Chapter 2 - Watching the Detectives

Harry swallowed hard.

"His wife," she repeated flatly. "Right, I'll have that call put through if you'd just like to wait here."

Mechanically, she turned on her heel and marched back to the desk.

The complete and utter bastard! He was married! Not only had he been boffing every woman who fluttered her eyelashes at him since he'd been in London, he'd also been making a play for her, Harry, who, she realised, had allowed herself to develop these stupid 'feelings' for him over the last few months. And all this time, he'd had a wife back in New York! But there had never been any hint, nothing in his file, never a suggestion… but of course, it had been for his wife's protection. If she wasn't known about then no one could get to her. Maybe when he left New York, spirited out of the country like that, she had been put into some sort of a protection programme for her own safety. And now the heat had died down they were free to be together again.

"Hazel?" she asked the receptionist, "would you do me a favour and put a call upstairs to SI-10 for Lieutenant Dempsey? Let him know he has a visitor in reception… a personal visitor."

Hazel glanced at Mrs Dempsey, standing to the side of the entrance doors but thankfully made no comment as she picked up the telephone.

Suddenly Harry felt sick to her stomach. She felt dizzy, as though she wasn't getting enough oxygen to her brain and hurriedly she made for the narrow vestibule just off reception which led to a small kitchen and washroom for the duty receptionists.

Once safely behind the locked cubicle door she sat down heavily on the toilet seat lid and tried to calm down.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she reprimanded in a whisper as she clutched her hands together in an effort to curb the slight trembling.

She dropped her head down, allowing her blonde hair to curtain her face. How the hell could he have kept something like that a secret from her? Out of sight, out of mind obviously. He'd had the opportunity to tell her when it had all come out about Coltrane and the contract out on him but he hadn't, probably because he knew how bad it would make him look, the way he'd been out every night, playing the field when he'd first arrived in London. Maybe he still did and just kept quiet about it these days. God, she'd been letting him get closer to her – allowing herself to get close to him! It had felt right somehow, comfortable but still with that added frisson of danger and anticipation. She'd even thought there was a chance they'd…

Harry sat up straight and blew out a long, deep breath. At least she knew now. He wasn't going to make a fool of her. They could still work together, it wouldn't be a problem would it because, she reasoned, she could switch off from him emotionally. He had no hold over her.

He was married!

Her mind repeated this statement again, stabbing her with it over and over.

But what if he'd been estranged from her even before he came to England?

So why not mention the fact?

And more to the point, why was his wife here now? Could she have come to serve him with divorce papers? She didn't have to do that in person though; she would be granted a divorce easily enough in any court on the grounds of desertion, not to mention numerous accounts of adultery.

With a stale bitterness, she thought back to her own marriage and subsequent divorce.

Robert – with her alleged best friend, Maisie Rowans.

She felt frustrated that it still hurt.

Marriage to Robert had been a mistake anyway. She hadn't loved him enough to want to spend her life with him but she had felt it was expected of her at the time, that marriage and children was the direction she should be going in. She supposed that in a way she had come out of it relatively unscathed being as the major emotional pain she had suffered had been the humiliation, closely followed by a desperate loneliness.

And now here was Dempsey, another cheating, philandering womaniser who, given half a chance, no doubt would add her to the list of reasons for his wife to divorce him.

But this was all just speculation. The only thing Harry knew for a fact was that his wife was here to see her husband and in reality, it was none of her business anyway. She should get home, pour herself a stiff drink and try to put it out of her mind.

Harry stood up on unsteady legs and cursed herself for the weakness she felt. But it was him, wasn't it… Dempsey was her weakness.

Resolutely, she unlocked the cubicle door and went to the sink to study her reflection for a moment in the mirror there.

Plenty more fish in the sea, Harriet, she told herself. But the trouble was, Dempsey wasn't just a fish. There was a whole skool of fish out there that she could take her pick from but he was something more she realised, he was something she needed in her life.

Outside the washroom door, she was about to turn back into reception when she caught a glimpse of Dempsey's back.

He'd obviously only just come down from upstairs and hadn't yet met his visitor. Harry froze. No way was she going to be a party to that cosy little reunion. Edging forward she leaned around the corner to witness their meeting. His wife was now sitting on one of the low seating configurations but when she saw Dempsey walk in, she immediately leapt up and rushed towards him.

"Hey, Jimmy!" she yelled.

Harry couldn't see his face but when he fell forward with a mock stagger, arms flung wide apart in welcome, she could easily picture the grin suffusing his features.

"Yo, yo, yo! Is that my Toni I see before me?" Dempsey cried.

His wife threw herself at him bodily, wrapping her long, lean legs around him, arms about his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

"You'd better believe it," she laughed as she let her legs slide away from him.

Dempsey squeezed her to him so tightly she yelped.

"Ahh I can't believe this! It's so great to see you, Toni. What the hell are you doin' here, babe?"

Harry backed away, unable to watch any longer. Behind her at the rear of the vestibule was a fire exit door which she found herself hurrying to and yanking up on the bar, she made her escape.

She was at the opposite side of the building for the car park and had to tramp through fresh snow six inches deep. As she made her way down from the top end of the car park, relentlessly clenching and unclenching her right fist (her left hand clung viciously to the shoulder bag strap as her anchor), she stepped onto a cleared pathway which had iced over and felt her foot skidding beneath her.

She landed unceremoniously on her backside.

"Shit!" she grated, clearly and succinctly.

Quickly she got back on her feet, mentally cursing the flat but smooth soled boots she was wearing. And then, inexplicably, she felt hot tears suddenly dripping down her cheeks.

Don't be so pathetic, she told herself. It didn't even hurt.

She wasn't hurt at all… was she?

Making her way somewhat gingerly to her car, she got in, slung her bag over onto the back seat and affected a minor make-up repair job in the rear view mirror before driving home through gridlocked traffic.