He and Mark sat at a table placed on the pavement, perhaps in the hope of making Maidstone look like the home of bohemian café culture. Mark didn’t care overmuch if it failed to. He couldn’t remember when Dave had last suggested lunch together without a challenge in his voice: this time there had been a conciliatory, even apologetic note. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said almost truthfully. ‘Sometimes it’s best to bring things out into the open. Not necessarily via the media, I admit.’ ‘Will you have to resign?’ ‘Not necessarily. Yes, probably,’ he conceded. ‘My boss isn’t best pleased, but neither in his place would I have been, seeing my second in command’s dirty linen being washed on the midday news. Since we’ve already lost the two most senior officers in the force, casting aside a third might look a bit profligate. But – and don’t tell Fran yet – I can see it happening.’ Perhaps it was the implied shared secret that brought a faint smile to Dave’s face.
