Peter James - Not Dead Enough

But when he suggested it to her as he was getting dressed a while later, she was less than enthusiastic.

‘It’s safe here,’ she said. ‘There’s only one way in and out, through the front gates. I feel secure here.’

‘You’re not secure when you leave here. How many more nights are you on call-out?’

‘All this week.’

‘If you have to go out again in the middle of the night, I’m coming with you.’

‘You’re sweet. Thank you.’

‘How secure are you at the mortuary?’

‘The doors are always locked. I have Darren there all the time, and Walter Hordern most of the time, as well.’

‘I’m going to get extra patrols around here, at night, and also have patrols keep an extra vigilant eye around the mortuary. Do you have a reasonably recent photograph of Richard?’

‘Loads,’ Cleo said. ‘On my computer.’

‘Email me one this morning – something that’s a good likeness. I’m going to get it circulated to the local police – in case they see him anywhere.’

‘OK.’

‘How will you get to work today?’

‘Darren’s picking me up.’

‘Good.’

Grace told Cleo he would bring round a Chinese takeaway tonight, as soon as he could get away, and a bottle of wine. She kissed him goodbye, telling him she thought that was a very good plan.

It was a quarter to six when he left the house and he just about had time to dash back to his home to shower, shave and change. He entered as quietly as possible so as not to wake up Glenn Branson – more to avoid having to endure another round of early-morning soul-searching from his friend than from any concern for the Detective Sergeant getting his requisite hours of beauty sleep.

As usual, Glenn had left the living room looking like a tip. CDs and DVDs, pulled from their sleeves, were spread around everywhere, and the detritus of some reheated ready meal in a foil box – fish pie, it smelled like – was lying on and around a tray on the carpet, along with two empty cans of Coke and an ice-cream carton.

Grace got himself ready and fled, pausing only to slip a CD, from a rapper he had never heard of, into the living room hi-fi and switch it on, turning the volume up high enough to shake a man’s fillings out five miles away.

It was far too loud for him to hear Glenn Branson’s shouts and curses as he drove away.

108

There was a brown envelope lying on Roy Grace’s desk when he walked in, just before seven, with an explanatory note from Bella Moy taped on top, stating these were the certificates for Brian Bishop he had requested. She had also written down the name and contact details of a post-adoption counsellor who, she said, had previously helped the local police through the obstacle course of finding out information on adopted people.

Inside were two creased, oblong documents, about six inches high and a foot wide. They were on yellowing paper with red printing, and handwritten details inserted in black fountain pen ink. He unfolded the first one. It was headed: Certified Copy of an Entry of Birth. Under that were a series of columns.

When and Where Born: Seventh September, 1964 at 3.47 a.m. Royal Sussex County Hospital, Brighton

Name, if any: Desmond William

Sex: Boy

Name and Surname of Father:

Name and Maiden Surname of Mother: Eleanor Jones

Then, in a space at the extreme right, was written Adopted . It was signed Albert Hole , Superintendent Registrar .

Grace then unfolded the second document. It was headed: Certified Copy of an Entry in the Records of the General Register Office. At the very bottom of the document were the words, Certified Copy of an Entry in the Adopted Children Register.

Then he read along the columns.

Date of Entry: Nineteenth September, 1964

Name of Adopted Child: Brian Desmond

Sex of Adopted Child: Male

Name and Surname, Address and Occupation of Adopter or Adopters: Mr Rodney and Mrs Irene Bishop, 43 Brangwyn Road, Brighton. Company director .

Date of Birth of Child: Seventh September, 1964

Date of Adoption Order and Description of Court by which Made: Brighton County Court

Signature of Officer Deputed by Registrar General to attest the entry: Albert Hole .

He read both documents through again carefully, absorbing the details. Then he looked at his watch. It was too early to call the post-adoption counsellor, so he decided he would do it straight after the eight-thirty briefing.

‘Loretta Leberknight,’ she answered in a warm, gravelly voice.

Grace introduced himself and explained briefly what he was looking for.

‘You want to try to find out if this Brian Bishop has a twin?’

‘Exactly,’ he replied.

‘OK, what information do you have on him?’

‘I have his birth certificate and what appears to be an adoption certificate.’

‘Is it a long birth certificate or a short one?’

Grace described it to her.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘It’s the long one – more information on it. Now, there’s usually one sure way to tell – if the birth is in England and Wales. Is it?’

‘Yes, he was born in Brighton.’

‘Can you read out to me what it says under When and Where Born ?’

Grace obliged.

‘It says, Seventh September, 1964 at 3.47 a.m. ?’ she checked.

‘Yes.’

‘And the place of birth is given as where?’ she asked, checking again.

‘Brighton. The Royal Sussex County Hospital.’

‘You have the information right there!’ She sounded pleased.

‘I do.’

‘In England and Wales the time of birth in addition to the date of birth is only put down for multiple births. From that information, Detective Superintendent, you can be 100 percent certain that Brian Bishop has a twin.’

109

Minutes after its ten a.m. opening time, Nick Nicholl walked through the entrance scanner poles and into the handsome, pastel-blue room of the Brighton Reference Library. The smells of paper, leather and wood reminded him of school, but he was so exhausted from yet another virtually sleepless night, courtesy of his son, Ben, that he barely took in his surroundings. He walked over to the inquiry desk and showed his warrant card to one of the librarians, explaining what he needed.

Five minutes later the young detective was seated, beneath the domed and stuccoed ceiling, in front of one of a bank of microfiche units, holding a rectangle of film with a red band along the top which contained the register of births in the whole of the UK for the third quarter of 1964. He inserted it the wrong way around three times, before finally getting the hang of the reader. Then he fiddled with the jerky controls, trying to scroll through the lists of first names beneath surname headers, in print that was almost too small and blurry to read – for his tired eyes at any rate.

As directed by the helpful post-adoption counsellor, Loretta Leberknight, he was looking for unmarried mothers with the surname Jones . The clear indicators would be a child with the same surname as the mother’s maiden name. Although, with one as common as Jones, the librarian had warned him, there would be some instances of two persons marrying who had the same surname.

Despite the words SILENCE PLEASE written in large, clear gold letters on a wooden board, a father somewhere behind him was explaining something to a very loud-mouthed, inquisitive boy. Nick made a mental note never to let his son speak that loudly in a library. He was fast losing track of all the mental notes he had made about irritating things he was not going to let his son do when he was older. He totally doted on him, but the whole business of being a parent was starting to seem daunting. And no one had ever really, properly warned him that you had to do it all while suffering sleep deprivation. Had he and Jen really had a sex life once? Most of their former life together now seemed a distant memory.