Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

‘Liver?’ Grace echoed.

She nodded.

‘Did you find out anything else?’

The DI shook her head. ‘No. Malcolm Beckett was very guarded – in my view, too guarded.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think he had something to hide.’

‘Such as?’

‘He kept saying that his daughter lived with his ex-wife and he rarely saw her, so he didn’t really know what was wrong with her. That didn’t ring true to me – as a parent. Nor did he pass the Detective Superintendent Grace eye test.’

Grace smiled.

‘Perhaps we should put in for a phone tap, Roy?’ David Browne said.

‘I don’t think we have enough to get one at this stage, but I think we’ve enough to warrant a monitoring of calls to that number.’

‘Presumably this Lynn Beckett has a mobile too,’ Guy Batchelor said.

‘Yes, someone needs to get on to the mobile phone companies, see what they’ve got registered to that name and address.’ He looked at his notes again. ‘Tomorrow, I’m flying to Munich and back in the evening, so DI Mantle will be taking over command until I return. Any questions?’

There were none until after the briefing had ended, when Glenn Branson caught up with Roy Grace as he headed along the network of corridors back towards his office. They stopped in front of a diagram that looked like a spider’s web, pinned to a red felt noticeboard which was headed COMMON POSSIBLE MOTIVES.

‘Yo, old-timer,’ he said. ‘This trip to Munich – it wouldn’t be anything connected with Sandy, would it?’

Grace shook his head. ‘God, no. I have an appointment with the organ broker woman – I’m posing as a customer. And while I’m over there my LKA friend is going to slip me some files – on the QT.’

On the diagram behind Glenn’s head Grace read the words, DESIRE, POWER, CONTROL, HATE, REVENGE.

Glenn stared hard at him. ‘Are you sure that’s the only reason for your visit? It’s just – you know – you and I haven’t talked about Sandy in a while, and now you’re going to the place were there was a reported sighting of her.’

‘That sighting was a red herring, Glenn. You know what I really think?’

‘No, you’ve never told me what you really think. Got time for a drink?’

Grace looked at his watch. ‘Actually I’ve got to swing by the house to pick up some clothes, but I’ve got half an hour’s stuff to do in my office first. Where do you fancy?’

‘The usual?’

Grace shrugged. The Black Lion was not his favourite pub, in a city that was filled with great watering holes, but it was convenient and had its own car park. He looked at his watch again.

‘Meet you there at a quarter to eight. But one drink only.’

When Grace arrived, ten minutes later than he had said, Glenn was already seated at a quiet corner table, with a pint in front of him, and a tumbler of whisky on the rocks, with a jug of water on the side, for Grace.

‘Glenfiddich?’ Branson said.

‘Good man.’

‘I don’t know why you like that stuff.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t know why you like Guinness.’

‘No, what I mean is that Glenfiddich isn’t the purist single malt, right?’

‘Yep, but I like it best of any I’ve ever drunk. You have a problem with that?’

‘You ever see that film Whisky Galore?’

‘About the shipwreck off the Scottish coast – with a cargo of whisky?’

‘I’m impressed. You do actually impress me sometimes. You aren’t a complete cultural ignoramus. Even though you have rubbish taste in clothes and music.’

‘Yep, well, I wouldn’t want to be too perfect.’ Grace grinned. ‘Anyway, how are you? What’s happening with Mrs Branson?’

‘Let’s not even go there.’ Glenn shook his head. ‘It’s a fucking train crash, OK?’ He raised his glass and drank. Then, wiping the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, ‘I want to hear about you and Munich – and Sandy?’

Grace picked up the tumbler and swirled the ice cubes around. Johnny Cash’s ‘Ring of Fire’ was twanging out of the pub’s speakers.

‘Now, that’s real music.’

Branson rolled his eyes.

Grace took a sip, then put the glass down.

‘I think Sandy’s dead – and that she’s been dead for a long time. I’ve been a fool for holding out hope. All it’s done is to lose me years of my life.’ He shrugged. ‘All those mediums.’ He sipped some more whisky. ‘You know, a lot of them said the same thing, that they could not get through to her – meaning that she was not in spirit – like, the spirit world.’

‘What does that signify?’

‘If she’s not in the spirit world – i.e. dead – then she must be alive – in their rationale.’ He drank some more, and saw to his surprise that he had drained the glass. Lifting it up, he said, ‘That was a double?’

Glenn nodded.

‘I’ll get one more – just a single – keep me legal. Another half for you?’

‘A pint. I’m a big guy – I can take more than you!’

Grace returned with their fresh drinks and sat down, noting that Branson had drained his first pint in his absence.

‘So you don’t believe these mediums?’ Branson asked. ‘Even though you’ve always had a belief in the paranormal?’

‘I don’t know what to believe. It’ll be ten years next year that she’s been gone. That’s long enough. She’s either physically dead or at least dead to me. If she is alive and hasn’t made contact in nine years, she’s not going to.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘I don’t want to lose Cleo, Glenn.’

‘She’s well fit. Great lady. I’m with you on that.’

‘If I don’t let go of Sandy, I will lose Cleo. I’m not going to let that happen.’

Glenn touched his friend’s face gently with his balled fist. ‘Good man, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you talk like this.’

Grace nodded. ‘It’s the first time I’ve felt like this. I’ve given instructions to my solicitor to start the process to have Sandy declared legally dead.’

Staring at him intently, Glenn said, ‘You know, mate, it’s not just the legal process, it’s the mental one that’s the most important, yeah?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

He tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s believing it – in here.’

‘I do,’ Roy Grace said, then smiled wryly. ‘Trust me, I’m a copper.’

Dr Ross Hunter sat on the edge of Caitlin’s bed, while Lynn was downstairs, fussing up a cup of tea for him.

The chaotic room was stuffy and airless, and thick with the rancid smell of Caitlin’s perspiration. He could feel the clammy heat coming off her as he stared through his half-moon tortoiseshell glasses at her deeply jaundiced face and the heavy dark rings around her eyes. Her hair was matted. She lay under the bedclothes, propped up against the pillows, wearing a pink dressing gown over her nightdress, with her headphones hanging around her neck, and the small white iPod lying on top of her duvet, alongside a paperback about Jordan’s life and several fluffy bears.

‘How are you feeling, Caitlin?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been sent glitter,’ she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

‘Glitter?’ He frowned.

‘Someone sent me glitter, on Facebook,’ she mumbled, only semi-coherently.

‘What exactly do you mean by glitter ?’

‘It’s like, you know, a Facebook thing. My friend Gemma sent it. And I’ve been poked by Mitzi.’

‘OK.’ He looked bemused.

‘I got sent wheels by Mitch Symons – you know – so I can get around more easily.’

The doctor peered around the room, looking for wheels. He stared at the dartboard on the wall, with a purple boa hanging from it. At a saxophone case propped up against a wall. Then at a tiny toy horse on wheels, standing amid the shoes scattered all over the carpet.