Page 39 of Reinventing Cato
“British modesty?” Elias smiled. “It’s unusual for us to look outside the States. We’ve come a long way to see you.”
“Just me?”
“Well… To an extent, yes.”
Oh God.Cato wanted to be flattered but…
“Top grades in GCSEs, A Levels and every special paper you sat,” Matt said. “The highest marks in the entire country in physics. First class honours at Oxford, Grade Five in your Masters. You can speak fluent Spanish and Russian. Concert level violinist. You seem pretty brilliant. Are you good at everything?”
Not at keeping hold of a guy I really liked.“I failed my cycling proficiency. It also took me three goes to get my driving licence. And I never did pass the test that involved swimming half a mile in my pyjamas. I just couldn’t see the point. If you were in water in your pyjamas, why not take them off?”
The two men laughed.
“Tell us about your doctorate.” Matt leaned back in his chair.
Something Cato didn’t have a problem talking about. “Well, I think I’ve discovered a new Einstein cross.”
Two jaws dropped.
Why do I have to show off?
By the time Cato emerged from the hotel, he was shattered. He knew they liked him and he sort of wished they didn’t. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to encourage them to not like him. Even turning up looking like a jaded rock star hadn’t put them off. Not that he was arrogant enough to think the job was his, but he knew he was in with a good chance. A few weeks ago, he’d have been ecstatic to be emerging from an interview that had gone as well as this one had. Now, he was miserable.
At Kings Cross, he bought himself a sandwich and a drink before he got on the train. He checked his phone. No missed calls, but there was a new message. Max, sayingWhen you have a moment, give me a call.
No, he wouldn’t be doing that. Nor would he be phoning anyone to tell them how the interview had gone. Instead, he tappedDetective Inspector Viggeinto Google without any hope of getting a hit.Cato let out an audible gasp when he did. Last July, DI Vigge Sorensen had appealed in theHunts Postfor help in tracing a guy who’d attacked a girl outside a nightclub in Huntingdon.
So he didn’t work in London, unless he’d transferred since the summer.
Huntingdon was twenty miles from Cambridge.
Oh God.Was that what had been wrong with Vigge? He’d guessed Cato was at Cambridge and decided it was too close? But Cato had told him he’d never out anyone. Hadn’t he?Let it go.
No, he wasn’t going to let it go. He needed to speak to him. All he had to do was call a load of police stations and ask for him. Eventually, he’d hit lucky.
Do I want to be lucky?What made him think Vigge would speak to him? Maybe Cato wouldn’t like what he heard.Why are you calling me? Don’t call me again.He thought about the times that he’d been messaged by guys who wanted to meet up again, and how he’d reacted.God, I’m a git.
But Vigge was the only one he wanted to tell about that text.
Chapter Seven
Vigge returned the rental car to Heathrow airport and drove his own vehicle home. More than six hours behind the wheel since he’d set off from the motorway motel, and he was exhausted. Barely time for a quick shower, shave and a coffee before he went to work.
One foot in the squad room and Tim Turner, one of his detective constables, called out, “Happy New Year, guv. The boss wants to see you the moment you get in.”
“Happy New Year.” He hadn’t seen Tim since Christmas Eve. “What time did your kids wake you? Who won the bet?”
“I did,” Damien said. Another of the DCs, one that Vigge thought would go far.
“Three thirty.” Tim groaned. “We made them stay in bed another hour, but they were so noisy, we gave in and got up.”
Vigge smiled as he left the room. He walked back down the corridor and knocked on Detective Chief Inspector Tony Channing’s door. His smile had gone long before he got there.
“Enter.”
Vigge popped his head around. “Morning, sir.”
“Come in. Close the door.”
