Peter James - Not Dead Yet

‘Okay, sounds interesting.’

‘Well, it’s looking encouraging. She wants to have a second viewing.’

That’s brilliant news, Grace thought, wondering how he was going to break it to Glenn.

‘I thought you’d be pleased!’

‘I am,’ Roy Grace said. ‘The timing could not be better.’

Roy Grace was pretty happy with how the Carl Venner trial was going. The ghastly fat snuff movie king and paedophile, with a penchant for Breitling watches, had done himself no favours.

And for the first time in a very long while, to his great relief, Grace had spent an entire week as the Duty Senior Investigating Officer without a single major crime incident happening in the city of Brighton and Hove. Which meant he was available day and night to take Cleo to hospital the moment labour began.

The King’s Lover was in its final week of location shooting in and around Brighton, before moving up to Pinewood studios, and miraculously was only four days behind schedule. The texts from Gaia, to Grace’s relief, but at the same time, slight disappointment, had stopped. Although he had paid a couple of visits to the set and been greeted by Gaia on each occasion as somewhat more than her new best friend.

Eric Whiteley was still on life support in the ICU, tying up valuable resources in what Grace considered a pointless, but requisite, around-the-clock police guard.

It was a Monday afternoon in late June, as he was about to leave for home, when his phone rang. He heard an American accent.

‘Detective Grace? This is Detective Myman, from the Los Angeles Police Threat Management Unit. We have kind of a number of loose ends to tie up relating to Gaia Lafayette and, in particular, the deceased Drayton Wheeler.’

‘You’re telling me. I’m working on it right now.’

‘It would speed up the process if it were possible for one of your team to come over here. Wouldn’t need them for more than a couple of days.’

‘The issue we have right now is our budgets,’ Grace said.

‘That’s not a problem. The LAPD would be happy to pick up the tab for the air fare – and we’d take care of whoever came over. Can you suggest who might be the best person on your team? Yourself perhaps?’

Grace thought hard. Because of the consultant obstetrician’s concerns, Cleo was booked into the maternity ward of the Royal Sussex County Hospital the following Monday, to have the baby by caesarean section. With the risk that she might need to go in earlier, there was no way he could go. But a break might do Glenn some good, what with him seeming particularly miserable at the moment.

He told Myman he would get back to him later in the day.

As he hung up, his phone pinged with a text.

Hey Mr Paul Newman Eyes! I have some free time on Thursday evening. Leaving town at the weekend. Can I invite you to my suite for a good-bye drink? XXXX

Thursday was his boys’ poker night, a tradition that had been going on for years, and except when work intervened, he tried never to miss a game. Perhaps he could fit in a very quick drink with her before joining the boys. He would do that and then go on to the game.

On the Friday night, despite being exhausted from all that had happened in recent weeks, combined with the Carl Venner trial, Roy Grace barely slept at all. Whenever he was not wide awake, tossing around, shaking lumps out of his pillows, Cleo was, with Bump going totally berserk inside her.

Somehow, miraculously, around 7 a.m. he fell into a deep sleep, and did not wake until 10 a.m. on Saturday morning.

Despite still feeling groggy, he pulled on his shorts, T-shirt and trainers, and went for his favourite run, down on to the seafront, by the Palace Pier, then along to the Deep Sea Anglers club by Shoreham Harbour and back. A circuit just short of five miles.

When he got back he slipped out of his clothes and went gratefully into the bathroom. One of the many things he loved about Cleo was her taste in showers. A rain shower-head, a face-on jet and sideways jets, if you wanted them on as well. He was luxuriating in them when suddenly the bathroom door opened so violently, he thought it was coming off its hinges.

Cleo stood there, in a baggy shirt-waister, clutching a copy of the Argus , with a face like thunder.

He switched the taps off and stepped out, water running down his body.

‘So poker on Thursday was good, was it?’

She was brandishing the paper like a weapon.

‘I sort of broke even, I told you.’

‘Sounds like you edited one bit out, Roy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Oh? Oh yes, actually. Take a look at this! Perhaps it will help jog your memory.’

His heart sank as he saw the front page splash.

Top cop and Gaia: is it love?

Beneath was a photograph of Roy Grace and Gaia, clearly taken with a long lens, standing side by side, looking out of the window of her Grand Hotel suite.

‘Hey, I can explain.’

‘Can you?’ she said.

Never, in all their time together, had he seen her so angry.

She stormed out. He grabbed a towel, and was just starting to dry himself when she marched back in with an open copy of the Saturday Mirror . The headline ran across the top of the page.

Gaia and Brighton cop’s secret love tryst!

Beneath was a similar long-lens photograph to the one in the Argus , but in this one, Gaia was giving Roy Grace a kiss on the cheek.

He read the first paragraph of the story:

Rock legend, Gaia, in Brighton to shoot her latest movie, The King’s Lover , has been repaying the City’s top homicide cop, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, for successfully foiling an attempt on her life, by secret love trysts with him in her hotel suite. The couple are pictured above about to enjoy a romantic candlelit dinner.

‘This is unbelievable!’

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is. I just can’t believe you’d do this, Roy.’

‘Darling, listen! This is bullshit, complete and utter bullshit! I can explain!’

‘Great. I am all ears. Explain!’

Then, suddenly she gripped her abdomen and screamed out in pain, all the colour draining from her face. ‘Roy, oh my God, oh my God!’

The obituary in the Argus read:

GRACE. Noah Jack

On July 2nd. Died tragically shortly after birth. Much loved son of Roy and Cleo. Private funeral for family only.

Roy Grace had tears in his eyes as he watched Cleo cradling their son, in her bed in the maternity ward of the Royal Sussex County Hospital. The baby’s pink face was all scrunched up, his eyes were closed, his lips formed a tiny rosebud. Thin tufts of wavy fair hair lay across his head. He was dressed in a pale blue V-neck cotton top, embroidered with a mouse wearing striped shorts.

It was incredible, he thought, unable to take his eyes off him. His son. Their child. He breathed in the sweet smells of freshly washed skin and baby powder. Looked at Cleo, tresses of her hair lying across the shoulders of her nightdress, her face filled with so much love and care.

Then his phone rang. As he answered it, he stepped away from the bed and went out into the corridor. It was Glenn Branson.

‘I’m so sorry, mate, we’re all gutted.’

‘Gutted? What’s happened?’

‘Well, you know – I thought the baby was doing fine – then we saw it in the Argus this morning. I don’t know what to say. How’s Cleo?’

‘Hang on a sec, saw what in the Argus ?’

There was a moment of awkward silence. ‘Well – the obit, right?’