‘Josh?’ It was Firth, leaning on the door frame, peering in. ‘Still on for tonight?’

Josh turned to her, confused.

‘What do you mean?’ he replied. ‘I thought you said it was tomorrow?’

‘No . . .’ Firth straightened, an edge of annoyance creeping into her voice. ‘It’s tonight. I made a point of reminding you.’

Josh frowned, then looked down. ‘Damn.’

‘So?’ She leaned forward, not allowing him to avoid her gaze. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Can’t,’ Josh shrugged. ‘I promised Mary I’d take her to that Thekla place tonight. I could have sworn you said the film was tomorrow.’

Firth sighed and shot him a withering look.

‘Heaven help us if you ever make detective, Josh.’

Harland smiled despite himself. He turned round, putting his back to the sink. Firth caught his eye and her expression softened.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Don’t be.’ He moved over and patted Josh on the shoulder. ‘Some people take a while to make detective . . .’ a flicker of a grin ‘. . . others take a while to make tea, right, Josh?’

The young officer looked up at him warily and nodded.

‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured.

Firth took a step backwards, then hesitated and looked thoughtfully at Harland.

‘A few of us are going to the Watershed this evening,’ she said. ‘They’re doing a special showing of Dirty Harry, and there’s a spare ticket if you’re interested?’

Harland leaned back against the countertop.

Thanks, but . . .

He was going to say no, that same automatic response that insulated him from all the other social situations he could no longer face, but something in her look stopped him.

The simple, friendly offer of an evening out – the sort of thing normal people did.

‘Sir?’ Firth raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Well . . .’ His thoughts flitted briefly to the empty house that lay waiting for him. ‘If you’re sure it’s okay.’

‘Great!’ Her face brightened. ‘The film starts at seven forty-five and we’ll be meeting around seven at the Pitcher & Piano – you know where it is?’

Ten minutes’ walk from where he lived.

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘I know it.’

‘Brilliant. See you there then.’

She turned and almost bumped into Mendel, who had appeared behind her.

‘After you.’ The big man held up his hands, moving aside with a theatrical flourish to let her through.

‘Sorry sir, thanks.’

Mendel waited until she had passed before moving calmly over to the sink and lifting the kettle briefly to feel its weight. Satisfied there would be enough for the three of them, he nodded approvingly to Josh, then looked across at Harland and frowned in puzzlement.

‘What on earth are you smiling about?’ he asked.

It was cold when they emerged from the small cinema, shuffling out into the darkness to stand on the covered waterfront walkway as the rest of the audience streamed past them. Lights twinkled on the water while Harland fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes.

‘So,’ Gregg looked at his watch, ‘it’s quarter to ten. Shall we grab a beer somewhere?’

‘Not here.’ Jamieson, a stocky young sergeant whom they knew from the Southmead station, cast an unhappy glance at the crowded bar behind them. ‘I don’t want to be stood around queuing all night.’

‘What about The Ostrich?’ His girlfriend, Kirstie, was a PCSO with wavy red hair and a strong Bristol accent. ‘It’s not far and it’ll be a lot quieter.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Gregg nodded. ‘Come on.’

He turned and began to lead the way between the knots of people and the packed bar-front tables.

Harland paused, struggling to light a cigarette in the swirling breeze that blew in off the water, scowling as the flame danced away from the tobacco. While the others started along the quayside, Firth hung back a little, watching with growing amusement as he turned this way and that, pulling his jacket taut like a cloak against the wind.

‘Are you okay there?’ She looked different out of uniform, with her leather jacket and faded jeans. There was writing on her T-shirt – something French that he couldn’t quite make out.

‘It isn’t easy being a smoker these days,’ he sighed. Shielding the cigarette with his hands, he clicked the lighter once, twice, then finally lit up on the third attempt. ‘See what I mean?’

She grinned and fell in beside him as they started walking after the others.

‘I love that place,’ she said, gazing out between the metal pillars and across the rippling gloom of the harbour basin. ‘They show all kinds of cool films you wouldn’t normally get to see on the big screen.’

‘I know,’ Harland agreed. ‘I used to be a member there. Haven’t been for a year or so, but I always enjoyed coming. It’s a more relaxed atmosphere than you get in the big multiplexes.’

They turned left and strolled slowly out onto the sweeping metal lines of Pero’s Bridge, the noise of their footsteps echoing out across the dark water below them.

Firth walked with her head inclined to one side, and turned to glance back towards the cinema.

‘Do you know what?’ she mused. ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve watched that film all the way through.’

Harland slowed and peered at her doubtfully.

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Seriously.’ She had turned back to him now. ‘I recognised a lot of it, but I hadn’t seen all that stuff with the ransom bag, or the bit where he tortures the guy in the football stadium.’

Harland chuckled to himself as they came down off the bridge and onto the cobbled pavement, following it around the Arnolfini building.

‘So,’ he asked her, as they wandered under the glare of the street lights and across the narrow roadway of the Prince Street bridge, ‘now that you’ve seen it right through, what did you think?’

Firth gazed up at the old-harbour cranes lining the quayside ahead of them.

‘I love that whole seventies vibe,’ she smiled. ‘Clint Eastwood was so cool, and didn’t he have amazing hair?’

Harland ran an involuntary hand across his scalp and shook his head.

‘I think I’d rather have his sunglasses,’ he replied.

They crossed the road and walked along the cobbled waterfront – luxury apartments and young trees on one side, old boats creaking against their moorings on the other. Ahead of them, the others seemed to have slowed down a little. Gregg, glancing back over his shoulder, noticed them and beckoned them on.

‘Keep up,’ he called.

Firth raised her hand in polite acknowledgement but made no attempt to hurry.

‘Let them queue up to get served,’ she laughed under her breath.

One last footbridge carried them across a narrow channel to The Ostrich, a grand old three-storey inn that stood alone on an exposed corner of the quayside. Bench tables filled the space between the building and the water, most of them occupied, all lit by the bright warm glow of the pub.

A young couple scampered towards them in a tumble of laughter and echoing footsteps. The girl ran with abandon, long hair swishing from side to side as she dragged her boyfriend along by the hand.

‘Sorry guys.’ The slender young man smiled apologetically as he jostled past before being pulled away along the shadowed quay.

Firth shook her head, watching them go.

‘Funny how differently people treat you when you’re not in uniform,’ she smiled.

Harland nodded thoughtfully. Firth was wearing make-up. He’d not noticed it before.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘let’s get inside before Gregg buys his round.’

Harland began to move, then hesitated, staring up at the illuminated windows.

‘Actually,’ he said slowly, ‘I think maybe I’m going to call it a night.’

Firth turned and gazed at him.

‘Oh, I’m sorry; are you on early shift tomorrow?’

Harland met her eyes for a moment, then looked down.

‘No . . .’ He suddenly felt a cool shiver of guilt.