Not Dead Yet

123

On the Friday night, despite being exhausted from all that had happened in recent weeks, combined with the Carl Venner trial, Roy Grace barely slept at all. Whenever he was not wide awake, tossing around, shaking lumps out of his pillows, Cleo was, with Bump going totally berserk inside her.

Somehow, miraculously, around 7 a.m. he fell into a deep sleep, and did not wake until 10 a.m. on Saturday morning.

Despite still feeling groggy, he pulled on his shorts, T-shirt and trainers, and went for his favourite run, down on to the seafront, by the Palace Pier, then along to the Deep Sea Anglers club by Shoreham Harbour and back. A circuit just short of five miles.

When he got back he slipped out of his clothes and went gratefully into the bathroom. One of the many things he loved about Cleo was her taste in showers. A rain shower-head, a face-on jet and sideways jets, if you wanted them on as well. He was luxuriating in them when suddenly the bathroom door opened so violently, he thought it was coming off its hinges.

Cleo stood there, in a baggy shirt-waister, clutching a copy of the Argus, with a face like thunder.

He switched the taps off and stepped out, water running down his body.

‘So poker on Thursday was good, was it?’

She was brandishing the paper like a weapon.

‘I sort of broke even, I told you.’

‘Sounds like you edited one bit out, Roy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Oh? Oh yes, actually. Take a look at this! Perhaps it will help jog your memory.’

His heart sank as he saw the front page splash.

Top cop and Gaia: is it love?

Beneath was a photograph of Roy Grace and Gaia, clearly taken with a long lens, standing side by side, looking out of the window of her Grand Hotel suite.

‘Hey, I can explain.’

‘Can you?’ she said.

Never, in all their time together, had he seen her so angry.

She stormed out. He grabbed a towel, and was just starting to dry himself when she marched back in with an open copy of the Saturday Mirror. The headline ran across the top of the page.

Gaia and Brighton cop’s secret love tryst!

Beneath was a similar long-lens photograph to the one in the Argus, but in this one, Gaia was giving Roy Grace a kiss on the cheek.

He read the first paragraph of the story:

Rock legend, Gaia, in Brighton to shoot her latest movie, The King’s Lover, has been repaying the City’s top homicide cop, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, for successfully foiling an attempt on her life, by secret love trysts with him in her hotel suite. The couple are pictured above about to enjoy a romantic candlelit dinner.

‘This is unbelievable!’

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is. I just can’t believe you’d do this, Roy.’

‘Darling, listen! This is bullshit, complete and utter bullshit! I can explain!’

‘Great. I am all ears. Explain!’

Then, suddenly she gripped her abdomen and screamed out in pain, all the colour draining from her face. ‘Roy, oh my God, oh my God!’