Peter James: Not Dead Yet

‘Obituary?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s died?’

There was another silence. ‘Your baby, right? Noah Jack Grace?’

‘What? Are you serious?’

‘Got it on my desk right in front of me. Everyone’s in tears here.’

‘Glenn, there’s been a mistake. We had a horrendous couple of days. Noah was born with breathing difficulties – wet lung syndrome, they called it. They weren’t sure if he was going to make it.’

‘Yeah, you told me. But, you know, you said he was getting stronger.’

‘He was all intubated and wired up in an incubator at first – neither of us was allowed to touch him. But he’s fine now, Cleo’s holding him; hopefully we can take him home soon.’

‘So who the hell screwed up with the obituary?’ Glenn asked.

‘I can’t believe this. You’re sure?’

‘I’ve got it in front of me in black and white.’

‘Shit. I’m going straight down to the shop to get one. I don’t think anyone’s screwed up. Obituaries don’t get put in by mistake,’ Grace said grimly. Inside, he was shaking.

Freedom for Amis Smallbone, among other things, meant being able to enjoy some of life’s simple pleasures. One of them had always been sitting at a table under the Arches on the seafront, right by the beach, staring out at the sea and the Palace Pier and the passing totty.

By night, this area was rich pickings for the network of drug dealers he once controlled, but on a fine summer morning it was mostly tourists promenading along, enjoying the views, the beach, the bars, cafes, shops and other seaside attractions.

And there were few things he enjoyed more than his first coffee of the day with the Argus newspaper. Especially when an endless procession of skimpily dressed girls were strutting past at eye level.

With his cigarette in his mouth, smoke curling up between his eyes, he flicked through the pages, aware he still had years to catch up on in this town. He saw an interview with the Chief Constable talking about cuts he was having to make and read the piece with little sympathy. There was talk of a new hospital. A bunch of drug dealers in Crawley, a couple of whom he knew, had been arrested in a raid the police had been working on for ten months.

His eyes widened a little and he read this story carefully. Could be a business opportunity had opened up there. Then he reached one of the pages that always interested him the most. YOUR ANNOUNCEMENTS.

He went straight to the DEATHS, and scanned down the column. He never ever missed this column, because he liked to know who he had outlived, and who he didn’t have to worry about any more.

But today there was a very special entry.

She liked Gatwick Airport; it was much more convenient for Brighton than Heathrow and easyJet had direct flights to Munich.

Holding hands with her ten-year-old son, after security she walked into the duty-free shopping area. Immediately the boy dragged her into Dixons, where she bought him an upgrade for his latest computer gaming machine, which made him happy.

The one good thing that had happened in the past decade was her careful investing of her windfall inheritance from her aunt, enabling her to escape from her relationship with the increasingly insane control freak Hans-Jürgen. She was now a wealthy woman. Well, wealth was all relative, but she had enough to buy the house, if she decided, and to buy things for her son without having to consider the cost.

Emerging from Dixons, she made straight for the WH Smith news and bookstore.

‘Just want to get some papers, in case they don’t have them on the plane.’ Then in German she asked her son if he would like something to read on the flight to Munich. ‘Mochste Du etwas zum lesen?’

He shrugged indifferently, engrossed in the instructions on the game upgrade.

Straight away, she grabbed a copy of the Argus from the rack, and flicked it open, scanning the pages eagerly.

On the Wednesday morning, Roy Grace drove Cleo and Noah home. Cleo sat in the back of his unmarked Ford Focus, with Noah strapped in the baby seat he had fitted temporarily into the vehicle.

There were few moments when he could remember feeling the sense of the richness of human life that he was experiencing at this moment. He had a lump in his throat, tears welling in his eyes as he drove around past the Pavilion; with all the film trucks gone, it seemed strangely quiet. Cleo’s tantrum over Gaia seemed long ago now, and she had totally accepted that nothing had happened beyond his having had a drink with the icon.

He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw her smiling at him. She blew him a kiss. He mouthed one back.

The obituary in the Argus remained a mystery for the moment. Apparently it had been delivered by a taxi driver who had not yet been traced, the instructions inside an envelope, printed on a local funeral director’s headed paper, which turned out to have been forged.

Of course he had his prime suspect. Although it beggared belief that, if it was him, Smallbone could be so stupid – or perhaps so brazen.

Noah made a gurgling sound, as if he, too, was excited at going home, for the first time in his life. The sound made Grace think of the enormity of the task that lay ahead of them. Bringing up their child and protecting him in a world that was as dark and dangerous as it always had been, and probably always would be.

He remembered something he had been told, long ago, by the then Chief Constable who had invited him in for a talk during those first terrible weeks after Sandy had gone missing. The Chief had been a surprisingly spiritual man. He said something Roy had never forgotten, and the words he often returned to strengthened him at tough moments.

The light can only shine in darkness .

As ever I owe thanks to very many people who so kindly and patiently put up with my endless questions, and generously gave me so much of their time. Most of all is the debt I owe to Sussex Police. My first thank you is to the Chief Constable, Martin Richards, QPM, for his continued help and in particular his very considerable input and wisdom on this book.

Retired Detective Chief Superintendent David Gaylor of Sussex CID, the inspiration behind Roy Grace, gives me continuous insight into the mind of a Senior Investigating Officer, helping to ensure Roy Grace thinks the way a sharp detective would, and to shape my books in so many other ways, too.

Chief Superintendent Graham Bartlett, Commander of Brighton and Hove Police, has also been immensely helpful on this book. Chief Inspector Jason Tingley has been a total star, helping me both creatively and procedurally on many aspects of this story. As also have DCI Nick Sloan, DCI Trevor Bowles and Inspector Andy Kille.

A huge debt also to Detective Superintendent Andy Griffith; Senior Support Officer Tony Case; PC Martin Light of the Metropolitan Police Territorial Support Group; DI William Warner; Sgt Phil Taylor and Ray Packham of the High Tech Crime Unit; Inspector James Biggs; PC Tony Omotoso; DS Simon Bates; Sgt Lorna Dennison-Wilkins and the entire Specialist Search Unit; DI Emma Brice, Professional Standards Department, Sussex Police; Sgt Malcolm Buckingham and John Sheridan, TFU Training; Chris Heaver; Martin Bloomfield; Sue Heard, Press and PR Officer; Neil (Nobby) Hall; John Vickerstaff.

Thanks also to Fire Inspection Officer Tim Eady, Kathy Burke, of West Sussex Fire and Rescue, and to Dave Phillips and Vicky Seal of the South East Coast Ambulance Service.

Very special thanks to the New York Police Department; to Detective Investigator Patrick Lanigan, Special Investigations Unit, Office of the District Attorney; Assistant Chief Michel Moore of the Los Angeles Police Department, and Detective Jeff Dunn of the Threat Management Unit of the LAPD. Thanks also to Robert Darwell and Philip Philibosian of Sheppard Mullin.