Looking Good Dead

65

Cleo smiled at him, her face so gentle and beautiful in the glow of the candlelight. Mellow jazz was playing in the background. Roy Grace could feel her warm, sweet breath on his face, saw strands of her tousled hair on her cheeks.

‘That wasn’t bad,’ she whispered.

‘For a copper?’

She gave him a playful punch. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. The bed felt so comfortable, Cleo felt so comfortable, so good to be with, as if he had known her for years, as if they were the bestest-ever mates in all the world.

He caressed her skin, a deep warm glow inside him; he felt utterly, sublimely at peace. He was, for this fleeting moment at least, in a space he never believed he could ever find again in his life. Then he remembered his phone ringing earlier, the beep of a message which he had ignored and should not have, and he looked at the clock, emitting weak blue light, on the bedside table.

1.15 a.m.

Shit!

He rolled over, groped on the floor, found his phone and pulled it to his ear, hitting the message retrieval button.

It was Glenn, telling him to call if he picked the message up before midnight, otherwise to wait until the morning. He put the phone back down, relieved.

‘I’m glad you came over,’ Cleo murmured.

‘It was the lure of Glenfiddich, that was all. Can’t resist it.’

‘So you really are that shallow, are you, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace?’ she teased. ‘Anything for a free drink?’

‘Uh huh. And maybe I was just a tiny bit curious about your fiancé. How shallow does that make me?’ He took a sharp breath as she suddenly cupped his balls in her hands.

‘Do you know what they say, Detective Superintendent?’ She squeezed gently.

Gasping with pleasure – and just a tiny bit of pain – he said, ‘What do they say?’

‘When you have a man’s balls in your hands, his heart and mind will follow.’

He exhaled sharply, deliciously, as she released the pressure a tiny bit. ‘So talk me through your plans for the rest of the night?’ he whispered.

She increased the pressure, then kissed him again. ‘You’re not in a very good position to negotiate, whatever my plans are!’

‘Who’s negotiating?’

‘You think you are!’ She removed her hands, rolled out of the bed and padded across the room. He watched her slender, naked body, her long legs, her firm, round, pale and gorgeous bum disappear through the doorway. Then he put his arms behind his head and lay back against a soft, deep, down pillow. ‘Plenty of ice!’ he called out.

She returned a few minutes later with two rattling glass tumblers, and handed one to him. Climbing back into bed beside him she raised her glass and clinked it against his. With a toss of her head she said, ‘Cheers, big ears. Here goes, nose. Up your bum, chum!’ Then she downed half her glass.

He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, big ears!’ he responded, then took a deep swig. Tomorrow was a million miles away. Her eyes, fixed on his, were sparkling.

‘So you came over just because you wanted to know about my fiancé. Was that the only reason, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace?’

‘Stop calling me that!’

‘What do you want me to call you? The bonk at the end of the universe?’

Grinning, he said, ‘That would be fine. Otherwise, just Roy would be fine too.’

She tilted her glass to her mouth, then leaned across, kissed him sensuously on his mouth, and pushed a whisky-flavoured ice cube in through his lips. ‘Roy! It’s a great name. Why did your parents call you Roy?’

‘I never asked.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘It never occurred to me.’

‘And you’re a detective? I thought you queried everything.’

‘Why did your parents call you Cleo?’

‘Because…’ She gave a little giggle. ‘Actually, I’m embarrassed to say, it was because my mother’s favourite novels were The Alexandria Quartet. I was named after one of the characters – Clea – except my father spelled it wrong in the church register. He put an “o” on the end instead of an “a” – and it stuck.’

‘I’ve never heard of The Alexandria Quartet.’

‘Come on, you must have read them!’

‘I must have had a deprived childhood.’

‘Or a missspent one?’

‘Could you play poker when you were twelve?’

‘That’s what I mean! God, you need educating! The Alexandria Quartet were four novels written by Lawrence Durrell – beautiful stories, all interlinked. Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive and Clea.’

‘They must be if…’

‘If what?’

‘If they resulted in you.’

Then his phone rang again. And this time he answered it – very reluctantly.

Two minutes later, even more reluctantly, he was standing by the bed hurriedly and clumsily pulling his socks on.