Picture You Dead

58

Sunday, 3 November

There had been plenty of weeks in his life that Roy Grace would like to forget. Among them had been the week between his beloved father’s death and his funeral, and another when his mother, whom he adored, had died. The weeks following his former wife Sandy’s disappearance had until now been perhaps the worst of all. Not to mention the months and then years of torment, during which he’d begun to give up all hope of ever living anything approaching a normal life again.

But now, finally, in these past few years, Cleo had changed all that. This gorgeous, smart, amazing woman lying in bed beside him, with her swollen, heavily pregnant belly, had given him a whole new life, a new home, a new passion for living. He loved her with all his heart and he would do anything for her. He would take a bullet for her without a moment’s hesitation. She had given him the gift of something he thought would elude him for the rest of his life.

The gift of happiness.

That had been torn away in the weeks that followed Bruno’s death and his funeral, which Cleo had helped him so much to get through.

The sadness would never leave him but he knew he had to try to live his life and be there for his family. And at work there were still some unresolved issues with his former boss, Cassian Pewe, that he was yet to get to the bottom of. But for now it was Sunday, his favourite day of the week. In a few moments he would prise himself away from his luxuriously soft pillows, slip out of bed quietly, then change into his running kit and take Humphrey for a good long run along the Downs. 10k at least, maybe more. Then when he came back he was eager to try out a new recipe he’d read, an omelette, but with the eggs mixed with rolled oats and a little English mustard, wrapped around grilled mushrooms, with tomatoes and steamed spinach on the side.

He loved experimenting, and the picture of the finished dish he’d seen in a magazine looked amazing.

Later they were going to meet Cleo’s sister and her boyfriend at one of his favourite pubs, the child-friendly Griffin at Fletching, for Sunday lunch. Grace had mixed views about this. He liked Cleo’s sister, Charlie, a lot, although he was less keen on her boyfriend, Lance, a pompous know-all who enjoyed belittling Roy by telling him how much money he made in financial services and wondering why Roy persisted at his relatively low-paid job with the police.

The last time they’d spent a day together, at Christmas last year, when, after their boozy lunch Lance had again told Roy he was wasting his talents in the police, and that he would never become rich as a copper, Roy had retorted, ‘Maybe not, but I have something you will never have.’

‘And what’s that?’ Lance had asked, through a blue cloud of cigar smoke.

‘The knowledge that I have enough,’ Grace had said.

They hadn’t spoken again for the rest of that day. And Roy wasn’t much looking forward to seeing him now. But, big bonus, despite Cleo in her advanced state of pregnancy not drinking, he’d be able to have a couple of glasses of red wine. It might help him cope with the boyfriend.

Then his job phone rang.

He grabbed it quickly, slipped out of bed and answered, whispering, ‘One moment!’

He hurried through into the en-suite bathroom. As he did so, he remembered he had completely forgotten that he was doing a favour to the previous week’s duty Senior Investigating Officer, Mike Ashcroft – who had helped him out by covering his shift last week – taking over from him today instead of the customary 6 a.m. Monday morning.

A slightly nervous female voice he didn’t recognize said, ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’

‘Uh huh,’ he said, closing the door behind him.

‘It’s DI Sapna Patel at Brighton.’

‘You’re new?’

‘I am, my first shift, sir.’

‘Tell me?’

‘We’ve a possible suspicious death, sir. The victim has been identified as someone well known to Sussex Police – Archie Goff.’

‘Very well known,’ Grace confirmed. ‘A proper recidivist.’

‘He was found two hours ago on a pavement in Saltdean, by a gentleman walking his dogs. DS Walker attended and there are a number of things that make her concerned that this is not a natural death. The first is that the dead man reeks of what apparently smells like an accelerant, possibly petrol, as if he has been doused with it. He also has a wound behind an ear, and the fingers of both hands look to have been crushed.’

‘Sounds like he might have upset someone,’ Grace said. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, sir, but I felt you should be informed.’

‘Where is the body now?’

‘Still in situ, sir.’

‘Has a coroner been notified?’

‘No, sir, not yet. DS Walker felt that should be a decision by Major Crime.’

‘Let me have the address.’ She gave it to him and Grace did a quick calculation. ‘OK, I’ll be there in half an hour. Is the body taped off?’

‘It is, sir, and we’ve a scene guard present.’

‘Good work, Sapna. What I’d like you to do is arrange a CSI team to attend the scene as quickly as possible, and I’ll meet them there.’

‘I will do, sir.’

Grace had a quick shower, dressed hastily, knotting his tie, then explained the situation, apologetically, to a drowsy Cleo.

‘So you won’t be making lunch,’ she murmured.

‘I’ll do my best to be back in time.’

‘It wasn’t a question,’ she said, sounding more awake now. ‘It was a statement.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘I’ll get those words engraved on your tombstone,’ she said.

He looked down at her. ‘Baby.’

Then she pursed her lips. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very sensitive. I understand what you have to do.’ She raised a hand from under the duvet and waved it. ‘Let me know how it’s going, and when you know you’ll be back.’

He lingered for some moments, temporarily lost for words, leaned over and kissed her, then headed downstairs.

A heart laden with guilt. And worry. And grief.

There was a dead body lying on a pavement in a suburb of Brighton. And quite likely a loving partner wondering why he hadn’t come home last night.

Could a police officer responsible for finding the answers as to why he hadn’t come home and to who had killed him, sit comfortably in his skin on a chair in a Sussex pub, enjoying a prawn cocktail, perfectly roast beef and a few glasses of a decent red wine? If so, that person was in the wrong job.

You had to make choices in life and live with the consequences, not only those of your actions, but of your inactions.

Roy Grace went downstairs, ate a piece of toast spread with Marmite, peanut butter and slices of cucumber, downed it with a Nespresso, then hurried out to his car.

Before he drove off, he texted Cleo: