Dead Tomorrow

35

Despite the arrival of two black, heavy-duty plastic body bags at the Brighton and Hove City Mortuary, containing the bodies that had been recovered from the Channel this morning, Roy Grace was in the sunniest mood he had been in for years.

He didn’t mind that it was quarter to three on a Friday afternoon and that the post-mortems, depending on how soon Nadiuska De Sancha arrived, were likely to wipe out his plans for the evening. He was floating on air.

He was going to be a father! That thought now dominated everything else. And at last night’s poker game he had won £550, his biggest win in as long as he could remember!

What he loved most about poker, apart from the camaraderie of an evening relaxing with a bunch of male friends and colleagues, was the psychology of the game. You were very unlikely to win if you came to the table in a downer of a mood. But if you were upbeat, your enthusiasm could be infectious and you could, even with modest cards, dominate the game. But he hadn’t just had modest cards last night, he’d been on a complete roll. He’d had one hand of four tens, countless trips – three cards of a kind – full house after full house, and a bunch of high flushes.

Alone with Cleo for a few moments, in the small mortuary office, with the sound of the kettle coming slowly to the boil, he put his arms around her and kissed her.

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘Do you?’ she said, grinning. ‘Do you really?’ All gowned up, she raised her arms. ‘Even like this?’

‘To the ends of the earth and back.’

He truly did. After the poker game he had gone back to her house and showered the cash over the bed. Then he had lain awake beside her, too wired to sleep, thinking about his life. About Sandy. About Cleo. He wanted to marry Cleo, he was sure of that. More sure of that than of anything. He had made his mind up that in the morning he would start the process, long overdue, of having Sandy declared legally dead.

And first thing this morning he had contacted a Brighton solicitor he had been recommended to, Susan Ansell, and done just that. He had made an appointment with her.

Cleo kissed him. ‘Only to the ends of the earth?’

He smiled, checked the door to make sure no one was coming in, then kissed her again. ‘How about to the ends of the universe?’

‘Better,’ she said. Then she raised her palms upwards and wiggled her fingers, indicating more was required.

‘And to the ends of any other universe that we might discover.’

‘Better still!’ She kissed him again.

Then he stopped, feeling a sudden chill, wishing he had not started on that analogy. Sandy had been a fan of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. He remembered her favourite being the second book in the series, called The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. Why the hell did her shadow have to keep falling over everything, darkening his happiest moments? It sometimes felt as if he was being stalked by a ghost.

‘You OK?’ Cleo said.

‘Very OK!’

‘You sort of disappeared for a second.’

‘I was overwhelmed by your beauty.’

She grinned again. ‘You’re such a good liar, aren’t you, Grace?’

Grinning back, he said, ‘I wasn’t lying!’

‘You spend half your time interviewing criminals who are lying convincingly. Don’t tell me that hasn’t rubbed off on you!’

He held her shoulders, firmly but gently, and stared into her eyes. ‘I would never lie to you,’ he said. ‘I would never want to lie to you.’

‘I feel the same way about you,’ she replied.

They stood in comfortable silence for some moments. The kettle rumbled to the boil, then clicked off. Distracted for an instant, Roy looked past her, at an L-shaped row of chairs beside the cluttered desk. At the table in the corner, on which sat a small Christmas tree, covered in glitter and shiny balls. At the walls, which were even more cluttered than the desk, with framed certificates, a calendar, a photograph of Brighton Pier at sunset and a row of clipboards on hooks, containing details of all their current, hapless residents in the fridges. And at the Argus newspaper lying on a chair.

Kevin Spinella’s piece on the finding of Unknown Male appeared on page five. It was a small column, pretty much reporting the facts as Grace had relayed them, with Grace’s appeal to the public. To his relief, Spinella had kept to his agreement not to mention anything about organs.

There was a shrill ring at the door.

Cleo glanced up at the CCTV monitor on the wall and said, ‘Your chum’s just arrived.’

Grace turned to the screen and saw Glenn Branson’s face. He was not looking a particularly happy bunny.

‘I’ll go,’ he said.

He walked down the short corridor, past the changing room, and pulled open the door. He was shocked by the sight that greeted him. He’d rarely seen Glenn looking anything other than immaculate. Now the Detective Sergeant stood in front of him, in the rain, looking a complete wreck. His tan shoes were sodden, his white shirt was spotted with dark marks, his silk tie was covered in blotches, and awry, and his cream mac was a patchwork of brown stains the colour of rust and oil, and what looked like shiny fish scales.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Grace asked. ‘Kick-boxing in an abattoir? Or mud-wrestling in a fish market?’

‘Very funny, old-timer. Next time you send me on a cruise, I’ll book the tickets myself.’

Grace stepped back to let him in.

‘Nadiuska here yet?’ Branson asked.

‘She just phoned. She’s ten minutes away. I thought you said you were going home to change.’

‘Yeah, well, I did, didn’t I? Got back to your place and there were two sodding letters waiting for me.’

‘Feel free about redirecting your post there.’

Branson looked at his friend, unsure for a moment whether he was being sarcastic or genuine. He could not tell and decided not to push his luck. ‘One was from Ari’s solicitor, all pompous, right? Telling me that she’s been instructed by Ari, who is commencing divorce proceedings, and that I should get myself a solicitor, like I just rode into town in the back of a lorry and don’t know anything about the law.’

Grace shut the door behind him. ‘Sounds to me like you need to get one, PDQ.’

‘I’m ahead of you. I got one already.’

‘Act for a lot of tramps, does he?’

‘Actually, it’s a she.’

‘Very wise. They can be a lot more brutal than men.’

Glenn swayed suddenly and put his arm out on the wall to steady himself. For a moment Grace wondered if he was drunk.

‘The ground’s still swaying. I’ve been back on dry land for more than two hours and it’s still moving under me!’

‘So, your ancestors on the slave ship? Nautical life didn’t rub off on you? Not in your genes, then?’

‘Who told you about that slave ship stuff?’

‘Your fame as a seafarer goes before you.’

‘Did you ever see that film, Master and Commander?’

Grace frowned.

‘Russell Crowe.’

He nodded. ‘Yep. Saw it.’

‘That’s how I feel. Like I’m one of his crew who took a cannonball in the stomach.’

‘Listen, mate. Ari may be hacked off with you, but that doesn’t give her automatic rights to screw your life up.’

‘You’re wrong. Shit, do you remember Kramer versus Kramer?’

‘Meryl Streep?’

Glenn Branson smiled for a fleeting instant. ‘Fuck, I’m impressed. Two films in a row I’ve mentioned that you’ve actually seen! Yeah, Meryl Streep and Dustin Hoffman. Well, that’s about my situation.’

‘Except you’re not as good-looking as Dustin Hoffman.’

‘You know how to kick a man when he’s down, don’t you?’

‘In the nuts. It’s the only place.’

Branson peeled off his mac. ‘So, right, the other letter is the divorce petition from the court. You can’t believe this, man, you can’t fucking believe what she is saying!’

The Detective Sergeant slung his mac over his arm, held out his fingers and began counting them off. ‘She says there is an irretrievable breakdown, OK? She’s alleging unreasonable behaviour by me. That I’m not interested in sex any more. That I’m drinking excessively – yeah, well, that’s true, she’s driving me to fucking drink, right? She’s citing lack of affection.’

He dug his hand inside his mackintosh and pulled out several sheets of folded paper, clipped together. Reading from the top one, he said, ‘Apparently I refuse to join in with the family. I shout at her when we are in a car together. I keep her short of money – shit, I bought her a fucking horse! And get this – apparently I don’t appreciate how Ari looks after our children.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s rich, that is! What am I supposed to do? Tell everyone, Sorry, I know this is a murder inquiry, but I have to get home and bath Remi?’

The words gave Roy Grace a sudden chill. He suddenly realized that’s exactly where he was going to be when his child was born. It was normal for him to be in his office by seven in the morning, if not even earlier. And not to get home until eight, or even later. When his child was born, could he change those hours?

Not without harming his career.

He looked at Glenn, stared into his questioning eyes. And he knew the answer was one that the DS was not going to like. To be a good police officer was to be married to the force. For those thirty years until you collected your pension – and longer now, if you wanted – your work would come first. You were a lucky person if your spouse or partner accepted that. A tragically large number, like Glenn’s wife, Ari, did not.

‘You know the problem?’ Grace said.

Branson shook his head.

‘She’s probably right. A little insensitive, sure, but fundamentally right. You have to decide if you want a successful career or a successful marriage. It is possible to combine both, but you need a very tolerant and understanding partner.’

‘Yeah, well, the irony is I joined the police so that my kids could be proud of their dad.’

‘So they should be.’

‘So how proud of me would they be if I quit?’

‘And went back to being a bouncer? Or a security guard at Gatwick? It’s not what job you do,’ Grace said, ‘it’s the person you are. You can be a good, very human bouncer. You can be a vigilant security guard. You can be a crap cop. It’s what you are inside, not what it says on your badge or your ID card.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sure. But you know what I mean.’

‘Look, I’ve told you before, with the mess I’ve made of my life, I’m not the right person to give marital advice. But you know what I really think? If Ari loved you, really loved you, she’d stick with it. I’m not sure she does really love you at all – all this legal process and stuff she’s throwing at you. I think if you did quit the force to appease her, at some point she’d want something else. Whatever you do is ultimately going to be wrong for her. I think she’s that kind of restless person. Appeasing her will never be more than a short-term solution. So, if I were you, I’d stay with your career.’

Branson nodded gloomily.

‘Know what Winston Churchill said about appeasement?’ said Roy.

‘Tell me?’

‘An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile, hoping it will eat him last.’