You Are Dead

39

Saturday 13 December

Roy Grace woke at 5 a.m., twenty minutes before the alarm set on the clock and the back-up alarm on his iPhone. Cleo was sound asleep, breathing heavily, facing away from him, spooned against him, his right arm beneath her pillow. He could hear rain pelting down outside, and listened, as he did every time he woke during the night, for the sounds of Noah breathing through the baby monitor. His son sounded fine.

He felt leadenly tired, and could easily have lapsed back into sleep, but he needed to energize himself for what he anticipated to be a long and hard day ahead. Trying not to wake Cleo — Noah had already done that twice during the night — he gently, slowly, wormed his arm free. As he did so, she stirred.

‘You off, darling?’ she murmured, half asleep still.

‘I’ll take Humphrey for a quick run.’

‘Love you.’

He kissed her shoulder. ‘Love you so much,’ he said.

Then he slipped naked out of bed and stood, shivering in the chilly darkness. ‘Mind if I put on the light for a moment?’

‘I’m awake,’ she said.

He switched on his bedside light, shuffled through into the bathroom, closed the door then put on the bright light in there and, yawning, switched on his electric toothbrush.

Five minutes later, dressed in his tracksuit and a baseball cap, and trying to shush an excited Humphrey who was jumping up at him and barking, he let himself and the dog out of the front door, holding the lead in one hand and a plastic bag in the other in case, as was likely, Humphrey decided to have a dump en route.

He ran across the cobbled courtyard to the front gates, attached Humphrey’s lead, then ran out into the street and threaded his way past the silent houses and closed shops and cafés down towards the seafront. He loved the city at this hour, when it was still mostly sleeping. Loved the feeling of being up ahead of the rest of the world. He had always been able to cope on relatively little sleep, which stood him in good stead in this job, where snatching just a few hours was often the norm — and he had even more sleep deprivation now that he had a restless baby.

The rain pattering against his face and the salty tang of the air felt and smelled good. He crossed a deserted King’s Road in the misty glare of the street lighting, then freed Humphrey, who bounded off ahead, and ran down the ramp by the arches, with the long, dark silhouette of Brighton Pier — or Palace Pier as he still preferred to call it — over to his left, and headed west, towards the sad, rusted skeletal remains of the West Pier, which had been gutted by a fire over a decade ago, and day by day was steadily crumbling into the sea.

As he ran, wide awake and increasingly clear-headed, his thoughts on the day ahead were crystallizing. Just before going to bed at midnight, he’d checked his emails and seen that the Sussex Police rugby team, of which he was the president, was a man short, due to illness, for an important fixture this afternoon. Could he play or find a last-minute substitute? It was a mundane task in the middle of such a critical operation, but he needed to deal with it. So far there had been no replies from the two possible players he had emailed — hardly surprising given the early hour.

His thoughts focused back on Logan Somerville who had now been missing since around 5.30 p.m. Thursday. Thirty-six hours. Both the new ACC and the Police and Crime Commissioner had phoned him late last night for updates, telling him how important it was to find her. Neither of them needed to do that. He was motivated enough as it was. Ever since Sandy had vanished over a decade ago, he knew the anguish the disappearance of a loved one caused. He had lived it every single day, and despite his deep love for Cleo, the pain of Sandy’s disappearance was still there in his heart and in his soul.

He had not yet told either Pewe or Roigard of his bigger concerns.

Humphrey looked a tad miffed when he stopped opposite the remains of the West Pier and turned around. The dog barked, as if saying to him that normally they would run much longer — towards Hove Lagoon at least.

‘Sorry, boy, I have to get to work. Have to find someone very urgently. OK?’

Humphrey suddenly bounded ahead and ran onto the beach, crunching across the pebbles, on a mission.

‘What is it, boy?’ he called.

Then, in the faint glow from the promenade lighting, he saw Humphrey stop, lie on his back and begin rolling vigorously backwards and forwards.

Grace realized to his dismay what was happening. ‘Humphrey!’ he shouted. ‘No! No, boy! No!’

He unzipped his pocket, tugged out his phone, found the torch app and switched it on, then ran, stumbling and unsteadily, over the pebbles, shouting for the dog to stop. ‘HUMPHREYYYYYY!’

He stood over the rolling hound and bellowed again.

Contritely, Humphrey scrambled to his feet and stared up at him. Moments later the sickening, putrid smell hit him. In the bright beam of light he saw the splayed legs and claws and white belly of the long-dead, busted-open crab.

He toyed for a moment with dragging the dog into the sea to try to clean him, but the waves were pounding hard and he thought it too risky. So, instead, the stench accompanied him all the way home, as Humphrey ran alongside him, pleased as punch with himself and mightily proud of the new cologne he was wearing.

‘This is all I sodding need!’ Roy Grace whispered to the dog, holding him tightly by the collar and gagging, as he let himself back into the house. He dragged him, resisting every inch of the way, paws scraping across the floor and up the stairs, into the bathroom, shut the door behind them, then lifted him into the bathtub, turned on the taps, picked up the hand-shower and washed away, as best he could, the worst of the fetid, putrid mess on the dog’s back.

Thirty minutes later, having showered, shaved and gulped down a microwaved bowl of instant porridge and a few sips of tea, he kissed Cleo, fast asleep again, goodbye, then slipped out of the house. Humphrey, lying in his basket down in the living room, did not even raise his head. He opened one eye, dismissively, as if some alien dog turd had just departed from his home.