as a pig. The kids like it well enough. How about you? What’s the cottage like?’

      ‘I love it. The couple I bought it from did an immaculate restoration job.’

      ‘I’m surprised they were selling it, then.’

      ‘Divorce,’ Carol said succinctly.

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘I think they were both more upset about losing the cottage than the marriage. You and Maggie will have to come over for a meal.’

      ‘If you ever find the time to shop,’ Maggie said darkly, walking back in with a large cafetière.

      ‘Well, worst comes to worst, I’ll send Nelson out to bring us a rabbit back.’

      ‘He’s enjoying the opportunities for murder that living in the country offers?’ Maggie asked drily.

      ‘He thinks he’s died and gone to feline heaven. You might crave the inner city, but he’s turned into a country boy overnight.’

      Maggie poured coffee for John and Carol, then said, ‘I’m going to leave you pair to it, if you don’t mind. I know you’re dying to talk shop and I promised Karen I’d pick her up after the pictures in Seaford. There’s enough coffee there to keep you both awake till dawn, and if you feel peckish in a bit, there’s home-made cheesecake in the fridge. But Andy’s due back around ten, so you’d better help yourself before then. I swear that lad’s got worms. That or hollow legs.’ She swooped down on Brandon and gave him an affectionate