The Stranger You Know • 39
I picked up a set of keys to one of the pool cars and found the bay where it sat. It was a navy Ford Focus that looked unloved, with mud around its back wheels and dust on the windscreen. DCI Burt stood back, writing something in her notebook, while Godley and Maitland got into the Mercedes. It took off up the ramp with a low, throaty rumble. The car was a high-end tank, indestructible and fast, and I’d been Godley’s passenger more than a few times, basking on the leather upholstery in climate-controlled comfort. I had very little prospect of ever sitting in that seat again, though. It was pool cars all the way, with their soft brakes and total lack of poke and breathy heaters that only worked on the highest setting. So, Maeve, how good does it feel to be right today? Burt snapped her notebook shut. “Right. Give me those keys. I don’t know why Charles Godley thinks I can’t drive myself. You can do the navigating.” She unlocked the car, flung herself into the driver’s seat and started adjusting mirrors, frowning with concentration. “I don’t know where we’re going,” I pointed out. “Tottenham. Green Lanes, really.” “It’s not an area I’m familiar with, and I really don’t mind driving.” She bounced up and down, trying to get her seat to slide forward. “Do you want me to be blunt? You were obviously out last night, you clearly don’t feel the best this morning, and I don’t want you driving me in that condition.” “I’m fine to drive.” “Legally. But your reaction times will be off. You’ll struggle to concentrate on the road as well as what I need to tell you about the case, since you missed the briefing.” A briefing I hadn’t known was going to happen. I opened my mouth to say so, then shut it again. I didn’t know Una Burt very well, but I did know she wasn’t the type to be moved by self-pity. I got in, wedging the coffee cup between my legs because the car didn’t have any cup-holders, unlike Godley’s. I just hoped DCI Burt wasn’t heavy on the brakes. “There’s the address.” She pushed the notebook at me, open at the correct page. “Carrington Road.” The sat nav was out of order, spilling wiring through cracks in the sides where someone had tried, and failed, to tape it together. I pulled out the A–Z, grateful for once for Derwent’s prejudice against modern technology. He liked to drive and drove too fast. I was capable of plotting routes
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