Fic: The Man Who Never Smiled (1/5)
He would have preferred the flavor of a local pub, but he doesn’t want to chance it. An Englishman wandering about Belfast, not knowing the lie of the land or the neighborhood he was in, still doesn’t sit well with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Things had been quiet in Northern Ireland since September 11, 2001. Those IRA bastards were pros at playing the public opinion card, and they were savvy enough to realize public sentiment would be against them if they pulled anything. The powers-that-be at the APO-ACPO may have felt secure enough to host a policing conference here, but recent rumblings indicated that the beast was only slumbering, not dead. So, after suffering through the obligatory conference-sponsored dinner, checking in with his team in London, and popping up to his room for a quick shower, Greg grudgingly decides to make do with the hotel bar.
He wanders in and pauses just inside the door, feeling decidedly out of place in this nouveau industrial décor of black and silver and red plush accents. He scans for a familiar face at the bar and among those seated at low tables in intimate groups of threes and fours, but none of his mates from the Met are about. He half-heartedly assesses his chances of finding some female companionship for the night and thinks fuck-all of his odds. Policing and, even more so, policing conferences are still primarily male domains. Besides, he hasn’t had the wherewithal to pick up a bird for a one-nighter in ages. Greg Lestrade is in the midst of a record-setting Serengeti dry season that is nobody’s fault but his own. He sighs, and looks for an empty seat at the bar.
He spots one of the speakers from the afternoon session, a Swede whose name now completely escapes him. Karl someone-or-other, perhaps. He does remember the presentation, though - Community Policing among Diaspora Communities in Sweden. It was one of the few he had been genuinely interested in attending. Greg was no stranger to the fatal sparks that the flint of Western mores striking the tinder of traditional cultures and radical ideologies could ignite - he and his team were the first investigators on scene at King’s Cross on 7/7. He tried keeping abreast of what other police organizations were doing on that front; best to learn from other people’s mistakes whenever possible - it saved you from having to make them yourself.
For the most part, Greg thought the Swede’s talk was spot on. The man seemed to be motivated by a strong sense of social justice, tempered by an equally strong grasp of operational realities and real-world constraints, which Greg appreciated. He had thought about introducing himself afterwards, but despised the whole queuing-up-to-glad-hand-the-speaker routine. Instead he’d just kept to himself and slipped quietly out of the room in search of a decent cup of coffee and the next talk.
The Swede is alone now, staring into the depths of his whiskey glass, an empty bar stool beside him. He looks like he’s used to drinking alone, but Greg’s in the mood for some company. He approaches undeterred, and the Swede looks up. With a slight cock of his head he indicates the empty seat and the Swede nods. As he slides onto the bar stool, and before the Swede can withdraw his attention fully, Greg sticks out his hand.
“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, London Metropolitan Police.” he says. They shake hands.
“Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector. Kurt Wallander, Ystad Police.”
“Please, call me Greg,” he offers, smiling
“Of course. And…Kurt,” the Swede replies.
Greg flags down the barman and orders himself a pint of Guinness.
“Care for another?”
Kurt nods. “Sure, thanks.”
The barman serves them up and Greg lifts his glass.
“Cheers,” he says, and takes a swig.
Kurt politely tips his glass in response. “Are you here for the conference?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Greg responds. “Christ, conferences are boring, aren’t they? Talking heads droning on and on over endless PowerPoint bullets. I wouldn’t bother with them at all, but it’s the closest thing I can get to a holiday these days.”
“Holiday?” Kurt asks, feigning incomprehension. “I’m sorry, what is that?”
Greg laughs. “It’s that thing where you don’t work fourteen hours a day for ten days straight and you go somewhere warm and have a lie down near a large body of water or a pool or something. Personally, I think it’s a myth.”
“Hmm,” Kurt intones his agreement and angles his body towards Greg, inviting further conversation.
“I caught your presentation earlier this afternoon,” Greg says, following immediately with, “It wasn’t boring.”
Kurt shoots him a sidelong look and turns back to his drink.
“No, really,” Greg continues, feeling a bit chagrined. “I thought the bits about controlling information flow to the media were useful. I even took notes! And,” he adds, grinning, “at least you didn’t use bloody PowerPoint.”
“High praise, indeed. Thanks,” Kurt replies. He leans back in his chair and turns toward Greg again, apparently mollified.
Despite this stumbling start, they fall into an amiable conversation. Kurt’s willingness to talk surprises Greg; he seemed quite taciturn at first blush. But perhaps he’s as glad to have the company and a willing ear as Greg is. They hit an easy rhythm, trading war stories back and forth as old coppers do. Greg reaches back to his days as a Sergeant in the late 1990’s, relating the Met’s attempt to transition from its old-school, paramilitary law enforcement mentality to a focus on community engagement. He laughs recalling how the uniformed patrols would grumble about actually having to knock on doors and talk to people.
“It was a real slog, that, but I can see the difference it’s made now,” Greg says. “Even if the media and the public give us fuck-all credit for it.”
Kurt nods in understanding and signals to the barman for another round. When he picks up the narrative, he remains grounded in the more immediate past, revealing additional pieces of the robbery-turned-murder case he had mentioned in his presentation that afternoon. His English is impeccable under its thick Scandinavian accent, but he speaks so quietly that Greg has a difficult time catching it all, and the grating and too-loud pop music blaring from the speakers at the other end of the bar isn’t helping, either. Greg scoots his seat closer in an effort to hear better, leaning in until their shoulders are nearly touching.
In the companionable lulls of their talk, Greg studies his new acquaintance. Kurt’s short-cropped hair is more grey than blond, especially at the temples. He has an exceptionally pleasant and open face, despite the fact that Greg has yet to see him really smile. His eyes sometimes soften with amusement at Greg’s quips, but the expression never quite seems to reach his lips, which are set in a hard, thin line. Perpetual bags and dark circles accentuate his tired eyes, byproducts of the job as Greg knows only too well himself. He had assumed when he first saw him that Kurt was about his own age, but up close the man seems far older and world-weary in a way that is peculiar to coppers of a certain ilk, the ones that carry it all with them.
They’ve been talking for over an hour when Kurt takes a look at his watch. He finishes his drink and makes as if to leave.
“Well, I think I’m done for the night,” he says.
Greg glances at his own watch - barely half nine. Still too early to turn in for the night, and he’s not keen on spending the remaining hours of the evening alone in his room. But the thought of sitting by himself in this faux-chrome nightmare of a bar is even less appealing, so he decides to go as well. He digs in his jacket pocket for one of his business cards and hands it to Kurt.
“Yeah, it was good talking with you. Maybe I’ll see you about tomorrow?” Greg asks.
Kurt nods, fishes out a card from his own wallet, and hands it to Greg, thus completing the age-old conference ritual. “Yes, probably. I’m here until Thursday.”
Greg downs the last of his pint and they leave the bar together. As they walk across the lobby towards the lifts they pass a crowd of fellow conference-goers in casual business wear and purple conference tags heading to the bar. They enter the lift alone and Greg’s hand hovers in front of the numbered buttons.
“What floor?” he asks.
“Seven, please.”
Greg pushes seven and the doors close. His own room is on the fourth floor. He’s not sure why exactly, but he doesn’t bother pushing the button for it. They ride silently up together, and he follows Kurt out when the doors open.
Kurt walks down the thickly carpeted corridor with Greg half a pace behind. He turns right and Greg follows. There’s a flutter in Greg’s chest that he’s trying to ignore, and it grows stronger the farther they get from the lifts. Kurt slows his pace and then stops in front of room 718.
“Well, this is me,” Kurt says and gestures vaguely towards the door.
“Right, right,” Greg replies, nodding his head. “Should probably say goodnight, then.”
“It was good meeting you.” Kurt extends a hand to him and Greg gives it a firm, two pump shake.
“Right, likewise. Goodnight, then.”
Kurt walks in and closes the door. Greg remains standing in the corridor for a moment with his hands in his trouser pockets, staring at the door and grinding his teeth. When he makes his way back to the bank of lifts, he feels anxious and annoyed with himself for no reason that he can name.
***
The next day, Greg sees Kurt talking with one of the conference organizers in the foyer near the registration tables. He keeps his eyes on the man until Kurt makes eye contact with him, and they acknowledge each other with a friendly nod. The chimes sound, indicating the start of the first sessions, and Greg loses him in the sudden press of people. After that, he finds himself trying to catch sight of Kurt again each time he walks into a session break-out room, or out into the foyer between sessions, or during the coffee breaks. By the time he enters the main ballroom for lunch, he’s almost decided to hunt Kurt down and invite himself to the man’s table, when he feels a tug on his elbow.
“Oi, Lestrade. Looking for some company?” He turns around, and there’s a stout, red-faced D.I. beaming at him - Ron Harney from the Met’s Intelligence Bureau. Nice enough bloke, if a bit crass at times, Lestrade recalls.
“Yeah, I was, uh, looking for somebody, but he doesn’t seem to be here.”
“Well come on then, old boy. Sit with us.”
Greg accepts, and spends lunch with Harney and a few others from the IB. They’re a decent lot, and Greg winds up talking and laughing with them for the hour, though he could have done without Harney’s fondness for hooker jokes and his misapprehension that the word ‘tits’ is funny enough to be a punch line all on its own.
By the beginning of the first session of the afternoon, Greg is thoroughly sick of Harney, who has attached himself to Greg’s side, seemingly intent on following him to every session for the rest of the afternoon. By the beginning of the second session, Greg is thoroughly sick of Harney, every bloody boring speaker, and the whole damn conference. By the beginning of the final session, Greg is planning his escape.
The session finally ends at four. When Harney excuses himself to use the toilet, Greg seizes the opportunity to get lost. He hurries up to his room and grabs his coat. Once he’s back downstairs in the lobby, he approaches the concierge.
“Any chance there’s somewhere nearby I could find a good bottle of whiskey?”
“Yes sir, there’s a wine and spirits shop just up the street a ways. Out the door and to the left, can’t miss it.”
He thanks the concierge and exits the hotel. Once outside, he buttons his coat up against the blustery March wind and sets off. Within five minutes he’s inside the shop, perusing their rather impressive selection of blended and single malt whiskeys. The Irish do love their drink, he thinks, God bless them for that. He hadn’t paid attention to what the barman had poured for Kurt the night before, so he decides to indulge his own tastes. He selects a £74 bottle of 18-year old Macallan Sherry Oak. It’s a bit extravagant, especially if he winds up drinking it alone since he won’t be able to take what’s left on the flight home. It would make one wicked tip for the cleaning crew. Ah, what the hell, he thinks and hands the cashier his card.
He heads directly back to the hotel and up to his room where he sets the bottle on a small table next to the window, takes off his coat, jacket and shoes, and hops onto the bed. After flipping around the channels for a few minutes he finally settles on a local news program, though he has difficulty focusing on it. Within a quarter of an hour or so he gives it up and opts for a hot shower instead. By the time he’s finished primping and dressing, it’s about half five. He heads downstairs to see about dinner.
There are two restaurants in the hotel, and the steak house wins out easily over the Asian fusion joint with the pretentiously un-pronounceable name. Within seconds of Greg entering the restaurant, Harney appears at his side again, seemingly from nowhere.
“There you are, Lestrade! I thought I’d lost you for good. Have a seat with me and Crenshaw, will you?” Harney says and claps him on the back.
“Sure, of course,” Greg replies, forcing a smile and thinking, Christ, if I didn’t know better I’d think he was stalking me. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, turning to Harney’s companion and offering his hand. “Greg Lestrade.”
“No, don’t think we have, though I’ve certainly heard of you. Miles Crenshaw, Protection Command.”
They’re soon seated and looking over their menus. Greg orders the rib-eye and a pint of Smithwick’s. When the waiter leaves, Greg scans the dining room and sees Kurt sitting a few tables away. He’s with two other men and a woman - a modestly attractive brunette. He wonders if she’s attached to one of the other blokes at the table, but before he can make any observations in support of that theory or otherwise, Crenshaw’s asking him about the damn suicide murders from January. Greg tells him the mad cabbie’s tale, glossing over the bits about Sherlock Holmes as much as he can, until their food arrives.
He does his best to remain engaged throughout dinner, politely nodding and responding to Harney and Crenshaw as they gab about work and football, but he’s distracted. Each time he glances over to Kurt’s table he sees the man deep in conversation with his companions, seemingly oblivious to his presence. He’s inexplicably irritated by this, but he tamps the feeling down and turns his attention back to Crenshaw’s inane story about rescuing a Saudi diplomat’s son from a knife-wielding prostitute. By the time they finish their meal Greg is more than ready to leave, so when Harney insists on ordering a currant tart for afters, his irritation only deepens. He orders a coffee and tries to muster his patience with little success.
Harney finishes up his tart and they settle the bill. Greg looks over to Kurt’s table once more and sees that they’re still on their coffee. He briefly considers going over to say hello, but decides against intruding. Instead, he follows Harney and Crenshaw out of the restaurant. Before he can think of a delicate way to extricate himself from them, Harney’s inviting him for a drink.
“Sorry, no. I’m a bit knackered - didn’t sleep well last night,” Greg replies.
“Oh, come on, Lestrade,” Harney’s needles him. “How often do you get to go out with the boys without the wife bitching at you for it?”
“Really, no,” Lestrade says, and he can hear the annoyance leaking into his voice now. He tries to moderate it when he adds, “I’m really just going to turn in early.”
Harney relents. “Suit yourself,” he replies with a shrug, and heads off to the bar with Crenshaw.
Once he’s safely away and back in his room, Greg sinks down into one of the striped upholstered chairs next to the table and stares at the bottle of Macallan in its blue box. He considers breaking open the bottle himself, but that would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it? In spite of his having had dinner companions tonight, Greg would put money on Kurt winding up alone at the bar again…or alone in his room. And really, he thinks, what’s the point of the two of us being alone in different places when we could be alone together? For fuck’s sake, I’m not even making any sense. He sighs heavily and passes a hand over his eyes.
It’s not, after all, such a difficult decision for Greg to make. He doesn’t want to be alone, and he certainly doesn’t want to go to that wretched bar again. He couldn’t, anyway, since he blew off Harney’s invite. He goes to the closet and rummages in the pocket of the jacket he wore last night. He takes out Kurt’s card and looks at it for a moment. It’s a bit worn and tattered about the edges, not unlike the man himself. He punches the number into his mobile and selects SMS Text from the menu.
Picked up a bottle of single malt. You game? - Greg Lestrade
****
He wanders in and pauses just inside the door, feeling decidedly out of place in this nouveau industrial décor of black and silver and red plush accents. He scans for a familiar face at the bar and among those seated at low tables in intimate groups of threes and fours, but none of his mates from the Met are about. He half-heartedly assesses his chances of finding some female companionship for the night and thinks fuck-all of his odds. Policing and, even more so, policing conferences are still primarily male domains. Besides, he hasn’t had the wherewithal to pick up a bird for a one-nighter in ages. Greg Lestrade is in the midst of a record-setting Serengeti dry season that is nobody’s fault but his own. He sighs, and looks for an empty seat at the bar.
He spots one of the speakers from the afternoon session, a Swede whose name now completely escapes him. Karl someone-or-other, perhaps. He does remember the presentation, though - Community Policing among Diaspora Communities in Sweden. It was one of the few he had been genuinely interested in attending. Greg was no stranger to the fatal sparks that the flint of Western mores striking the tinder of traditional cultures and radical ideologies could ignite - he and his team were the first investigators on scene at King’s Cross on 7/7. He tried keeping abreast of what other police organizations were doing on that front; best to learn from other people’s mistakes whenever possible - it saved you from having to make them yourself.
For the most part, Greg thought the Swede’s talk was spot on. The man seemed to be motivated by a strong sense of social justice, tempered by an equally strong grasp of operational realities and real-world constraints, which Greg appreciated. He had thought about introducing himself afterwards, but despised the whole queuing-up-to-glad-hand-the-speaker routine. Instead he’d just kept to himself and slipped quietly out of the room in search of a decent cup of coffee and the next talk.
The Swede is alone now, staring into the depths of his whiskey glass, an empty bar stool beside him. He looks like he’s used to drinking alone, but Greg’s in the mood for some company. He approaches undeterred, and the Swede looks up. With a slight cock of his head he indicates the empty seat and the Swede nods. As he slides onto the bar stool, and before the Swede can withdraw his attention fully, Greg sticks out his hand.
“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, London Metropolitan Police.” he says. They shake hands.
“Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector. Kurt Wallander, Ystad Police.”
“Please, call me Greg,” he offers, smiling
“Of course. And…Kurt,” the Swede replies.
Greg flags down the barman and orders himself a pint of Guinness.
“Care for another?”
Kurt nods. “Sure, thanks.”
The barman serves them up and Greg lifts his glass.
“Cheers,” he says, and takes a swig.
Kurt politely tips his glass in response. “Are you here for the conference?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Greg responds. “Christ, conferences are boring, aren’t they? Talking heads droning on and on over endless PowerPoint bullets. I wouldn’t bother with them at all, but it’s the closest thing I can get to a holiday these days.”
“Holiday?” Kurt asks, feigning incomprehension. “I’m sorry, what is that?”
Greg laughs. “It’s that thing where you don’t work fourteen hours a day for ten days straight and you go somewhere warm and have a lie down near a large body of water or a pool or something. Personally, I think it’s a myth.”
“Hmm,” Kurt intones his agreement and angles his body towards Greg, inviting further conversation.
“I caught your presentation earlier this afternoon,” Greg says, following immediately with, “It wasn’t boring.”
Kurt shoots him a sidelong look and turns back to his drink.
“No, really,” Greg continues, feeling a bit chagrined. “I thought the bits about controlling information flow to the media were useful. I even took notes! And,” he adds, grinning, “at least you didn’t use bloody PowerPoint.”
“High praise, indeed. Thanks,” Kurt replies. He leans back in his chair and turns toward Greg again, apparently mollified.
Despite this stumbling start, they fall into an amiable conversation. Kurt’s willingness to talk surprises Greg; he seemed quite taciturn at first blush. But perhaps he’s as glad to have the company and a willing ear as Greg is. They hit an easy rhythm, trading war stories back and forth as old coppers do. Greg reaches back to his days as a Sergeant in the late 1990’s, relating the Met’s attempt to transition from its old-school, paramilitary law enforcement mentality to a focus on community engagement. He laughs recalling how the uniformed patrols would grumble about actually having to knock on doors and talk to people.
“It was a real slog, that, but I can see the difference it’s made now,” Greg says. “Even if the media and the public give us fuck-all credit for it.”
Kurt nods in understanding and signals to the barman for another round. When he picks up the narrative, he remains grounded in the more immediate past, revealing additional pieces of the robbery-turned-murder case he had mentioned in his presentation that afternoon. His English is impeccable under its thick Scandinavian accent, but he speaks so quietly that Greg has a difficult time catching it all, and the grating and too-loud pop music blaring from the speakers at the other end of the bar isn’t helping, either. Greg scoots his seat closer in an effort to hear better, leaning in until their shoulders are nearly touching.
In the companionable lulls of their talk, Greg studies his new acquaintance. Kurt’s short-cropped hair is more grey than blond, especially at the temples. He has an exceptionally pleasant and open face, despite the fact that Greg has yet to see him really smile. His eyes sometimes soften with amusement at Greg’s quips, but the expression never quite seems to reach his lips, which are set in a hard, thin line. Perpetual bags and dark circles accentuate his tired eyes, byproducts of the job as Greg knows only too well himself. He had assumed when he first saw him that Kurt was about his own age, but up close the man seems far older and world-weary in a way that is peculiar to coppers of a certain ilk, the ones that carry it all with them.
They’ve been talking for over an hour when Kurt takes a look at his watch. He finishes his drink and makes as if to leave.
“Well, I think I’m done for the night,” he says.
Greg glances at his own watch - barely half nine. Still too early to turn in for the night, and he’s not keen on spending the remaining hours of the evening alone in his room. But the thought of sitting by himself in this faux-chrome nightmare of a bar is even less appealing, so he decides to go as well. He digs in his jacket pocket for one of his business cards and hands it to Kurt.
“Yeah, it was good talking with you. Maybe I’ll see you about tomorrow?” Greg asks.
Kurt nods, fishes out a card from his own wallet, and hands it to Greg, thus completing the age-old conference ritual. “Yes, probably. I’m here until Thursday.”
Greg downs the last of his pint and they leave the bar together. As they walk across the lobby towards the lifts they pass a crowd of fellow conference-goers in casual business wear and purple conference tags heading to the bar. They enter the lift alone and Greg’s hand hovers in front of the numbered buttons.
“What floor?” he asks.
“Seven, please.”
Greg pushes seven and the doors close. His own room is on the fourth floor. He’s not sure why exactly, but he doesn’t bother pushing the button for it. They ride silently up together, and he follows Kurt out when the doors open.
Kurt walks down the thickly carpeted corridor with Greg half a pace behind. He turns right and Greg follows. There’s a flutter in Greg’s chest that he’s trying to ignore, and it grows stronger the farther they get from the lifts. Kurt slows his pace and then stops in front of room 718.
“Well, this is me,” Kurt says and gestures vaguely towards the door.
“Right, right,” Greg replies, nodding his head. “Should probably say goodnight, then.”
“It was good meeting you.” Kurt extends a hand to him and Greg gives it a firm, two pump shake.
“Right, likewise. Goodnight, then.”
Kurt walks in and closes the door. Greg remains standing in the corridor for a moment with his hands in his trouser pockets, staring at the door and grinding his teeth. When he makes his way back to the bank of lifts, he feels anxious and annoyed with himself for no reason that he can name.
***
The next day, Greg sees Kurt talking with one of the conference organizers in the foyer near the registration tables. He keeps his eyes on the man until Kurt makes eye contact with him, and they acknowledge each other with a friendly nod. The chimes sound, indicating the start of the first sessions, and Greg loses him in the sudden press of people. After that, he finds himself trying to catch sight of Kurt again each time he walks into a session break-out room, or out into the foyer between sessions, or during the coffee breaks. By the time he enters the main ballroom for lunch, he’s almost decided to hunt Kurt down and invite himself to the man’s table, when he feels a tug on his elbow.
“Oi, Lestrade. Looking for some company?” He turns around, and there’s a stout, red-faced D.I. beaming at him - Ron Harney from the Met’s Intelligence Bureau. Nice enough bloke, if a bit crass at times, Lestrade recalls.
“Yeah, I was, uh, looking for somebody, but he doesn’t seem to be here.”
“Well come on then, old boy. Sit with us.”
Greg accepts, and spends lunch with Harney and a few others from the IB. They’re a decent lot, and Greg winds up talking and laughing with them for the hour, though he could have done without Harney’s fondness for hooker jokes and his misapprehension that the word ‘tits’ is funny enough to be a punch line all on its own.
By the beginning of the first session of the afternoon, Greg is thoroughly sick of Harney, who has attached himself to Greg’s side, seemingly intent on following him to every session for the rest of the afternoon. By the beginning of the second session, Greg is thoroughly sick of Harney, every bloody boring speaker, and the whole damn conference. By the beginning of the final session, Greg is planning his escape.
The session finally ends at four. When Harney excuses himself to use the toilet, Greg seizes the opportunity to get lost. He hurries up to his room and grabs his coat. Once he’s back downstairs in the lobby, he approaches the concierge.
“Any chance there’s somewhere nearby I could find a good bottle of whiskey?”
“Yes sir, there’s a wine and spirits shop just up the street a ways. Out the door and to the left, can’t miss it.”
He thanks the concierge and exits the hotel. Once outside, he buttons his coat up against the blustery March wind and sets off. Within five minutes he’s inside the shop, perusing their rather impressive selection of blended and single malt whiskeys. The Irish do love their drink, he thinks, God bless them for that. He hadn’t paid attention to what the barman had poured for Kurt the night before, so he decides to indulge his own tastes. He selects a £74 bottle of 18-year old Macallan Sherry Oak. It’s a bit extravagant, especially if he winds up drinking it alone since he won’t be able to take what’s left on the flight home. It would make one wicked tip for the cleaning crew. Ah, what the hell, he thinks and hands the cashier his card.
He heads directly back to the hotel and up to his room where he sets the bottle on a small table next to the window, takes off his coat, jacket and shoes, and hops onto the bed. After flipping around the channels for a few minutes he finally settles on a local news program, though he has difficulty focusing on it. Within a quarter of an hour or so he gives it up and opts for a hot shower instead. By the time he’s finished primping and dressing, it’s about half five. He heads downstairs to see about dinner.
There are two restaurants in the hotel, and the steak house wins out easily over the Asian fusion joint with the pretentiously un-pronounceable name. Within seconds of Greg entering the restaurant, Harney appears at his side again, seemingly from nowhere.
“There you are, Lestrade! I thought I’d lost you for good. Have a seat with me and Crenshaw, will you?” Harney says and claps him on the back.
“Sure, of course,” Greg replies, forcing a smile and thinking, Christ, if I didn’t know better I’d think he was stalking me. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, turning to Harney’s companion and offering his hand. “Greg Lestrade.”
“No, don’t think we have, though I’ve certainly heard of you. Miles Crenshaw, Protection Command.”
They’re soon seated and looking over their menus. Greg orders the rib-eye and a pint of Smithwick’s. When the waiter leaves, Greg scans the dining room and sees Kurt sitting a few tables away. He’s with two other men and a woman - a modestly attractive brunette. He wonders if she’s attached to one of the other blokes at the table, but before he can make any observations in support of that theory or otherwise, Crenshaw’s asking him about the damn suicide murders from January. Greg tells him the mad cabbie’s tale, glossing over the bits about Sherlock Holmes as much as he can, until their food arrives.
He does his best to remain engaged throughout dinner, politely nodding and responding to Harney and Crenshaw as they gab about work and football, but he’s distracted. Each time he glances over to Kurt’s table he sees the man deep in conversation with his companions, seemingly oblivious to his presence. He’s inexplicably irritated by this, but he tamps the feeling down and turns his attention back to Crenshaw’s inane story about rescuing a Saudi diplomat’s son from a knife-wielding prostitute. By the time they finish their meal Greg is more than ready to leave, so when Harney insists on ordering a currant tart for afters, his irritation only deepens. He orders a coffee and tries to muster his patience with little success.
Harney finishes up his tart and they settle the bill. Greg looks over to Kurt’s table once more and sees that they’re still on their coffee. He briefly considers going over to say hello, but decides against intruding. Instead, he follows Harney and Crenshaw out of the restaurant. Before he can think of a delicate way to extricate himself from them, Harney’s inviting him for a drink.
“Sorry, no. I’m a bit knackered - didn’t sleep well last night,” Greg replies.
“Oh, come on, Lestrade,” Harney’s needles him. “How often do you get to go out with the boys without the wife bitching at you for it?”
“Really, no,” Lestrade says, and he can hear the annoyance leaking into his voice now. He tries to moderate it when he adds, “I’m really just going to turn in early.”
Harney relents. “Suit yourself,” he replies with a shrug, and heads off to the bar with Crenshaw.
Once he’s safely away and back in his room, Greg sinks down into one of the striped upholstered chairs next to the table and stares at the bottle of Macallan in its blue box. He considers breaking open the bottle himself, but that would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it? In spite of his having had dinner companions tonight, Greg would put money on Kurt winding up alone at the bar again…or alone in his room. And really, he thinks, what’s the point of the two of us being alone in different places when we could be alone together? For fuck’s sake, I’m not even making any sense. He sighs heavily and passes a hand over his eyes.
It’s not, after all, such a difficult decision for Greg to make. He doesn’t want to be alone, and he certainly doesn’t want to go to that wretched bar again. He couldn’t, anyway, since he blew off Harney’s invite. He goes to the closet and rummages in the pocket of the jacket he wore last night. He takes out Kurt’s card and looks at it for a moment. It’s a bit worn and tattered about the edges, not unlike the man himself. He punches the number into his mobile and selects SMS Text from the menu.
Picked up a bottle of single malt. You game? - Greg Lestrade
****