Dead at First Sight

96 Friday 12 October

Roy Grace woke with a raging thirst and a blinding headache and glanced at the clock radio. It said 4.11 a.m. He gulped down the entire glass of water he kept at his bedside every night.

Cleo was sound asleep beside him. He hadn’t heard her come back, although at some point in the night Humphrey had woken him, barking. His mind was whirring. Tooth. Jules de Copeland. Cassian Pewe. Alison Vosper. No one had called, so presumably there’d been no developments, so far.

Was he missing something? Something vital? What?

Slipping as quietly as he could out of bed, using the light of his phone and trying not to disturb Cleo, he went through into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He ran the tap, waiting for the water to get cold, opened the cabinet and took out a couple of paracetamols. He swallowed them with another glass of water. He should try and grab a few hours more sleep, he knew.

Returning to bed, he lay there with his eyes closed. But he was too wired to go back to sleep. After fifteen minutes of raking over everything in his mind, he gave up, went back into the bathroom, showered and shaved. Using the minimum light possible, he got dressed in a fresh shirt and suit and tie. He kissed Cleo goodbye, but she didn’t stir. Fortunately Humphrey, downstairs, didn’t stir either. He was snoring in his basket.

Grace made himself a double espresso, gobbled down a bowl of cereal and went out in the darkness to his car.