Peter James - Looking Good Dead

Oh God, my sweet, lovely Kellie, please be OK, please come back. I love you so much.

At the top of the stairs, he carried Jessica into her bedroom then closed the door behind him and sat her down on the bed. He sat beside her.

‘Jessica, can Daddy ask you about something you said this morning about Mummy? I said we would ask Mummy what she would like to do today if she came back in time, and you said, “She’ll probably just want to drink vodka.” Remember?’

Jessica stared silently ahead.

‘Do you remember saying that, darling?’

Pouting grumpily she said, ‘You drink vodka, too.’

‘Yes, I do. But why did you say that?’

Downstairs he suddenly heard Lady barking. Then the doorbell rang. He heard Max shout out, ‘MUMMY! MUMMY! MUMMEEEEEEE! MUMMY’S HOME!’

Tom, his heart racing with sudden elation, tore down the stairs. Max was already opening the front door.

Sergeant Jon Rye stood there, holding his leather laptop case.

Roy Grace, sitting at the workstation in MIR One alongside most of his team, was running his eye over the latest incident reports log on the Vantage screen in front of him. It was a quarter to eight on Sunday evening, and although he still wasn’t feeling hungry, he could feel himself getting shaky from lack of sugar or too much caffeine – or both, and was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on his tasks.

Cleo Morey did not help either. Every few minutes his thoughts returned to her text of this morning.

He was checking the latest updates on Reggie D’Eath when he felt a thump on his back.

‘Yo, old timer!’

He looked up. Branson, who had popped out of the room a short while ago, and had returned with a massive carton of doughnuts from the supermarket across the road. He doled out one to each of the team members.

Grace took his and stepped away from the desk, deciding he needed to stretch his legs. Branson joined him as he walked across the room and out into the hallway. ‘You OK, old man? You look like shit.’

Grace took a bite, licking the sugar off his lips. ‘Thanks.’

Lowering his voice Branson said, ‘So, a little birdie told me that you and Cleo Morey were cosying up to each other in Latin in the Lanes last night.’

Grace stared at him in surprise. ‘Oh yes?’

‘She’s the one yanking your chain?’

‘God, this is a small town!’

‘It’s a small planet, man!’

‘How did you know who it was?’

The DS tapped the side of his face with his finger. ‘Something you taught me – one of the first rules of being a good detective – build up your network of informants.’

Grace shook his head, half amused, half annoyed. ‘That was before the regulations changed. Sterile corridors. All that crap.’

‘Ever see that movie Police ? Gerard Depardieu was a cop who leaned on his informants to get a drugs bust. Great movie.’

‘I didn’t see it.’

‘It’s well good. He reminded me of you. Bigger nose, though.’

‘I look like Gerard Depardieu?’

Branson gave him a pat. ‘Na, you’re more like Bruce Willis.’

‘That’s better.’

‘You sort of look like Bruce Willis’s less fortunate brother. Or maybe his father.’

‘You really know how to make a man feel good about himself. You look like-’

‘Like who? Will Smith?’

‘In your fucking dreams.’

‘So tell me more about you and Ms Morey?’

‘Nothing to tell. We had dinner.’

‘Business, of course?’

‘Totally.’

‘Even in the back of your cab?’ Branson pressed.

‘Jesus! Is every fucking taxi driver in Brighton and Hove informing for you?’

‘Nah, just a couple. I got lucky. Anyhow, they’re not informants. They just keep their eyes open for me.’

Grace didn’t know whether to be proud of his protégé for becoming such a proficient detective, or angry at him.

Interrupting his thoughts, Branson asked, ‘So did she like your new gear?’

‘She said I needed a new dresser and that you were total crap.’

Branson looked so hurt, Grace felt sorry for him. ‘Don’t worry – actually she didn’t comment.’

‘Shit, that’s even worse!’

‘We have two homicides and a missing woman; can we change the subject?’

‘Don’t change the subject! Cleo Morey! She’s well gorgeous. Like, if I wasn’t happily married, know what I mean? Except like – how do you stop thinking about what she does, man?’

‘She didn’t bring any of her cadavers with her to the restaurant, so it was easy.’

Branson shook his head, suppressing a grin. ‘So, come on. Chapter and verse. Don’t go all coy on me – tell me?’

‘I don’t have anything to be coy about. She has a boyfriend, OK? Actually, a fiancé. She somehow neglected to mention him.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

Grace pulled out his mobile phone and showed Branson the text he had received this morning.

Can’t speak to u at moment. My fiancé just turned up. Will call later. CXXX

After some moments Branson declared, ‘He’s history.’

‘That was midday. She still hasn’t called.’

‘Three kisses – trust me, he’s toast.’

Grace crammed the rest of the doughnut into his mouth. Despite his lack of appetite, it was so good he could have eaten a second one. ‘This another of your hunches?’

The Detective Sergeant gave him a sideways look. ‘They’re not all wrong.’

Cleo had not been on duty today. If she had, Grace would have attended Reggie D’Eath’s post-mortem this afternoon, although it would not have been necessary as another detective had been appointed SIO of that case. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

Grace remembered an expression his mother used to use: Time will tell. Fate. She had been a great believer in fate but he had never totally shared that belief. It had helped her through her days dying from cancer. If you believed that some greater power was at work who had it all mapped out for you, then in some ways you were lucky. People who had deep religious faith were fortunate; they could abdicate all their responsibilities to God. Despite his fascination with the supernatural, Grace had never been able to believe in a God who had a plan for him.

He went back into the room and walked over to the workstation. On the large whiteboard was the photograph he had taken this morning of Reggie D’Eath in his bath, and a picture of Kellie Bryce – the photograph Branson had circulated to the press and to all UK police stations and ports.

Tomorrow morning Cassian Pewe, the arrogant shit of a Detective Inspector from the Met, was starting work with him on his cold case workload. And sure as hell if he did not have a result of some kind for her soon on Janie Stretton, the Assistant Chief Constable would have Pewe treading on the backs of his shoes.

Turning to Branson, Grace asked, ‘Glenn, just how confident are you that Tom Bryce hasn’t killed his wife?’

Whenever a woman went missing under suspicious circumstances, it was always the husband or boyfriend who was the prime suspect, until eliminated.

‘Like I told you in the briefing an hour ago, I’m very confident. I interviewed him on tape in here – before we went through the CCTV footage – and I can get the tape profiled, but I don’t think we need to. He’d have to have left his kids on their own in the house in the middle of the night, kill his wife, take her body somewhere, then drive to Ditchling Beacon, torch the car and walk five miles home. I don’t think so.’

‘So where is she? Do you think she might have done a runner with a lover?’

‘I don’t think she’d have torched her car, and I think she would have taken her handbag, some clothes, you know?’