by Peter James
‘What do you think? This or my black one? Or the beige one you like?’
He could not remember either the black or the beige ones. ‘This looks great.’
‘Which shoes?’
‘Which ones were you thinking of?’
‘Well, I can’t wear anything with heels. So I’m not going to be able to compete with Gaia, am I?’ Her tone was unusually sarcastic.
‘Hey, come on!’ He picked up the phone and looked at the text, then smiled, proudly. Not every cop got a text from one of the world’s greatest stars. And a row of kisses.
‘So would you?’ she said.
‘Would I what?’
‘Go to bed with her, if you had the chance?’ She was staring at him strangely.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, absolutely not! Hey, come on, let’s not go there.’
He picked up the Alfa Romeo brochure that was lying on his bedside table, and flicked through it for distraction, to avoid having to look back at her. He stopped on the Giulietta page, and stared at the car with longing.
Cleo looked over his shoulder. ‘Go with your heart!’ she said. ‘You love that car, right?’
He shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘So, you’ve nearly died I don’t know how many times in your career, and you’ve still got a third of it to go. You’re probably not going to make old bones, so go on, treat yourself while you can. Enjoy!’
‘I’m tempted,’ he said.
‘It’ll suit you. And, hey, Mr Paul Newman Eyes, Gaia will think you are so cool.’
121
Over the course of the following week, to Roy Grace’s relief, press coverage about his rescue of Gaia began to move from the front page and dwindled, although the jibes from his friends and colleagues continued. He gradually reduced the Operation Icon team numbers, until by the following Friday’s morning meeting there was just himself, Glenn Branson, Norman Potting, Bella Moy, Nick Nicholl and a handful of others.
They had a lot work to do still, collecting statements, preparing for the inquests into the deaths of Drayton Wheeler and Myles Royce. Meanwhile they awaited the daily medical bulletins on Eric Whiteley, who remained on life support in the ICU at the Royal Sussex County Hospital, under police guard.
He hadn’t been able to resist showing the text from Gaia around to his colleagues and he was now the butt of a number of saucy but good-humoured jokes about her.
‘So how’s your new lovebird today, chief?’ Norman Potting asked.
‘She’s been back on set all week, I gather, thank you, Norman. She’s tough.’
‘I’ll bet she is,’ he said with a dirty chuckle.
‘Leave it alone, will you, Norman?’ Glenn Branson snapped at him.
Grace had been noticing a certain tension between Branson and Potting recently. But his mate had refused to be drawn on it, on the couple of occasions he’d tried to bring the subject up while they were having a drink after work. Another thing he had noticed a few times was a sly exchange of glances between Potting and Bella.
There couldn’t be anything going on between them, could there? To him, Potting was just about the most physically unappealing man he’d ever encountered. Surely Bella could do better than him?
On the other hand, nor could he see the appeal a Brighton copper might have to one of the world’s greatest and sexiest rock and movie stars. But he was getting a constant stream of increasingly flirty texts from Gaia. It did not seem to matter how neutral and guarded his replies were, the innuendo from her was increasing daily.
Of course he was flattered. And they were too much of an ego boost to delete. But they changed nothing in his love for Cleo. He had thought several times about that question she’d asked him last week in their bedroom. Would he go to bed with Gaia if he had the chance?
And his answer was no. An emphatic no.
*
On the following morning he drove to his house to check on its condition. Sometimes his now long-stay lodger, Glenn Branson, kept it neat and tidy, other times it looked like he’d had a herd of hyenas rampaging through it. Also he could never quite trust his friend to remember to feed his venerable goldfish Marlon.
He pulled up outside shortly after ten, nodded at his neighbour across the street, Noreen Grinstead, the local gossip, a hawk-eyed, jumpy woman in her seventies, who was forever outside the front of her house, washing something. Right now she was hosing down her spotless silver Nissan car.
He did not want to have to talk to her about the recent events, and was equally happy not to get drawn into a tedious conversation with her about the lives of everyone in the street, which sometimes happened. He had moved on from this place, which Sandy, years back, had fallen so in love with. He was now house-hunting with Cleo, and they were taking advantage of this free weekend to look at a number of houses in the city and in the surrounding countryside.
He walked up the path, and let himself in through the front door. ‘Hi, matey!’ he called out, as a warning that he was here, not wanting to disturb Glenn if he had some bird back here – which he was always secretly hoping Glenn would have, to get him over his marriage-from-hell.
But there was no reply. He knew that on his weekends off, Glenn liked to sleep in and then go to the gym, or cycling, which he had recently taken up, in the afternoon.
He stooped and picked a bunch of mail off the mat, sifting through it as he walked through into the kitchen, which Sandy had once made so modern and high tech, but which now looked sadly dated.
‘Hi, Marlon, how are you doing?’ he said, peering into the bowl, pleased to see there was still plenty of food in the hopper.
The fish, as surly as his namesake, ignored him as usual, slowly gliding to the surface and gulping down yet another tiny globule of his food.
‘Not in a chatty mood today? That makes a change, right?’
Marlon did a single circuit of his bowl, and for a moment their eyes met. Then the fish rose to the surface and gulped another globule.
‘It’s okay, old chap, you’re not hurting my feelings. I’ve got a much sexier admirer than you. Would you be jealous if I told you who?’
The fish did not look remotely jealous.
Grace turned away and dumped the small pile of letters, takeaway pizza and Chinese menus, and a blue and white flyer from the local Conservative MP, Mike Weatherley. Then he sifted quickly through the letters. One was a brown envelope that contained a council tax demand. And one was from the estate agents Mishon Mackay, whose board was outside the house.
He opened it, and there was a written report on the recent viewings. Just as he started reading it, his phone rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
‘Oh, Mr Grace? It’s Darran Willmore from Mishon Mackay.’
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m just reading your letter this minute!’
‘Right – well – I’ve got a bit of a development I thought you might like to hear about.’
‘Fire away.’
‘We had a viewing recently, a mother and her son. We did think she seemed quite interested at the time. They’re living overseas at the moment, but want to move to Brighton – I believe she has some past connection here.’
‘Okay, sounds interesting.’
‘Well, it’s looking encouraging. She wants to have a second viewing.’
That’s brilliant news, Grace thought, wondering how he was going to break it to Glenn.
‘I thought you’d be pleased!’
‘I am,’ Roy Grace said. ‘The timing could not be better.’
122
Roy Grace was pretty happy with how the Carl Venner trial was going. The ghastly fat snuff movie king and paedophile, with a penchant for Breitling watches, had done himself no favours.
And for the first time in a very long while, to his great relief, Grace had spent an entire week as the Duty Senior Investigating Officer without a single major crime incident happening in the city of Brighton and Hove. Which meant he was available day and night to take Cleo to hospital th
e moment labour began.
The King’s Lover was in its final week of location shooting in and around Brighton, before moving up to Pinewood studios, and miraculously was only four days behind schedule. The texts from Gaia, to Grace’s relief, but at the same time, slight disappointment, had stopped. Although he had paid a couple of visits to the set and been greeted by Gaia on each occasion as somewhat more than her new best friend.
Eric Whiteley was still on life support in the ICU, tying up valuable resources in what Grace considered a pointless, but requisite, around-the-clock police guard.
It was a Monday afternoon in late June, as he was about to leave for home, when his phone rang. He heard an American accent.
‘Detective Grace? This is Detective Myman, from the Los Angeles Police Threat Management Unit. We have kind of a number of loose ends to tie up relating to Gaia Lafayette and, in particular, the deceased Drayton Wheeler.’
‘You’re telling me. I’m working on it right now.’
‘It would speed up the process if it were possible for one of your team to come over here. Wouldn’t need them for more than a couple of days.’
‘The issue we have right now is our budgets,’ Grace said.
‘That’s not a problem. The LAPD would be happy to pick up the tab for the air fare – and we’d take care of whoever came over. Can you suggest who might be the best person on your team? Yourself perhaps?’
Grace thought hard. Because of the consultant obstetrician’s concerns, Cleo was booked into the maternity ward of the Royal Sussex County Hospital the following Monday, to have the baby by caesarean section. With the risk that she might need to go in earlier, there was no way he could go. But a break might do Glenn some good, what with him seeming particularly miserable at the moment.
He told Myman he would get back to him later in the day.
As he hung up, his phone pinged with a text.
Hey Mr Paul Newman Eyes! I have some free time on Thursday evening. Leaving town at the weekend. Can I invite you to my suite for a good-bye drink? XXXX
Thursday was his boys’ poker night, a tradition that had been going on for years, and except when work intervened, he tried never to miss a game. Perhaps he could fit in a very quick drink with her before joining the boys. He would do that and then go on to the game.
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!’
124
The obituary in the Argus read:
GRACE. Noah Jack
On July 2nd. Died tragically shortly after birth. Much loved son of Roy and Cleo. Private funeral for family only.
125
Roy Grace had tears in his eyes as he watched Cleo cradling their son, in her bed in the maternity ward of the Royal Sussex County Hospital. The baby’s pink face was all scrunched up, his eyes were closed, his lips formed a tiny rosebud. Thin tufts of wavy fair hair lay across his head. He was dressed in a pale blue V-neck cotton top, embroidered with a mouse wearing striped shorts.
It was incredible, he thought, unable to take his eyes off him. His son. Their child. He breathed in the sweet smells of freshly washed skin and baby powder. Looked at Cleo, tresses of her hair lying across the shoulders of her nightdress, her face filled with so much love and care.
Then his phone rang. As he answered it, he stepped away from the bed and went out into the corridor. It was Glenn Branson.
‘I’m so sorry, mate, we’re all gutted.’
‘Gutted? What’s happened?’
‘Well, you know – I thought the baby was doing fine – then we saw it in the Argus this morning. I don’t know what to say. How’s Cleo?’
‘Hang on a sec, saw what in the Argus?’
There was a moment of awkward silence. ‘Well – the obit, right?’
‘Obituary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s died?’
There was another silence. ‘Your baby, right? Noah Jack Grace?’
‘What? Are you serious?’
‘Got it on my desk right in front of me. Everyone’s in tears here.’
‘Glenn, there’s been a mistake. We had a horrendous couple of days. Noah was born with breathing difficulties – wet lung syndrome, they called it. They weren’t sure if he was going to make it.’
‘Yeah, you told me. But, you know, you said he was getting stronger.’
‘He was all intubated and wired up in an incubator at first – neither of us was allowed to touch him. But he’s fine now, Cleo’s holding him; hopefully we can take him home soon.’
‘So who the hell screwed up with the obituary?’ Glenn asked.
‘I can’t believe this. You’re sure?’
‘I’ve got it in front of me in black and white.’
‘Shit. I’m going straight down to the shop to get one. I don’t think anyone’s screwed up. Obituaries don’t get put in by mistake,’ Grace said grimly. Inside, he was shaking.
126
Freedom for Amis Smallbone,
among other things, meant being able to enjoy some of life’s simple pleasures. One of them had always been sitting at a table under the Arches on the seafront, right by the beach, staring out at the sea and the Palace Pier and the passing totty.
By night, this area was rich pickings for the network of drug dealers he once controlled, but on a fine summer morning it was mostly tourists promenading along, enjoying the views, the beach, the bars, cafes, shops and other seaside attractions.
And there were few things he enjoyed more than his first coffee of the day with the Argus newspaper. Especially when an endless procession of skimpily dressed girls were strutting past at eye level.
With his cigarette in his mouth, smoke curling up between his eyes, he flicked through the pages, aware he still had years to catch up on in this town. He saw an interview with the Chief Constable talking about cuts he was having to make and read the piece with little sympathy. There was talk of a new hospital. A bunch of drug dealers in Crawley, a couple of whom he knew, had been arrested in a raid the police had been working on for ten months.
His eyes widened a little and he read this story carefully. Could be a business opportunity had opened up there. Then he reached one of the pages that always interested him the most. YOUR ANNOUNCEMENTS.
He went straight to the DEATHS, and scanned down the column. He never ever missed this column, because he liked to know who he had outlived, and who he didn’t have to worry about any more.
But today there was a very special entry.
*
She liked Gatwick Airport; it was much more convenient for Brighton than Heathrow and easyJet had direct flights to Munich.
Holding hands with her ten-year-old son, after security she walked into the duty-free shopping area. Immediately the boy dragged her into Dixons, where she bought him an upgrade for his latest computer gaming machine, which made him happy.
The one good thing that had happened in the past decade was her careful investing of her windfall inheritance from her aunt, enabling her to escape from her relationship with the increasingly insane control freak Hans-Jürgen. She was now a wealthy woman. Well, wealth was all relative, but she had enough to buy the house, if she decided, and to buy things for her son without having to consider the cost.
