Not Dead Yet

33

‘Unexpected item in bagging area. Remove item from the bagging area.’

Glenn Branson stared, bleary-eyed, down at the self-service machine in the Tesco Express in Hove.

‘Please remove item from the bagging area,’ the imperious, robotic female voice commanded. Glenn looked at the display on the screen, wondering what he had done wrong. The people either side of him did not seem to have any problems at all.

‘Unexpected item in bagging area,’ she proclaimed again.

He looked around for help, and yawned. It was 8 p.m., Sunday evening, and he felt exhausted. Since yesterday morning when Roy Grace had made him deputy SIO on Operation Icon, he had taken his duties seriously, staying up for most of the night working on his Policy Book, reading through the Murder Manual, and ensuring all the lines of enquiry that Grace had suggested he make were being covered.

He looked down at the bagging area, trying to figure out what the offending item might be. The quart of skimmed milk? The low-calorie moussaka that he was planning for his supper along with the mixed leaf salad? The aerosol can of spray polish? The packet of absorbent cloths? The box of goldfish food? The six-pack of Grolsch lager?

For months now he had been lodging in Grace’s house, thanks to his mate’s kindness. Roy Grace had effectively moved in to Cleo’s home, so he felt a sense of responsibility for looking after the place and keeping it neat and tidy, especially since it was now on the market. He knew that in his first few months of living there he had let the place become a tip; he was so cut up over his marriage breakdown, he had at times been finding it hard to focus. He was still cut up, but he was getting through it – largely thanks to Roy’s support. The least he could do to repay him was keep his house in good order.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

A young, Indian man in a blue Tesco top and black trousers was smiling at him.

Yes, you can, you can tell me the identity of a headless, armless, legless corpse found at Stonery Farm yesterday, he would have liked to have said. Instead he replied, ‘Yeah, thanks. I can’t figure out why she keeps shouting at me.’

The young man held a card on a chain over the barcode reader, then tapped several buttons. ‘Okay, sir, enter your credit card, please.’

Two minutes later, Glenn left the store and walked across the expanse of tarmac towards his car. As he did so he passed a young couple unloading the contents of their trolley into the boot of their car. His heart tightened. A year ago – less – that would have been Ari and himself.

Sunday evening. They would have put the kids to bed and settled in front of the television with a simple, healthy snack. Hummus and pitta bread and olives was Ari’s favourite Sunday evening meal. And Top Gear, of course. He glanced at his watch.

Shit.

Top Gear was on tonight and he’d forgotten to record it.

He broke into a run.