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The Eagle was crowded at half-five, and Alec Hardy was tempted to go elsewhere. But he was tired, and he wanted Scotch, and there appeared to be a single vacant table.
He paid the harried barman and sidled his way towards the solitary sanctuary of the unoccupied spot, drinking in the atmosphere. The Cambridge pub, steeped in history and doused in character, was a hodgepodge of wobbly antique furniture and walls groaning under the weight of memorabilia. The ceiling was an artful patchwork of burnt sienna and dingy cream, a testament to decades of tobacco smoke and raucous revelry. Yet, amidst the well-worn charm, there was a sense of academic elegance. The air practically hummed with the intellectual debates of yesteryears, punctuated by the clatter of pint glasses and the occasional boisterous laugh—a symphony of sound that was as quintessentially British as a scone scorned for lack of clotted cream.
It had been a long and fairly lonely Saturday, though Alec had talked briefly with dozens of people: some old acquaintances, some strangers. He saw no one familiar in this crowded, noisy room. Despite the pub’s undeniable appeal, he felt out of place. Edinburgh Napier, his alma mater, was a rather working-class institution and a far cry from the hallowed halls of Oxbridge.
He supposed he was missing his wife. Ellie Miller loved meeting new people, and she was much better than Alec at negotiating novel situations such as this. He knew she would find The Eagle delightful.
They’d been looking forward to their time together in Cambridge. The “Trends in Policing” conference was always popular, and they had been flattered to be asked to speak on strategies for solving cold cases. Ellie’s sister Lucy had agreed to stay in their house for a few days to watch Izzy and Fred—not to mention keeping an eye on David Barrett, Ellie’s irascible dad. But six-year-old Izzy had started running a high fever the night before they were supposed to leave, and Ellie had calmly insisted that Alec make the trip alone.
“You know she loves you, Alec, but when she’s sick, she wants her mum. Hopefully, it’s just another ear infection and not COVID again. Either way—she’ll be fine. You go. Give the talk. I’ve spoken at that conference before, anyway. Just don’t go wild on your own up there.”
“Yeah,” he growled. “I’m well known for goin’ wild, Miller.”
She gave him a wicked grin and patted his scruffy cheek. “You have your moments.”
Clutching his glass of Talisker, Alec threaded through the crowd, watching his step to avoid tripping or bumping into people. He looked up when he had nearly reached the table, only to see that another patron had plotted a course for the same spot and was poised to sit down.
Peter Kingdom had spied the solitary table from the other side of the room and he had to admit, it was a sight for sore eyes. The conference had been a whirlwind of relentless chatter, and his introverted soul was aching for a moment of peace. He navigated his way through the pub's eclectic crowd, his eyes fixed on the last bastion of solitude amidst the sea of enthusiastic patrons. He had nearly reached the table when he noticed another gentleman about to claim it.
He sighed. This was not how he'd imagined his evening would unfold when Brian Yelland, his long-time friend and detective sergeant at the Market Shipborough constabulary, had invited him to tag along to this conference. He had yet to figure out why Brian had asked him in the first place; he wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, and the morning's events at home hadn’t helped either. His youngest progeny, 2-year-old Simon, had decided to explore the treacherous terrain of the attic staircase that morning, earning himself an impromptu trip to the A&E and four stitches to commemorate his daring adventure.
Despite the calamity, Annie, his wife and the heart of his world, had urged him to carry on with the trip, insisting that a change of scenery would do him good.
"You should go," Annie had insisted, balancing a squirming Simon on her hip whilst casting a diligent eye over Henry, their eldest, who was sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in his maths assignment. "As much as I enjoy your tireless rendition of the 'Three Billy Goats Gruff' every evening,” she'd said, a teasing glint in her eye. “I think I'm quite capable of handling bedtime stories for one night."
"Mummy's right," chimed in 10-year-old Sophie as she emerged from behind the well-thumbed pages of her book, 'The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe', a family heirloom of sorts that had once belonged to Peter. She brushed a rebellious dark curl from her cheek and secured her spectacles firmly in place. "You should go, Daddy,” she continued, her small shoulders straightening with an air of importance. “I can read to Simon tonight.”
Peter's eyes moved from his daughter to his wife, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Alright then,” he finally acquiesced with a sigh. “One night it is." He reached out to gently ruffle Simon's fiery curls, courtesy of Annie. "But remember this, my most daring of adventurers," he said, his voice imbued with warmth and a hint of mock pomp. "No scaling castle staircases in my absence. If you promise to keep to gentler pursuits, I shall return with tales of a wonderful trip to Cambridge."
And now, here he was, locked in a silent contest for the last vacant table at The Eagle.
Always the trained observer, Alec quickly sized up the man across from him. He stood at least three inches taller than Alec, who was not short by any means, and he outweighed Alec by several stone. His physique was imposing: the sort of solid build that suggested he could consume a hearty platter of fish and chips without a thought to calories or cholesterol. His thick hair, mostly an unapologetic grey, was an unruly mob of tousled waves. A short, scruffy beard lent him an air of the academic who had been too engrossed in some esoteric tome to bother about shaving. The man’s attire was a paradox—a dark suit that spoke of formality, contrasted with a pink shirt that indicated a flair for the unconventional. His tie was the pièce de résistance—a riot of pastels, florals and paisley that would have made the Mad Hatter proud.
“Sorry,” Alec said, gesturing at the table, resigning himself to standing at the bar. “You were here first. I’ll just go—”
"Nonsense," the man interrupted, waving away Alec's suggestion with a casual flick of his hand. "There's more than enough room for two wearied souls at this table."
Peter cast a discerning eye over the stranger, taking in the rumpled grey suit and nondescript grey tie, tugged loose at the neck. There was a certain ruggedness to him, a haggard charm that spoke of a man who bore his battle scars with humble grace. His hair was a dark reddish brown, flecked with grey, cropped in a haphazard fashion that suggested a lack of vanity, or perhaps a lack of time. The brown beard, also flecked with grey, was none too neatly trimmed. The penetrating intensity of his brown eyes, however, hinted at a depth of character beyond the tired, world-weary exterior. At a glance, Peter could tell that this man was a thinker, and he found himself wanting to know more about him.
He extended a large hand and smiled warmly. "Kingdom. Peter Kingdom," he introduced himself, his voice a pleasant blend of charm and gravitas that could soothe even the most frazzled nerves.
His mirth-filled eyes seemed to twinkle in the dim pub light, and his congenial demeanour was hard to resist. If Hardy had been given to flights of fancy—which he most certainly was not—he might have compared the man to a certain British actor with a penchant for witty repartee.
But Alec Hardy wasn’t one to get carried away, so he simply shook the proffered hand and gave a nod of acknowledgement. "Alec Hardy," he said. As always with strangers, his manner was gruff, but not rude.
“You here for the policin’ conference?” he asked, carefully settling himself in one of the heavy wooden chairs and unfolding his lanky legs beneath the square table. “Or d’you live here?”
"Me?" Squeezing his prodigious frame into the small chair across from Hardy, Peter smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh no, I'm simply here accompanying a friend who is attending. I'm not in law enforcement, though I do find myself tangling with the law now and then. I'm a solicitor, you see. The legal dance is quite a different beast altogether. You could say I'm more of a legal shepherd, guiding my clients through the thorny labyrinth of the law."
There was something in the man's manner that put Hardy at ease, an affable energy that softened the tension in his shoulders and widened his smile.
“Sounds charmin’,” said Alec, sipping. “You from around here, then? You seemed to be doin’ a good job managin’ the thorny labyrinth of this pub. Thought you might’ve been here before.”
"East from here, actually," Peter responded, a flicker of nostalgic amusement in his eyes. "A small place barely on the maps—Market Shipborough. 35 years I've been navigating its quirks now, battling windmills in my own way." There was a distinct touch of modest pride in his voice, an evident fondness for his small-town roots. The corners of his mouth turned upwards as he added, "And as for this splendid place, I went to uni here, albeit many moons ago.”
Peter took another measured sip from his glass, his gaze resting on Alec over the rim. "And what about you?" he ventured. "I have a certain... um, hunch, shall we say, that your day-to-day encounters with the law are of a significantly more direct nature. A man of the law, no doubt, but you don't strike me as a local. Dare I say, there's something of the northern air about you..." His voice trailed off, leaving a trace of warm intrigue hanging between them.
Alec grinned. “For a solicitor, you’re pretty good at deducin’ things. I’m a detective with the NCA. National Crime Agency. Missin’ Persons Unit, specialisin’ in cold cases. My wife Ellie and I are partners; we’re based in Wessex. Broadchurch. Wee little place on the coast. Don’t suppose you know it.”
Peter’s eyebrows rose slightly. "Hardy," he murmured thoughtfully, a light of recognition dawning in his eyes. "I had you pegged for a Scot, you know. The name, the gravelly lilt to your voice. But Broadchurch...now that rings a bell. A murdered boy, a few years back." He looked at Alec with renewed interest. "Your name did sound vaguely familiar when you introduced yourself. A tragic case, that was." His tone held a hint of genuine sympathy, his eyes reflecting the sombre note that had crept into their conversation.
“Aye,” Alec acknowledged. “It was. And I am from Scotland, originally. Paisley. Been in England a long time, though. Ended up in Broadchurch investigatin’ that case. The boy’s name was Danny Latimer. He was only 11. I was with CID back then.”
He paused, remembering. It wasn’t the first time today that a stranger had brought up Danny’s case. He was never going to live it down. That one, and Sandbrook. Even this unlikely man, a genial solicitor from a small market town far from Broadchurch, had heard of Danny. Alec sometimes forgot that it had been national news. He had investigated so many deaths since then.
The detective normally wasn’t chatty; he’d been hoping for a quiet evening alone. But the kindness in the eyes of the man across the table was oddly encouraging.
“My wife …” he began again, almost involuntarily. But then he stopped himself. Maybe this wasn’t the right occasion to go into that whole story. Though he was tempted.
“Thirty-five years practicin’ law in the same place,” Alec offered instead, shifting to safer ground. “You have family there? In Market…?”
“Shipborough,” Peter finished with a soft chuckle. “Market Shipborough. Born and raised there, you see. I suppose some might find it rather quaint, even provincial in its ways," he mused, "But there's a certain charm to it, a comforting familiarity that has a way of anchoring one to the place."
He paused, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “My family’s there. My wife, Annie and our three children. Let’s see… There’s Henry, who’s 11 and already showing signs of a potential career in law, or perhaps politics, given his skill in arguing. Then there's Sophie, she's a spitfire at 10, with a heart as big as her ambition to become a veterinarian. And then there's our little surprise, Simon. He's just turned 2 and already he's quite the character."
He leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh. "So, that's my flock. What about yours, Hardy? You mentioned a wife. Any little Hardys running around causing a ruckus?"
Alec grinned. “We have our share of ruckus, yeah. No 2-year-olds, but we’ve got quite the range, El and I. Daisy, our eldest, she’s … for God’s sake, it’s hard to remember ages, after a while. She’s 23. She’s livin’ in Worcester. A detective constable, believe it or not. Might be genetic. Tom’s next; he’s 20. Recently graduated from the University of Glasgow. Workin’ in London doin’ some kind of software codin’ job. He keeps tryin’ to explain it to me, but I don’t understand it, honestly. Our boy Fred is 10. Runnin’ us ragged half the time, but he’s a great kid. And our Isobel is 6.”
Alec smiled fondly, as he always did when he thought of his little girl: the unexpected gift. “She’s got Down Syndrome,” he finished, rather abruptly. He never knew whether to share this information, but for some reason he felt like telling this man everything. Though maybe it was just the Scotch on an empty stomach that was loosening his tongue.
Peter let out a thoughtful hum. “Quite the brood indeed, Hardy. From constables to software engineers and everything in between. And your youngest, Isobel,” he continued, his voice softening, “sounds like an absolute treasure. A family as large as yours must surely keep you on your toes. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of life’s experiences.” He chuckled warmly. “The joy of young ones and the complexity of guiding the older ones as they make their way in the world. It seems, you’ve got your hands full, in more ways than one.” His gaze held a flicker of understanding, an acknowledgment of the balancing act that was parenting.
“Aye,” said Alec. “They’re all teachin’ me more than I could ever teach them. And I didn’t ever plan to be spacin’ them out like this. It’s a blended family. Ellie and I were both married before. Daize is mine. Tom and Fred are hers. Izzy .. oh, Lord, let’s just say she was a surprise. Long story.”
Shrugging to signal that he didn’t care to elaborate, Alec considered his next move. Small talk wasn’t his forte; still, he wanted to know more about the man in front of him, since they’d been thrown together like this. Kingdom must be over 60, but his children were all so young.
“Your oldest is only 11, then?” Alec asked. “You’ve got years of child-rearin’ ahead of you. But if you grew up in Market Shipborough, maybe there’s a crowd of relatives around to help, eh?”
Peter chuckled, swirling the last of his beer in his glass. "Well, I must confess that my little family came as quite a surprise to me. I had all but given up on the idea of having one until I met my wife, Annie." A wistful smile graced his features, his gaze far off and filled with fond memory.
He grew quiet for a moment before speaking again. “My family tree isn’t as leafy as it once was, sadly. But there are a few sturdy branches that haven’t snapped just yet.” He offered Alec a small grin. "My sister, Beatrice, took one of the few tickets out of Market Shipborough and found herself a life in London. She has a daughter, Petra, who is manoeuvring her way through the thrilling and somewhat terrifying world of adolescence. And then there's my aunt, a spirited nonagenarian with a sharp tongue and a wit to match. She shows no signs of slowing down and keeps us all on our toes with her unabashed candour."
He paused, taking a moment to rub at the condensation on his beer glass. "Aside from them, my dear sister and formidable aunt, it's just us, I'm afraid. My parents… well, that's another story for another time." He raised his glass to Alec, his gaze shimmering with a hint of melancholy. "So, Hardy, tell me about your tribe, your extended family. What tales do they have to tell?"
Draining what was left of his Scotch, Alec pointed at Peter’s empty glass instead of answering. “You want another one of those?”
Peter glanced at Alec, his brow arched in a manner that was both friendly and challenging. "Well, seeing as you're asking…" He held out the glass with a flick of his wrist. "I'm not opposed to another. If you're offering, that is.”
“Aye. I’m offerin’. What’s yours, then? I’ll go.”
Peter gave a thoughtful hum, tapping a finger against his chin in mock contemplation. "Well, I think another pint of their finest will do nicely, thank you.”
“Fine. Guard the table with your life. I see people eyein’ it already.”
Alec scooted his chair back carefully, trying not to hit anyone, and he unfolded himself, beginning to make his slow way to the crowded bar. Peter Kingdom was an interesting chap, he thought—personable and quite evidently smart. And perhaps a bit sad, for some reason. Something about his family, perhaps. Alec elbowed his way forward through tight clusters of patrons, placing the order and finally receiving the drinks. Arriving back at the table, he gave Peter a triumphant smile.
“Here you go. Still solo, I see. Good work defendin’ our territory.”
Peter accepted the pint with a salute of acknowledgement, "Fortitude, Hardy, it all comes down to fortitude. In the battlefield of pub territory, one must stand firm," he raised his glass, the twinkle back in his eyes. "Cheers to you. And to the preservation of sacred pub real estate. May we defend it as valiantly as our ancestors defended their castled strongholds." He took a sip of his beer, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes," he said with a smile. "Tell me about your extended family. I'm all ears.”
Alec raised his glass to his tablemate. “Sláinte,” he said, taking a drink before setting the glass back down. “My extended family, aye. There’s two older sisters up in Paisley, Catriona and Maeve; both of ’em have adult children. Jim, my half-brother, is a lot younger. He lives in Edinburgh; he’s married. Has one son, a teenager. Don’t see any of them as often as I’d like. You’re fortunate to have your aunt, still; she sounds amazin’. No one from that generation’s left in my family. Well, Ellie’s da’s still with us. Lives with us, in fact, which is … interestin’. But my mum died when I was young. Cancer. As for my da….”
The sentence trailed off. As much as Alec was inclined to like this fellow, talking about Ian Hardy hadn’t been what he’d planned to do when he’d gone into this pub for a simple, solitary libation.
Peter sensed the tension in Alec’s voice, warning him to tread softly. He took a thoughtful sip from his glass, looking into the amber liquid as if it held the answers. “Fathers… they’re a tricky subject, aren’t they?” he began, his voice dipping low in a contemplative tone. “My own, let’s just say he was a man of many talents—but, unfortunately, kindness was not one of them.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Alec sighed, staring into his own drink. “He couldn’t have been much worse than mine. Though my da could be kind. Occasionally. Problem was, you never knew which one you were goin’ to get. The kind Ian Hardy, or … the other one.”
He paused, recalling what his father was like when he was in his cups, or simply in a mood. The shouting, the hitting. Or, alternatively, the cold shoulder, for hours or for days, and for no apparent reason. Certainly nothing a vulnerable young boy like Alec Hardy could understand. All these years later, the memories stung. He generally did a good job of suppressing them. He wasn’t sure why he was telling this stranger about his dad.
Peter's gaze remained vaguely focused on the glass in his hand, his thumb now tracing the rim in a rhythmic pattern. An air of sadness seemed to settle over him as he said softly, "With my father... There was never any doubt." He let the sentence hang, the weight of the unspoken confession of Roger's abusiveness a ghost from the past lingering until its final breath. It was a part of his history that he seldom shared, a part that he'd long ago locked away. Yet it felt oddly comforting to lay it bare before someone who could empathise, someone who'd walked a similar path.
Alec had spent years interrogating people; it was nearly impossible to stifle the impulse now, though this lively pub was a far cry from a police interview room. He couldn’t resist posing the obvious question—but he was virtually sure he already knew the answer.
“Did he hit you?” The detective’s voice was unusually quiet, almost shy.
Second-guessing himself immediately, Alec took a swig of Scotch before continuing. “Sorry, Kingdom; obviously you’re not obligated to tell me. El’s always criticisin’ me for slippin’ into interview mode. Occupational hazard.”
A flicker of surprise flashed through Peter's eyes. The convivial atmosphere seemed to dim slightly, his face a mask of contemplation as he stared at his glass, his eyes vacant. He felt a pang of memories stirring within him, particularly of a day when his Aunt Auriel had asked him the same probing question. He was a teenager then, raw and frightened, too eager to shield the true monster in his life. He'd denied it, convinced himself that it was his all fault, his wrongdoing that merited the brutal punishments. But time had wrought wisdom and with it, understanding. He no longer had to carry the burdens of shame and guilt that were never really his to bear.
He looked up at Alec, the corners of his mouth turning downwards slightly. In a voice barely above a whisper, he confirmed, "Yes. Yes, he did."
Alec shook his head. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, but his eyes were sympathetic. “I’m sorry. Mine, too. Hit me, and my sisters. And then he scarpered, after my mum passed. Disappeared and left us skint. Turned out that he’d gone off and started another family, though we didn’t know that for a long time. Shite example in the parentin’ department.”
Peter allowed Alec’s confession to hang in the air, the weight of their shared experiences a palpable presence in the room. He studied the man across from him for a moment, his gaze thoughtful as he grappled with the uncanny similarity of their stories. “It’s a sad reality, isn’t it? The harm a man can inflict upon his own flesh and blood, the very ones who looked up to him for protection and guidance.” He paused, rubbing his scruffy chin thoughtfully. “And yet, here we are. Bruised perhaps, but not broken. For all their failings, they did not manage to break us. Cheers to that, Hardy.” With a watery smile, he raised his glass in a toast to their resilience.
“Amen,” said Alec hoarsely, raising his glass in return. “Let’s hope we’re doin’ a much better job with our children, eh? Sorry. Didn’t mean all of that to get so grim.”
Peter waved off Alec’s apology with a dismissive flick of his wrist, an amiable smile playing on his lips. “No need for apologies. Troubled waters have a way of finding their level, don’t they? In any case, we’ve navigated past them, haven’t we?” He clinked his glass against Alec’s. “Here’s to being better fathers, to providing our offspring with the love and security we may have lacked.”
Alec smiled. “Workin’ on it, Kingdom. Always workin’ on it.”
"Indeed, always a work in progress." Peter took a long draught from his beer, savouring the malty taste before setting his glass down. He looked at Alec, his eyes alight with inquisitiveness that belied the gravity of their previous conversation. "So, do you happen to be on the roster for any official duties at this conference? Presiding over any panels or perhaps imparting some of your investigative wisdom in a workshop or two?"
“Dunno about wisdom, but I’m givin’ a talk tomorrow mornin’,” Alec replied. “Strategies for solvin’ cold cases. Ellie was supposed to be my co-presenter. But she had to stay home; Izzy had fever. She texted me a while ago; strep throat, apparently. She wouldn’t let me cancel. I’m not really lookin’ forward to it, but I’m in it, now, so hopin’ for the best. Not sure I have much wisdom to impart, though. Been a copper for 30 years, and sometimes I’m still not sure how that even happened. How’d you get into the legal profession?”
Peter’s brow furrowed slightly with concern. “I’m sorry to hear about Izzy… it’s always distressing when the little ones are ill.”
“Aye. Thanks. But she’s on antibiotics already. I expect she’ll be better soon. How’d you choose law, then? Seein’ as you were able to study at a place like this, I assume you had choices?”
Peter’s gaze drifted away from Alec, settling on a spot somewhere above and behind the detective’s shoulder as he absorbed his question. A pensive frown took shape as he found himself opening another door to his past, one that was both familiar and disconcerting. After a pregnant pause, he returned his gaze to Alec, his eyes expressing a soft resignation. “Well, it wasn’t so much a matter of choice as it was expectation. I was expected to join the family firm, continue with the legacy, if you will… You know how it goes.” He shrugged, his lips tightening into a wry smile. “So, to answer your question, I suppose I became a solicitor because I had a role to play, a part that was scripted for me long before I was old enough to assert my own ambitions.”
“Interestin’,” Alec replied, nodding. “Your da was a solicitor, then? But you’re still doin’ it, after all this time. Even though you felt forced into it. You never thought about a change?”
Peter chuckled lightly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he recalled the legacy that stretched back generations. "Yes, my father was a solicitor, as was his father before him; an unbroken lineage of Kingdom solicitors." His tone was imbued with a touch of self-deprecating humour. "As for why I'm still doing it, well..." He took a breath, gathering his thoughts. "I suppose it's because, despite everything, I've come to see that this profession, for all its demands and pitfalls, is capable of tremendous good. We wield the power of the law, not just to mete out punishment but to protect, to uphold justice, to give a voice to those who might otherwise be silenced. In my own way, I like to think that I'm making a difference. So, no, I never seriously considered a change. The path may have been chosen for me, but I've since made it my own."
Pausing briefly, Peter reflected on his own reasoning before turning the focus back on Alec. "But enough about me, Hardy, what about you?" He leaned back, studying the other man with an air of sincere curiosity. "Why did you choose to join law enforcement? There's a story behind that, surely? Was it a burning desire to see justice served, a childhood dream, or perhaps a natural knack for solving puzzles?" His tone was light, but his eyes were serious, reflecting the genuine interest he had in understanding what motivated the man opposite him.
Swigging the last of his Scotch, Alec grinned. It was a brilliant smile, transforming his craggy features. “Kingdom,” he said, “I think I’m just tryin’ to impose order on a chaotic world. Considerin’ the way I grew up, the prospect was appealin’. And wantin’ to see justice served, aye; there’s a good bit of that. I’m tryin’ to believe there’s such a thing as justice. Not always succeedin’ in makin’ it work. But even the tryin’ can be rewardin’. We’re in the same business, you and me. In the end.”
Peter's eyes sparkled with a certain camaraderie. "I can't disagree with that. In the end, we're both striving for the same goal, aren't we?" He glanced down at his wrist, at the sleek Apple Watch that encircled it. It was a gift from Annie last Christmas, and despite his preference for simpler, old-fashioned watches, he wore it with pride. He noticed that Hardy was wearing an identical watch.
"I must say," he remarked with a wry smile, "I never thought I'd see the day when I'd have to ask a watch for the time." He tilted his wrist, observing the digital face with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. "Speaking of time, it appears to be nearing the hour when my stomach starts making ungentlemanly noises in anticipation of dinner."
He glanced past Alec to the bar, where DS Yelland appeared to be engrossed in a lively conversation with a group of his colleagues. "Seeing as my dear friend Brian seems to have found more engaging company, perhaps you'd care to join me? The Cambridge Chop House next door is rather good, and the company of a fellow justice-seeker would make it all the more enjoyable."
Alec considered. He needed to rehearse his presentation this evening, but he also needed to eat. Ellie would ask about it when he called her later, and she would have a go at him if he admitted that he’d skipped a meal. And Peter Kingdom was unexpectedly pleasant company. The congenial solicitor already felt like an old acquaintance, which was peculiar; Alec wasn’t a man who typically clicked with strangers. Especially without his gregarious wife greasing the social wheels.
“You’re sure your colleague isn’t plannin’ to have dinner with you?” he asked, hesitating. “Since you came with him? Wouldn’t want you to desert a mate.”
Peter's features crinkled into a grin at Alec's concern. "Oh, I assure you, Hardy, Brian's so busy spinning tales of derring-do that he won't even realise I'm missing until the barman rings the ‘last orders’ bell." His eyes twinkled with mischief as he added, "But I shall duly inform him of my desertion on the way out."
His grin softened into a thoughtful expression as he studied the other, appreciating the detective’s straightforward manner and sharp instincts. The evening was turning out to be far more enjoyable than he’d anticipated, and he found himself genuinely glad for the chance encounter. In the privacy of his mind, he conceded that he rather liked Alec Hardy. It was refreshing to find a kindred spirit, especially at a place as unlikely as a police conference.
“Now, shall we decamp to the Chop House?” he asked, standing up and extending an arm towards the exit, the invitation clear in the gesture.
Alec scooted back his chair, rising with some difficulty in the cramped surroundings. “Aye. I appreciate the offer. Chops, it is.”
The men stood still for a moment, blue eyes searching brown, both of them silently wondering if this unplanned meeting might actually grow into a friendship. Stranger things had happened, after all.
“Lead on, then, Kingdom,” Alec said. “Lead on.”