'Chin chin,' she says, and sips from her glass.

'Cheers.'

We drink in silence. I look around her flat. Lots of books. Lots of CDs. Church candles skewered in wrought iron candlesticks. The place looks like an Ikea showroom. When I look at her, I notice she's staring at me. 'What?' I say.

'You look lonely,' she says.

I always look lonely,' I say. 'The wind changed.'

'And you stayed like that.'

'Exactly'

'I think I jacked in my job today,' she says. 'Really?'

I should have gone back to work after lunch. If I'd had any sense, I would have gone back to work.’

‘Tell them you were sick.'

'I've been sick a lot recently' She picks out an ice cube and sucks on it, then drops it back in her glass. I hate my job.’

‘Get another one.'

I might have to. You need a secretary?' I can't pay you.'

'Cheap bastard.' She smiles. She has really great teeth. American teeth. She stretches in the chair and then shifts position, throwing her legs up over the arm and tugs at the hem of her skirt. I try not to look. 'I don't think I could be a secretary, anyway,' she says. 'Too close to being a PA. Besides, my shorthand stinks.'

'So what do you want to do with your life?' I say.

'I don't know. I suppose I could be a lady of leisure.’

‘That's not a career.'

'It's a vocation.' She knocks back the rest of her Glenfiddich and pours another. 'See?’

‘Yeah, I see. Very leisurely.'

Donna pulls herself up in the chair, narrows her eyes at me. 'You don't like me, do you?’

‘Don't know what you mean.’

‘I mean, you haven't tried anything.’

‘You what?'

She gets up with some effort, walks over to me and sits on the couch. 'I mean, you haven't tried chatting me up.'

'You want me to chat you up?'

'Ach, you're right. We're probably past that stage now.’

‘I think you're probably right,' I say, shifting in my seat. 'I should go back to my hotel, really.’

‘Hotel? You're staying in a hotel?’

‘Yeah.'

'You're not from Newcastle. I knew that, but I thought you lived up here. Why're you staying in a hotel?’

‘I'm up here on business,' I say. 'So you are working. You owe me drinks, pal.’

‘Kind of. It's too complicated to explain.’

‘I've got all night.'

We sit in silence. She pours me another drink. It glugs into the glass, a heavy measure. Too heavy for me, but I give it my best shot. After a few drinks, I'm sitting back in the couch and we're both listening to John Lee Hooker.

My eyes start closing. Then I say, 'I can't stay, y'know. Things to do tomorrow.'

'You don't have to,' she says. She's leaning against me, has her hand on the inside of my thigh. It hasn't moved for three songs and I haven't had the heart to remove it. In a way, it's comforting. In another, it ties my stomach into a half-hitch.

I should call a cab,' I say as the song finishes.

'Be my guest,' she says.

Donna follows me downstairs when the taxi arrives. I turn to talk to her, and she snakes her arms around my waist. The alcohol on her breath makes me lazy.

'You've got my number,' she says. 'You call me, okay?'

'I'll call you.'

'Course you will. You love me.'

I blink. If there's a reply to that statement that doesn't make me look like a soppy get or a complete shithead, I don't know what it is. So I keep my mouth shut. She reaches up, plants a smacker on my cheek, another on my bottom lip. 'Don't think so much, Cal.'

She has the clearest blue eyes I've ever seen. Maybe it's the booze, but I'm transfixed. She shakes me gently. 'Taxi's waiting. And from the look of him, he's already flipped the meter.'

'Course. Sorry. Look, I will call you, okay?' I know. And look, I'm glad you're a gentleman. I think I have a yeast infection.' Who says romance is dead?

I get in the cab and she watches from her door as the car pulls away. Then the whole weight of the night's drinking comes crashing down on me. I give my head a shake and wipe my nose.

How's that, Cal?

Things could have been different back there. She wanted me to stay the night, and not in a slumber party sense. It wasn't as if I'm not attracted to her.

No, that's not it. I was being a gentleman. Let's face it, she was drunk. I'm drunk. And brewer's droop is a real mood-killer.

And telling her I was a PI, for fuck's sake, what brought that on? Who the hell was I trying to impress? Private investigators have steel in their pocket and iron in their spit. Me, I've got shit in my pants and blood in my mouth. Maybe if I'd met her a couple of months down the line, when I was more settled. It could have worked then.

'Don't think so much, Cal'

When I get back to the hotel, I head straight for my room. As straight as I can, anyway — my legs are intent on following separate paths. I lock the door behind me, turn on the television. The volume makes my head hurt, so I tap the remote until all I hear is a murmur. Then I grab my mobile out of my inside pocket and sling my jacket onto the bed.

I need to harden up.

'Who's this?' says Mo.

'It's Cal,' I say.

'Cal?' He's shouting into the phone. From the noise in the background, I'd swear he was in a pub. 'Callum Innes, Mo. You know me.’

‘Right. Where are you?’

‘Newcastle.'

'Fuck you doing in Newcastle?’

‘Stokes is here.'

'Fuckin' hell, you are a detective, ain't you? Wait, I'll get summat to write this down.’

‘I don't have an address yet.’

‘Then why you calling me?’

‘I need to negotiate a fee.'

Mo laughs, a high-pitched cackle. 'You're taking the piss, mate. You already negotiated your fee with me dad.’

‘The case has changed.'

'The case! Fuck are you on, Innes? The case isn't a fuckin' case. You're up there to find the cunt. There's no fuckin' mystery to it. You're not out to nail Colonel Mustard because he topped some daft bastard in the conservatory with the fuckin' candlestick. You're up there to scout, you're up there to find a fuckin' thief, so don't go getting ideas above your station, mate.'

Okay, so this was a bad idea, but I plough on. 'You seem to forget, Mo. I'm straight. And when I find this guy, give you the address, you'll come up here and fuck him over. That makes me an accessory. He'll be able to identify me. And while you might be able to get out of a fuckin' sentence because some weak cunt keeps his mouth shut, I don't have that much sway, do I?'

'What d'you want me to tell you? You knew what this were about.'

I want more money.'

There's a pause at the other end. 'You're drunk.’

‘Expenses, Mo.'

'You're fuckin' drunk. I knew it. I told Dad, don't hire a pisshead. Christ.'

I give it up here, Mo.'

'Don't think you're threatening us, Innes. Get bolshy with me and I'll nail you to the fuckin' floor. Tell you what, I'll be the gentleman and think you're just pissed out of your tiny little mind. I'll put it down to the booze and I won't bear a grudge. Now get back under your rock and don't call us until you got an address.'

Click, and he's gone.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Look across at the telly. It's Bogart and Lorre in fuzzy black-and-white.

Bogie says, 'When you're slapped, you'll take it and like it.'

Never a truer word, but it doesn't stop that slap from hurting.