Page 21 of The Missing Ingredient

“You too,” said Marcus, relaxing against the tree trunk. “And I’m truly sorry about the delay getting home. Everything back to normal tomorrow. I’ll pick the girls up first thing.”

“No, it wasn’t—business has to come first. And we just about managed to survive. Although Mum was almost pulling her hair out. I just want you to know how much I—we all—value what you’re doing for us.”

“You’re family now, Tom. Or as close as I’ll ever get. Of course I’m going to be here for you. It’s where I want to be.”

This time Tom looked away, a hand smoothed briefly over his mouth.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Just needed saying.”

Chapter Eight

DANIELturning up at the Shepherd’s Bush restaurant in uniform at the tail end of a busy Saturday lunchtime was an unexpected but not unpleasant surprise. In fact, he looked hotter in uniform than he did in white Speedos or Bermuda shorts. Benny, the front-of-house manager, had zeroed in on the policeman and, once he realized Daniel was there unofficially, flirted outrageously. If anyone could give Daniel a run for his money on the flirtatiousness stakes, Benny was the man. However, today Daniel was all business, strictly professional and only grinning good-naturedly and nodding at Benny’s double entendres. Fortunately Benny gave everyone the same treatment—for most people the straight-faced delivery of his innuendos meant that many went over their heads—so he would have been blissfully unaware that Daniel batted for his team.

Between Marcus’s stint in the hospital and his time in New York, they had called each other a couple of times trying to synchronize calendars for a night out. But through no fault of either, this had proven difficult, both having busy professions. Marcus often had to head into work at short notice to deal with one crisis or another, while Daniel was frequently called upon to work overtime.

But finally they’d managed to meet one Tuesday afternoon in late July for a drink in a small local bar on Marylebone High Street, a few blocks from the restaurant. Marcus had finished the lunchtime service at Edgware Road and Daniel, in jeans and a tee, had been on a training course in Hendon, dropped off by a colleague.

Daniel had drunk designer Belgium beer straight from the bottle, taking great pride in talking about the fermentation process, the history of the beer brewed by Trappist monks—clearly a veritable expert on the product. One particular brand, a strawberry-flavored lager with a reasonably high alcohol content, had been a favorite of his for many years. At the time, Marcus could think of nothing worse than strawberry-flavored beer, but had sampled some and made encouraging noises when offered out of sheer politeness.

The meeting had been cordial and almost formal, and Marcus had begun to realize nothing was ever going to happen between them, even before Daniel got called away within the hour after a brief but highly charged call from a colleague back at the station.

“You want something to eat?” asked Marcus, stepping out of the kitchen, wiping his forehead with a cloth as Benny sashayed off to see to another customer.

“Your man over there’s a piece of work,” said Daniel, nodding to the departing backside of Benny.

“But a bloody good and loyal worker. So to what do I owe this very nice pleasure?”

“Too early for that dinner you owe me, I suppose?”

Marcus tilted his head quizzically, not sure what Daniel meant.

“Is there somewhere we can sit, mate? I found out some things for you.”

“Damian Stone?” said Marcus, looking up eagerly. “Come into the back office.”

“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid,” said Daniel when seated in the tiny storage room that doubled as an office. “Twenty-five-year-old single Caucasian male from Frenton, regional marketing manager for a high street bookstore chain, no previous convictions, total clean slate.”

“Well, that settles that,” said Marcus, arms folded.

“What?” asked Daniel, shaking his head, not understanding.

“She was into older men. Tom’s ten years older. Still doesn’t explain why she was in the car that Friday lunchtime.”

“Off for a weekend romp, maybe?”

“No way. Anyway, she was supposed to attend a dinner party with Tom’s work people that evening. That’s why Moira picked up the girls from school.”

“Thank goodness,” said Daniel.

“But thanks for doing this, anyway, Daniel. Listen, I’ve been given complimentary tickets to a champagne brunch at a new hotel opening in the next couple of months. Sunday from eleven. Oysters, caviar, lobster, carvery, champers—the works. Thought it might be right up your street. How do you fancy being my date?”

“In lieu of dinner?”

“As well, if you like?”

“Sure. Let’s do the brunch,” he replied, grinning and slipping a piece of paper across the table. “More likely to work this time, if it’s a Sunday.”

“What’s this?” asked Marcus.

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