You Are Dead

32

Friday 12 December

After the briefing, Roy Grace went back to his office, deep in thought, needing some quiet time to reflect. On Monday he had to speak at Bella’s funeral, which was going to be emotional, he knew. One of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Then on Tuesday, the removals company were due to be delivering all the packing cases, both to Cleo’s house and to his own, in advance of their move the following Friday. Somehow he was going to have to find the time to be at home to help Cleo pack everything up. He was also going to have to supervise the packing of all his belongings in his own house, near the seafront — very close to the Lagoon — which he had shared with Sandy prior to her disappearance.

But all he could think of was Logan Somerville. Her long brown hair. And Emma Johnson, who was missing and had a similar hairstyle. Was there a possible link with the body of the woman at the Lagoon — with the strands of long brown hair too?

He tried to dismiss that. He didn’t want any links. A solo murder victim was a tragedy, but a one-off nonetheless. The victim of a sexual assault, a revenge attack, a random attack by someone mentally ill, a domestic dispute, a robbery or a jealous lover. These were some of the reasons people killed — and got killed. Single, brutal, final acts.

Linked murders could be game changers. Three or more, in different locations and with time between them, and you had a serial killer by definition. They hadn’t had one in this city for a very long time, not in all of his career, to date — at least that the police had heard about.

Earlier he’d told Cleo there was no way he’d be home early tonight, even though she’d tried to tempt him by telling him she’d been planning some of his favourite dishes, a prawn and avocado cocktail, then grilled Dover sole. He was feeling hungry, and would have dearly loved to have headed straight back — to see Noah, have a couple of glasses of wine and a nice meal, and an evening doing what he loved most, spending time with Cleo.

His phone rang.

He answered instantly. It was Glenn Branson. ‘All right?’ the DI said.

‘Not great. You?’

‘Well, actually, I’ve got a bit of a development. Might be nothing — but I wanted to run it by you.’

‘Tell me?’

‘Fancy a drink? I kind of need one. I’m going off duty.’

‘Friday night?’ Grace said. ‘So you don’t have a hot date with that Argus reporter — what’s her name — Siobhan Sheldrake?’

‘Haha, very funny.’

‘I need one, too. Have to make it quick and it’ll have to be a soft one. Black Lion?’

‘Fifteen?’

‘Give me three quarters of an hour, I need to swing by my house to pick up some stuff I’m taking to a charity shop.’

‘Must be tough for you,’ Branson said.

‘Yes,’ Grace replied. ‘Sad, too.’

‘But you’ve moved on now. You’re happy, you’re in a good place. Life’s started all over for you, and I’m happy. I’m really happy.’

‘Thanks, mate, so am I.’

Yet as he hung up, Roy Grace had a heavy heart. He went down to the car park and headed into Hove in Cleo’s car — she was now driving his Alfa which had been fitted with a baby seat. He had so much to look forward to, he knew, but clearing his old home, bit by bit, was not something he was enjoying.

Ten minutes later he turned off New Church Road, and drove down the street, towards Kingsway and the seafront, where he and Sandy had once been so happy. Christmas lights shone through the windows of the houses on either side of the road, until he reached his own house, a 1930s mock-Tudor semi, on the right, near the bottom, which sat in darkness.

He pulled up onto the drive in front of the garage door. Beyond it sat Sandy’s car, coated in dust, where it had been for the past decade awaiting her return. He unlocked the front door of the house. It had been over a week since he was last here, and as he went in he had to push the door hard through the mountain of junk mail and bills and local takeaway menus that had poured through the letter box in his absence.

He switched on the lights, went into the kitchen and pulled out a roll of black bin liners from under the sink, then carried them upstairs into their bedroom, which was still largely unchanged. He opened Sandy’s wardrobe, and began to pull out her clothes and stuff them into a bag until it was full. He could smell her scent, faintly, through the mustiness — or could he? Memories flooded back.

He filled one bag, and then a second, all kinds of thoughts of the past being triggered. Empty coat hangers clattered on the rail. He knelt and filled a third bag with her shoes, remembering to go into the downstairs cloakroom and take her coats off the hooks. Then he stood up and looked around the bedroom. There was a chaise longue at the end of the bed, which they had bought years ago, in terrible condition, from an auction room in Lewes, and had re-covered in a modern, black and white pattern which Sandy had selected. On it sat the battered, furry toy stoat she had had since childhood. He put that in the bag, too, then took it out again and placed it back on the chaise longue. He hadn’t the heart to give it away. Yet, at the same time, he could hardly take it to their new home.

Shit, this was hard.

What if?

If she ever returned? And wanted it?

And suddenly, he realized, as he had so many times over the past years, he could not even remember her face any more. He walked across to her walnut dressing table, and stared down at the framed photograph which sat between her bottles of perfumes.

It had been taken in the restaurant of a gorgeous hotel near Oxford, the Bear at Woodstock, where they had celebrated their wedding anniversary after he had attended a conference on DNA fingerprinting, a short while before she disappeared. He was in a suit and tie, Sandy, in an evening dress, beaming her constant irrepressible grin at a waiter they had asked to take the picture.

He stared at her crystal-clear blue eyes, the colour of the sky. It shocked him to look at her, realizing just how far she had faded into his past. He couldn’t give that away, he knew, nor could he throw it away. He would have to pack it in a suitcase and stick it away, somewhere, up in the loft of his new home.

Then he looked at the stack of books, some on her bedside table and others neatly arranged on the mantelpiece above the fireplace that had been boarded over by previous owners, but which Sandy had opened up again, and occasionally lit, because she thought it was romantic.

He picked up one of the books, Anita Brookner’s Hotel Du Lac, which she had asked him to buy from her Christmas list. He opened it up and read the inscription.

Whatever happened to you? God, where are you now? Resting in peace, I hope.

He kissed the book then dropped it, along with all the others, into a fresh bin bag.