One of Us Is Dead

42 Monday 3 October 2022

Gloom descended on Roy Grace the moment he rounded the final bend in the cart-track driveway to their cottage, and saw the ectoplasm-green Prius, with the disabled sticker on the windscreen, parked behind Cleo’s Audi.

He had once been given a tour of the Old Bailey. He was taken along a passageway below the courts that led to the cell where, in former times, a convict who had received the death penalty would be held for his or her final days. The passageway grew narrower and narrower as the condemned person approached the cell — a symbol that there was no going back.

That was how he felt now as he approached the front door of his home, much earlier than usual, at Cleo’s request, so they could have a meal together with her uncle and aunt on the first night of their stay.

Maurice and Eileen Morey were very particular about eating at precisely 6 p.m. every evening, because they had read it was healthy. Roy Grace, who rarely even got home before 7 p.m. on a good night, reckoned, uncharitably, it was so that the pair of them, who were verging on morbidly obese, could fit in a second snack — biscuits and cheese or cake — before retiring to bed.

Normally he loved coming home and into their cosy — if higgledy-piggledy — cottage in the middle of farmland, eight miles north of Brighton. But the sight of Maurice and Eileen lounging back on the sofa, and the sound of her moaning Brummie voice, made him wish for his job phone to ring, summoning him out on a new murder investigation. But at least there was the smell of something good cooking.

‘I mean, when did you last buy cod, Cleo? And as for haddock, well, the price is crazy now.’

‘Have you tried pollock, Auntie?’ Cleo said.

‘I wouldn’t give pollock to me cat.’

Grace, who’d always had a professional interest in regional accents, knew that the Birmingham accent had evolved during the Industrial Revolution, when that city had become a major centre for metalworking. There was even a theory that factory employees were forced to speak in a whine so that they could be heard above the howl and grinding of machinery. Now it served for Eileen to make herself heard above the almost deafening volume of the television.

Maurice, dressed in what looked like hand-me-downs, was lounging back, looking like a badly stuffed scarecrow, holding the remote in one hand and a glass of beer in the other. While the television was on at near maximum volume, one glance at him told Grace he wasn’t understanding much of it.

‘Hi, Maurice!’ Grace greeted him. There was no reaction until he shouted even louder.

He received a warm beam of recognition for his efforts. ‘Roy! Eee-up lad!’ He raised his glass. ‘Helped myself to a beer, hope you don’t mind?’

Maurice and Cleo’s father, Charles, were chalk and cheese. Charles, who was in his late sixties, was a successful businessman, urbane and great company. Likewise, her mother was an elegant, smart lady, interested in all and everything.

‘I’m good, lovely to have you both here,’ he lied.

Maurice looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘What you say?’

‘LOVELY TO HAVE YOU HERE!’

The old man patted his chest, then shook his head. ‘Not good, the old ticker. Still, I’m here, eh?’

‘You look pretty robust to me.’

Maurice stared ahead at the television, not hearing him, then turned back. ‘Tell you something, Roy. When I was deputy chief planning officer in Leeds I’d never have passed a staircase like yours here.’ He shook his head. ‘Too steep, and that handrail — that just wouldn’t do.’

‘That’s too bad,’ Grace replied.

‘What did you say?’

Grace shook his head then turned to Cleo’s aunt, encased in voluminous folds of what appeared to be repurposed curtains, with steel-grey hair that looked like she’d ironed it herself. ‘Hi, Eileen, how was your journey?’ He bent down to give her the approximation of a kiss and noticed the fusty smell of mothballs.

‘Dreadful,’ she said. ‘We had to stop to charge the car and there was only one charger working — and someone was on it. Two hours we had to wait. You know how much the electricity costs on the motorways? It’s robbery. And I was just telling Cleo about the price of fish — can you believe how expensive it is now?’

‘Somebody at work was telling me they do great value prawns at Lidl,’ he replied.

Eileen didn’t react.

Cleo had once referred to her uncle and aunt as mood hoovers and she was right, Grace thought. He just wanted to be anywhere but in this room with them. Giving them all a cheery smile he said, ‘Just going to nip upstairs and say goodnight to the kids, and get out of this suit.’

Sensing his awkwardness, Cleo said, ‘I’ll get you a drink, darling — what would you like?’

He shook his head. ‘Just something soft, I’m on call this week.’

As he climbed the stairs, he heard Eileen’s moan about something else over the sound of the news.

He ducked into their bedroom, closed the door and called Jamie Carruthers. The DC answered almost immediately. ‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Jamie, could you take another close look to see if anything pops up on the trade in 3D guns in the Brighton area — particularly linked to the name Rufus Rorke or any alias he may be using. And, also, could you run a check for anyone on the dark web using the terms accidental death or no police investigation.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘I take it you’ve not made any significant progress re contract killers?’

‘Not yet, but we are following up one possible lead of someone trying to recruit a killer on the dark web. But,’ he cautioned, ‘we do come across these regularly and mostly they don’t lead to anything.’

Grace thanked him and asked him to keep him posted. Ending the call, he changed into casual clothes then went to say goodnight to his children, staying with them for a good long time, much preferring the sound of Molly sleeping to the drone of Maurice and Eileen’s voices.