Love You Dead

8 Tuesday 17 February

The little squirrel monkey, astride the slender branch of a tree, stared at them through the window of the enclosure at Drusillas zoo. Its coat was a patchwork of grey, ginger and white, and it had sad, inquisitive eyes. Suddenly it began gnawing a chunk of carrot it was holding in its front paws.

Noah, who had been staring back at it, wide-eyed, as if unsure what to make of the creature, suddenly giggled.

It was a fine day, unseasonably warm. ‘Like the monkey, do you?’ Roy Grace said to his son, who was cradled in front of his chest in a baby sling. ‘Want monkeys on your wallpaper — or a monkey mobile?’

Noah beamed and dribbled. Then as the monkey continued eating, he chuckled, dribbling some more.

God, it was the most beautiful thing, to hear his son laughing, Grace thought, wiping Noah’s chin with a tissue. Then, peering down, he made monkey faces and noises at his son.

Noah giggled again.

Roy Grace grinned and put his arm round Cleo, who leaned in to him. He was taking a precious day off work to be with his loved ones, and wished he did this more often. He was able to, he knew; he had so many days of accrued leave owing to him. Yet he couldn’t help feeling a slight cloud of guilt, having already had all of January off. He remembered a quote from somewhere: ‘What man on his deathbed ever said, “Gosh, I wish I had spent more time in the office.”’

Yes, it was true, but at the same time, much as he was loving being with Cleo and his son, his thoughts kept returning to work. He was lucky, he knew. He had the best wife in the world, and the best son, who had brought him a change of perspective and priorities. And on good days, the best job in the world. After years of darkness, in the shadow of his long-missing first wife Sandy, life was really great again. He was happy. Happier than he had ever known.

And that worried him. Could any human sustain being this happy?

There was so much darkness in the world. The ever-present threat of terrorism. The scrotes out there intent on committing harm. He just wanted these two people he loved so much to be safe forever.

His phone rang.

As he answered it he saw Cleo’s knowing but understanding expression.

‘Roy Grace,’ he said.

He heard the French accent of the Interpol officer Bernard Viguet.

The body of the prostitute who had been missing for several days had been found in a ditch on the outskirts of Lyon. Further, the Hertz rental car that she had been seen entering had been found and forensically searched. Crisp’s DNA had been present in it.

A sharp-eyed Lyon customs officer had detained a man boarding an international flight at Lyon Airport, from the description Sussex Police had circulated, with his left arm in plaster from an apparent skiing accident. A DNA swab taken from him confirmed him as Dr Edward Crisp.

Suggesting Cleo take Noah on to see the fruit bats, he phoned DS Potting and updated him. ‘Norman, I’m going to be sending you to Lyon with Glenn. The French police will need an intelligence package on Crisp. Can you liaise with the team so I can send it to them?’

‘Right away, chief. Good news!’

Next he phoned Glenn Branson.

‘Gourmet capital of France, Lyon,’ Branson said, sounding hopeful. ‘Happy to go down there and liaise with the French police.’

‘You want to go to Lyon, be my guest. I was there once with Sandy and I ate the most disgusting thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Andouillette. The local sausage. It’s basically a pig’s colon stuffed with bits of its intestine. It smells like bad breath.’

‘Yeccchhhh!’

‘A lot of French people love it,’ Grace went on. ‘It’s an acquired taste. I’ll insist you try one.’

‘You’re a closet sadist, aren’t you?’

‘Nope, I just believe in the maxim, I look and I see, I listen and I hear, I do and I understand.’

‘What’s to understand about eating a pig’s colon?’

‘All part of your education. And the entente cordiale. Never diss other people’s cultures. I think a trip to France to liaise with the French police and see Crisp would be good. And you might enjoy the break, you’ve not really given yourself any time out since Ari died.’

Glenn Branson’s estranged wife, Ari, had died after an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic in surgery, following a bicycle accident. Subsequently the detective inspector had begun dating a bright young reporter on the local paper, the Argus, and was now going to marry her. Glenn had given him the news while Roy had been in hospital. At first he’d been cautious for his mate, marrying a newspaper reporter, but he liked her, and having seen the chemistry between them he felt they seemed right together.

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘And come home to Siobhan with that on my breath?’

‘So you’ve gone off Lyon now, have you?’ Grace chided.

‘No, I’ll go.’

‘We’ll apply for an extradition order, but almost certainly they’re going to want to keep him in France at least until that trial is over. And there’ll be a ton of bureaucracy to work through for the extradition procedure. There are various protocols involved with a European Arrest Warrant. First we need to get the Crown Prosecution Service to agree that he will face charges, prior to starting the whole process. He’ll have to appear in front of a French magistrate before being released to the British police. The National Extradition Unit will be responsible for bringing him back to the UK, but the French police want you to travel to Lyon to share the intelligence we have on Crisp. They’ve informed me there’s been a development in Crisp’s involvement. I’ve got a pile of paperwork that’s arrived from France, in French, which we’ll need to get translated, so we’ll need to find out who the preferred external translation company is.’

‘That’s good,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’ll give me time to go to a chemist and buy some breath freshener — for the sausage thing.’

‘Yeah, from past experience dealing with French police bureaucracy, you’ll have plenty of time.’