Peter James - Not Dead Yet

She feigned surprise. ‘Really? I wonder where they got that from.’

‘I wonder too,’ he said, a tad too petulantly, taking the card.

‘Do you need any help with your luggage.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I would if I had any. But thank you, British Airways, they’ve managed to lose it.’

This time her smile was genuine. ‘Poor you.’

‘They tell me it will turn up later today.’

‘We’ll bring it up to you as soon as it arrives.’

Really , he nearly said. I thought you might just put it in the middle of the lobby and have all your staff perform a rain dance around it. Instead he replied, stonily, ‘Yes, I would appreciate that.’

Then he walked away towards the lifts, clutching the little plastic room key in its paper folder, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

He was here. Checked in.

He’d reached first base of his very sketchy plan. Following his anger, unsure where it would lead.

The thing was, there was no point in suing those slimeball producers Brooker and Brody, for stealing his story. Lawsuits like that took years, he knew, he’d sued other pondlife in this goddamn viperous movie industry, and each time it was five years minimum and sometimes ten, with no certainty of winning. He didn’t have the luxury of time any more. Six months, tops, the oncologist had said. Maybe a little longer if he could control his anger, and stop that from eating him up. Pancreatic cancer, inoperable, secondaries spread too far around his body. He was riddled with the stuff.

No point in suing with that time frame. But at least he could get even. Hurt a couple of total shysters big time, before the final cut. Before he himself got flushed out of this shithole toilet called earth.

‘Unexpected item in bagging area. Remove item from the bagging area.’

Glenn Branson stared, bleary-eyed, down at the self-service machine in the Tesco Express in Hove.

‘Please remove item from the bagging area,’ the imperious, robotic female voice commanded. Glenn looked at the display on the screen, wondering what he had done wrong. The people either side of him did not seem to have any problems at all.

‘Unexpected item in bagging area,’ she proclaimed again.

He looked around for help, and yawned. It was 8 p.m., Sunday evening, and he felt exhausted. Since yesterday morning when Roy Grace had made him deputy SIO on Operation Icon , he had taken his duties seriously, staying up for most of the night working on his Policy Book, reading through the Murder Manual , and ensuring all the lines of enquiry that Grace had suggested he make were being covered.

He looked down at the bagging area, trying to figure out what the offending item might be. The quart of skimmed milk? The low-calorie moussaka that he was planning for his supper along with the mixed leaf salad? The aerosol can of spray polish? The packet of absorbent cloths? The box of goldfish food? The six-pack of Grolsch lager?

For months now he had been lodging in Grace’s house, thanks to his mate’s kindness. Roy Grace had effectively moved in to Cleo’s home, so he felt a sense of responsibility for looking after the place and keeping it neat and tidy, especially since it was now on the market. He knew that in his first few months of living there he had let the place become a tip; he was so cut up over his marriage breakdown, he had at times been finding it hard to focus. He was still cut up, but he was getting through it – largely thanks to Roy’s support. The least he could do to repay him was keep his house in good order.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

A young, Indian man in a blue Tesco top and black trousers was smiling at him.

Yes, you can, you can tell me the identity of a headless, armless, legless corpse found at Stonery Farm yesterday , he would have liked to have said. Instead he replied, ‘Yeah, thanks. I can’t figure out why she keeps shouting at me.’

The young man held a card on a chain over the barcode reader, then tapped several buttons. ‘Okay, sir, enter your credit card, please.’

Two minutes later, Glenn left the store and walked across the expanse of tarmac towards his car. As he did so he passed a young couple unloading the contents of their trolley into the boot of their car. His heart tightened. A year ago – less – that would have been Ari and himself.

Sunday evening. They would have put the kids to bed and settled in front of the television with a simple, healthy snack. Hummus and pitta bread and olives was Ari’s favourite Sunday evening meal. And Top Gear , of course. He glanced at his watch.

Shit.

Top Gear was on tonight and he’d forgotten to record it.

He broke into a run.

Anna only found out by chance, by a Google alert she had signed up to which picked up all online mentions of her idol, that Gaia was a guest on Top Gear tonight. Her Star in a Reasonably Priced Car , according to the alert, had been filmed earlier in the year, when she had last been over here.

Cars were not Anna’s thing. She had watched the show once before to see what all the fuss was about, and had turned it off in a huff when Jeremy Clarkson had been rude about Nissan Micras. That was the car she owned and liked, in an attractive shade of orange. It was a good car, easy to park, perfect for driving around this city. She did not need a Ferrari, even if she could afford one. Nor an Aston Martin. Or a Bentley. Although she had to admit that Gaia’s sports Mercedes was a bit special. She could see herself in that.

With Gaia, seated beside her, driving.

Now, on Sunday night she was glued to the screen, and suddenly, there, on the horrible old pea-green car seat, sat Gaia! Tonight’s Star in a Reasonably Priced Car !

Jeremy Clarkson, in blue jeans, an open-neck white shirt and a jacket that looked like he had borrowed it from someone much smaller, was interviewing her, or rather at this moment, in her soft Californian accent, she seemed to be interviewing him.

Gaia was dressed all in black. Her signal! The one they had agreed in their last telepathic communication. Gaia’s special colour worn just for her.

Black T-shirt. Black, figure-hugging leather jacket. Black leather skirt. Black tights. Long black suede boots.

Gaia, you are so good to me. So good. We are old spirits, you and I. We’ve met before in past lives. We’ve been lovers before, we both know that. Now sit sideways, please, to show me that you love me!

As she mouthed the words, Gaia suddenly obliged, uncrossing her legs, and turning provocatively sideways, her skirt sliding up her thighs. She threw Anna a direct glance. Looking with her wide blue eyes directly into her soul. Then she winked.

Anna winked back.

Jeremy Clarkson laughed at some joke Gaia had cracked and that Anna had missed. He was fawning over Gaia. But Anna didn’t care. She wasn’t jealous of Jeremy Clarkson. She wasn’t interested in what Gaia Lafayette and Jeremy Clarkson said to each other, nor was she interested in what either of them said to the millions of viewers.

She was only interested in Gaia’s responses to her. And her idol was responding just the way she had asked her to.

‘So you got your interest in cars from a very special lover, it says on your website,’ Jeremy Clarkson went on. ‘A Formula One driver. Could it have been the Stig?’

Gaia laughed. ‘We don’t know who the new Stig is, right?’

‘Not until he sells his story to the press like the last one, no.’

She pointed at her chest. ‘I’m not with him on that. People should not sell secrets.’ Then she raised her right hand, pressed her thumb, middle finger and ring finger together and raised the other two fingers in the air. ‘Secret fox! Right?’ It was her signature image, a shadow boxing image of a fox, mimicking the design which was on all her merchandise.