The Taken Girls: An absolutely gripping crime thriller full of mystery and suspense. G Sanders D

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      Armed with a novel, Ed decided to have a cocktail before dinner. The hotel bar was a small room with some half-a-dozen barstools and as many tables. All of the tables were occupied. Ed sat at the bar and signalled to the barman. In keeping with the name on his badge, Gino was short and dark with a perceptible Italian accent and a friendly warmth conveyed by his relaxed smile.

      Ed knew exactly what she wanted: something cool. ‘A gin martini with three olives.’

      ‘Perfetto!’

      Gino placed a bowl of matchstick-thin cheese straws beside her novel and busied himself with the drink.

      ‘Something cool …’

      The phrase sparked a vivid memory of her first meeting with Don. The meeting had been her undoing. Before she could switch thoughts, the scene was replaying in her head.

      Manchester, a smart conference hotel, mid-evening; she’d chosen the smaller of the two bars. Ed was about to signal to the barman when Don appeared at her side.

      ‘What can I get you?’

      As an opening gambit this was banal in the extreme, but Don was physically imposing. Faced with three nights away from London, Ed decided to play along.

      ‘I don’t normally drink with strangers …’

      Immediately things improved. He’d known the words.

      ‘Something cool?’

      It was a track on one of her father’s CDs. Who was singing … Julia … Julie …

      ‘Julie …’ she said.

      ‘… London,’ he said.

      ‘Julie London!’ they said together and laughed.

      Two drinks, the pretence of a nightcap in his room and, before she’d paused to think, things had gone too far. They were both in over their heads.

      The following night he confessed. He was a DCI at the Met, not just the Met but three floors above her at Bishopsgate. It was then he produced the two mobile phones. It didn’t take an ambitious DS to realize that DCI Donald ‘The Don’ Johns had done this before.

      Manchester, Don and the mobiles had precipitated her downfall from the Met. Had she declined the mobile, perhaps she would have got away with a warning. Despite the ensuing catastrophe, she wasn’t bitter. Subliminally, her shoulders shrugged. She made decisions, often precipitously, and lived with the consequences. Bitterness wasn’t part of her nature.

      Ed’s thoughts were interrupted by Gino moving her novel slightly to make space for her gin martini beside the cheese straws. She studied the oil droplets on the surface of the cocktail. Biting into the first of the olives, Ed relished the savoury taste with its kick of alcohol. The mobile Don had given her was still in her room. It had taken her some weeks to come to a decision, but now she was sure. She took a mouthful of martini to celebrate and began to feel good. After a second congratulatory mouthful she felt even better.

      ‘Do you mind if I take one of your cheese straws? Gino seems to have forgotten mine.’

      Lost in her thoughts Ed had barely noticed someone take the seat next to her at the bar. She swivelled towards the voice.

      ‘No. Please. Help yourself.’

      Ed moved the bowl closer and took in her new companion at a glance. She was some ten to twelve years older than herself with short, impeccably cut steel-grey hair, little or no make-up and a well-tailored suit: no doubt a businesswoman in town for a few days and on her own for the evening.

      The woman sipped her white wine before taking a cheese straw. She looked at Ed with a faint smile but didn’t speak. Ed broke the silence.

      ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’

      ‘No. What makes you say that?’

      ‘You mentioned the barman’s name …’

      ‘Ah … I frequently drop by after work.’

      ‘So you work in town?’ Stupid question, thought Ed.

      ‘I’m at The Chronicle.’

      ‘You’re a journalist?’ Alarm bells rang in Ed’s head. Journalists were not considered good companions for a police officer unless they were open to a little corruption, a career path which Ed despised.

      On the barstool beside her, the woman inclined her head fractionally before replying. ‘The local paper, I’m the editor.’

      Another silence accompanied by the same faint smile. This time Ed waited for her new companion to continue.

      ‘And you?’ She paused, assessing the situation. ‘An academic, visiting the University?’

      Another pause. Ed remained silent.

      ‘No, if you were, your colleagues would have organized an evening out. You’re here for a day or two on a business trip … alone.’

      ‘Alone …?’

      The woman nodded towards the novel on the bar beside Ed’s martini.

      Observant. Ed smiled. ‘Half right, I’m treating myself this evening. I arrived this afternoon. I’m starting a new job on Monday.’

      ‘Congratulations.’ The woman extended her hand. ‘Verity Shaw.’

      Ed held the proffered hand briefly while saying, ‘Ed Ogborne, I’m the new DI with Canterbury CID.’

      There was a flash of surprised admiration on Verity’s face. The widening of her eyes and movement of her eyebrows were involuntary, rapid and brief, but Ed had been trained to detect such signs.

      ‘That must be worth a celebratory drink. Unfortunately this evening I’m meeting people for supper.’

      Ed’s mobile vibrated but she ignored it. She remained silent, her quizzical expression inviting Verity to expand.

      ‘They’re not big drinkers. I dropped in here for a glass before joining them.’

      Ed smiled. Here was a woman after her own heart.

      ‘Don’t tell me. I know the feeling.’

      Verity glanced at her watch and made a sad face. ‘I’m sorry, I really have to go. Perhaps we could have that drink another time?’

      ‘I’d like that.’