Peter James - Dead at First Sight

Grace looked at the house, still finding it hard to take in that he actually lived here now. Their home, their sanctuary. The rural air, tinged with woodsmoke, smelled so good. It was strange, he thought, standing here in almost pitch blackness. He used to be afraid of the dark when he was a kid, but now he felt safe in it. Secure. Far more so than he’d ever done living in the centre of the city with all the street lights — and shadows.

Built in the 1930s for a farm labourer and his family, it wasn’t the prettiest, picture-postcard cottage in the world. It had been built on the cheap, with plain, rendered exterior walls, and every window was a different size, making it look slightly lopsided. But he and Cleo loved both the house and the isolation, a place where she could escape from her duties in the mortuary, the never-ending task of receiving and preparing bodies, and trying to find words of comfort for each newly bereaved relative as they faced probably the worst moment of their life — identifying their loved one’s body. And a place where he could get away from the pressure-cooker environment of Major Crime Investigation, chill with his family and recharge his batteries, if only, often, for just a few hours.

Ten minutes later, changed from his suit into jeans and a quilted gilet, he went downstairs, removed his laptop from his bag and plonked it down on an armchair opposite Cleo. She was on the sofa, surrounded by her coursework papers for the Open University degree she was taking in philosophy — which she had been steadily working on ever since he’d known her. Snug in a loose-fitting jumper, with the fire blazing, she looked cosy and contented. But Roy knew just how frustrated she was that she wasn’t getting through the course more quickly. A combination of both a demanding job and home life made it hard to find the time to study, and with no classroom to turn up to, self-motivation was challenging.

They’d yet to go through a full winter here, and on the advice of other friends who’d made the move to the countryside, they’d invested in a wood-burning stove to supplement their heating. And tonight, with a draught blowing through the single glazing, he was glad they had. He took a log out of the basket, opened the door of the stove and pushed it into the flames, shutting the door again immediately. Then he looked enviously at Cleo’s glass. But it wasn’t an option, not even one small glass — he wouldn’t take the risk. If there were any developments on the case he could be called back out.

‘Supper in half an hour?’ Cleo said.

‘Sure.’ He sat down and opened the lid of his computer.

‘You seem very distant tonight,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ he replied. ‘Pewe is down my throat over Suzy Driver.’

‘He’s still angry at you for making it a murder enquiry?’

‘Yes.’

‘For God’s sake, Roy, Suzy Driver was murdered, no question. She did not hang herself. Frazer has no doubt at all. EJ was at the postmortem, along with Michelle. Tell Pewe to speak to either of them or read the interim report!’

‘I know. I’m on it. My team had the prime suspect sighted in the centre of Brighton this afternoon, but he disappeared.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyhow, sorry I’ve not asked — how was your day? How are the kids?’

As if on cue, there was a faint gurgle from the baby monitor on the table beside her. ‘Noah’s fine, he’s asleep. Bruno’s upstairs playing that game again. Him and half the youth of this nation.’ Then she brightened. ‘But hey, he’s made a friend at school!’

‘What? He has?’

Bruno’s lack of friends had been a big worry to both of them. He’d not seemed interested in making any friends at all. Their attempts at introducing him to similar-aged sons of friends had not gone well and there had been no further contact with any of them. For these past six months that Bruno had been living with them, he never spoke of contact with anyone else.

‘He’s been invited to a birthday party in a gaming bus!’

‘A what? Gaming party bus? ’

‘It’s a new craze, apparently. Parents can hire this bus which rocks up at your house and all the kids get into it and play games!’

‘OK,’ he said, dubiously. ‘Games? Like hide-and-seek and pass-the-parcel?’

‘Don’t show your age! Children’s games are a bit more sophisticated these days, methinks — electronic — mostly video games. Don’t you think it’s brilliant, Roy — just the fact that he’s been invited and seems keen to go?’

‘Sure.’

‘You don’t sound that excited.’

‘No, I am, absolutely. It’s just...’ His voice tailed off.

‘I know what you’re going to say, but I think we should give him more time before we... you know... take him to any kind of specialist. Going to a party is a really big step forward for him, perhaps a turning point in getting him more socialized.’

‘Yes,’ he said, walking upstairs, wishing he could believe it. He stuck his head into Noah’s bedroom, lit with the weak glow of the nightlight, and tiptoed over to the cot. The boy was sound asleep, on his side. He would do anything for this little chap. But, he wondered guiltily, would he do the same for Bruno? He quickly dismissed the thought. As the animal mobile above him tinged in the draught, he blew Noah a kiss and stepped back and out of the room, closing the door silently.

Then he went along to Bruno’s room.

Outside the door, he could hear gunfire, explosions and Bruno shouting out loud, one moment in joy then the next in anger. He went in. Bruno was in his usual pose, lying back on the bed in jeans and a T-shirt, staring at the screen in fierce life-or-death concentration, his fingers moving in a blur on the control unit.

On the screen Grace saw an old bus, high in the sky, functioning as the basket for a hot-air balloon; a crouched man in military gear with a pickaxe sticking out of his backpack, aiming an automatic weapon. Swooping down aggressively out of the sky was a man on some kind of powered hang-glider, fashioned from what looked like an old window frame and shutters. There were explosions everywhere around a strange landscape with weird architecture and some ruins.

He walked round the side of the bed into his son’s line of sight and said, ‘Hi, Bruno, how are you doing?’

Bruno gave him a dismissive wave, furrowing his brow in even deeper concentration, either feigned or real, Roy couldn’t be sure, and either way it angered him.

He stood for a moment. Just to let Bruno know he wasn’t going away simply because he was being ignored. But, within seconds, he could see that Bruno was completely absorbed again, living and breathing the game. Life or death.

The sheer intensity of the boy’s focus disturbed him a little. It was as if he’d gone through a parallel universe and was inside the set himself. Maybe that was the aim of the modern game creators. A kind of simulated or virtual reality that was more real than life itself.

A few minutes ago Cleo had implied he was a dinosaur. Only partly in jest. He was aware how little he knew about the culture of youngsters today, and that there was no point at all, he realized, in trying to draw from his own memories of being that age. During the time when he had been off, he’d tried very hard to engage with Bruno and learn a little more about his likes and dislikes, but virtually nothing had been forthcoming.

Bruno suddenly surprised Roy by muting the sound and turning to face him with a softer, more vulnerable expression than he’d seen before.

‘I know we still need to speak, Bruno — but I’ve been very busy with work.’

‘So how many bad guys did you catch today?’

Grace laughed. And suddenly they were chatting easily for a good fifteen minutes, more like mates than a father and son.