You Are Dead

by Peter James

  Three limbs at all times.

  The rung both his feet were standing on suddenly fell away, and he swung out, hanging from one hand, grimly holding on, but feeling his fingers slipping.

  Noah. Cleo. God, I love you so much.

  Somehow in the choking darkness he managed to get his other hand onto the rung, then felt it giving way as well. He hauled himself up, just as the rung beneath his feet detached from the side of the shaft and clattered into the swirling brown hell below him, and grabbed the next one. He gripped the rung with both hands, but he could barely hold on.

  The roar deepened, deafening now like an earthquake, as both his wrists were seized in a grip like a vice. Feeling like his arms were about to rip out of his body, he was hauled slowly upward. He looked up to see Branson and Martis’s faces.

  “It’s all right, mate, we’ve got you, you heavy bastard!”

  An instant later he slammed down hard, over the lip of the freezer, his face striking the concrete floor of the garage, panting with exertion.

  “All right, Roy? Sorry if I hurt you.”

  He turned, looking at Branson. “I’ll get over it,” he gasped. “Thanks, mate.”

  “Bloke like you, at your age, you need one of them Stannah Stairlifts.”

  “Up yours!”

  Somewhere in the distance he heard the wail of an emergency siren. Then the burning pain in his right leg worsened. “Shit!” he cried out.

  “Can’t take the pace any more?” Glenn Branson chided.

  Grace shook his head. “Nah, it’s not that. It’s your humor. Nothing personal, but every time I hear one of your tired old gags, I lose the will to live.” He grinned, then he turned toward him and hugged him. “I don’t know why, but I do sodding love you.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” Branson replied. “For an old git.” Then he knelt, looking anxiously at Grace’s right leg, and saw the color draining from his face. “Shit, Roy, this looks serious.” He turned to Martis. “We need an ambulance, fast.”

  103

  Tuesday 23 December

  “Well, it’s not quite home, darling, is it?”

  Roy Grace opened his eyes, feeling totally disoriented. The light was too bright, the bed felt unfamiliar, the ceiling looked strange. Fear engulfed him for an instant. Where was he?

  What had happened?

  Then he saw Cleo’s face above him, looking at him strangely, with a quizzical grin.

  What was going on? Where—?

  She leaned down and kissed him tenderly on his forehead.

  Where—where was he?

  “You are crazy, my love,” she said.

  “Crazy?”

  His right leg was throbbing painfully. He saw a woman standing beside Cleo in a pale blue shirt. A name tag was pinned to it, which he couldn’t read. She looked like a nurse. Next to her stood a man of about fifty, in dark blue surgical scrubs, and blue and white gauze, like a J-cloth, tied with tapes around his head.

  “Welcome back, Detective Superintendent Grace,” the nurse said.

  “Back?” Grace said. He was trying to piece together things in his mind. The tunnel. Dr. Crisp. The shotgun.

  The man in scrubs stepped forward. “How are you feeling, old chap?”

  “My right leg’s hurting like hell!”

  “I’m not surprised. I’ve removed eleven shotgun pellets from it. You’re lucky, another few inches and you might have lost your leg. We’ll keep the pain under control and you’ll be back on your pins in a couple of weeks. Although it’ll be a bit tender for a few weeks, I’m afraid.” He gave him a lopsided smile. “Sorry, should have introduced myself. I’m Rupert Verrell, a consultant surgeon here.”

  It was all coming back to him now. “I didn’t realize it was that bad. Thank you.”

  “Double-barrel shotguns at close range are not good news—thought you as a detective would be the first person to know that.”

  “Yep, well I do now,” he said.

  “You had a lucky escape—he was clearly a lousy shot.”

  “Glenn told me what you did, darling,” Cleo said. “You are bloody nuts! A few inches in another direction and I might have been a grieving widow.”

  “How long have I been here?” Roy Grace asked, feeling sudden panic.

  “Two days, darling,” Cleo said.

  “What’s the date today?” he asked.

  Cleo gave him a chiding look. “December 23rd.”

  “What’s the time?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Five past ten.”

  “Morning?”

  “Yes, morning!”

  “Shit!” He tried to sit up—and instantly felt as if a red-hot poker was being pressed against his leg. “Yoowwwww!” He closed his eyes, wincing. “I’ve got to go shopping!” he said. “I’ve got tons of stuff to get—I have to get your card, your presents!” And, he suddenly remembered, he’d got nothing yet for his godchild, Jaye, either.

  “There’s no way you’re going shopping today, old chap,” the surgeon said. “Unless you’re planning on doing it online.”

  “You’re not seriously keeping me in here over Christmas? We’ve just moved into our new house—I—I’ve got to be at home with my family. I’ve got to get out and buy presents!”

  “I’ve got my present,” Cleo said. “It’s you. You being OK, being alive, that’s the only present I need this Christmas.”

  Grace stared up at her, despondently. “God, darling, I am so sorry.”

  “Remember what you told me when I was pregnant with Noah?”

  He winced in pain again, then shook his head. “No, what?”

  “That your job was to catch and lock up the bad guys, to make the world a safer place for your unborn child and me. Well, that’s what you did. I may be mad as hell at you for putting your life at risk, but I’m proud of you. I don’t know many people who are married to real heroes. Noah and I will celebrate Christmas with you here in the hospital. It’ll be different from the one we planned. But hey, we’ll make it a good one. Right?” She squeezed his hand.

  He smiled up at her, blinking away tears, and squeezed her hand back. Then he heard the voice of the nurse, detached and bossy.

  “Your husband needs to sleep now.”

  “Darling, before you go, what’s happened to Crisp?”

  “I just know they’re still digging.”

  104

  Wednesday 24 December

  Grace had had visitors all day, including his sister, and had nodded off watching the television. He was woken what seemed like only moments later by the gruff voice of Glenn Branson.

  “Happy Christmas, mate!”

  He opened his eyes to see the tall hulk of the detective, in a sharp suit and even more dazzling tie than usual, reeking of alcohol and looking unsteady. He was holding a card in one hand and a massive bottle of champagne, with a blue ribbon around the neck, in the other. Next to him stood an attractive, fair-haired woman in a short black dress, leggings and high-heeled boots. She was holding a basket of fruit wrapped in cellophane with a sprig of holly on the top.

  The Argus reporter, Siobhan Sheldrake, Grace realized. He looked up at them, wondering what the hell was going on. “Wassertime?” he asked, still not fully with it.

  “One minute to midnight, Christmas Eve. Just call me Santa! Do you know how much rank I had to pull to be let in here?” Branson said.

  “How are you feeling, Roy?” the Argus reporter said.

  “No comment,” he replied.

  Was Glenn insane? What the hell was he doing here with this reporter?

  “Siobhan’s cool,” Branson replied, reading his mate’s expression. “This is a social visit—she’s not writing it up. She’s already done her piece on you!” He held up the front page of today’s Argus.

  Grace stared at the headline.

  HERO COP RISKS LIFE TO CATCH KILLER

  Branson staggered sideways, got a grip on himself and put the bottle down on the table beside him. Then he touched Roy Grac
e’s face with his hand. “You OK?”

  “I haven’t thanked you properly yet, for getting me out of there,” Grace said.

  “Yeah, and you managed to grab the headline!” Branson retorted, sitting down on the side of the bed. “Hero bloody cop! Huh!”

  “You sodding yanked my arms out of their sockets!”

  The tall detective grinned. “Yeah, bummer.”

  Grace looked at him, moved his eyes over to the Argus reporter, then back to Glenn Branson. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Yeah. Siobhan and I—I know we’re a bit pissed. But I thought you ought to be the first to hear the news. We just got engaged.”

  105

  Thursday 25 December

  In the years following Sandy’s disappearance, Christmas had been a meaningless time of year for Roy Grace, in which he’d preferred to work rather than try to be jolly with family.

  Last year, for the first time, with Cleo, he had actually enjoyed it again. He had been looking forward to it so much this year in their new home in the country. He thought about a roaring open fire, walks in the country with little Noah in a carrier on his back. Instead, he was confined to this small single room, at the Royal Sussex County Hospital.

  Every inch of shelf space, and the table beside his bed, was covered in cards—mostly from his work colleagues, along with a mass of flowers and baskets of fruit.

  Reluctantly Cleo had left to take Noah home to bed. The television was on, a Christmas special of Downton Abbey. He watched Hugh Bonneville raising a toast. Then suddenly the door opened and Cassian Pewe walked in carrying a festive bottle bag and a card. Yet again he was dressed in one of his loud-checked sports jackets, roll-neck sweater, cavalry twills and distinctly vulgar two-tone brogues.

  “Roy! Happy Christmas!” he said in his nasally whine. “I had planned to come sooner, but you know what Christmas Day is like!”

  “Very nice to see you, sir.” Grace did his best to muster a smile, and in truth was pleasantly surprised to see his boss.

  “Brought you a little something to cheer you up!” He handed Grace the heavy bag and card.

  “Thank you!”

  Pewe sat down on the chair beside the bed and Grace smelled the reek of an obnoxiously sweet cologne, perhaps a Christmas gift.

  “Nice work, Roy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. What you’ve done is over and above anything expected. You’ve shown the city of Brighton and Hove, the county of Sussex and the entire damned country what good policing really is. We are all proud of you, and indebted to you. You’re a hero!”

  Grace waited for the negative punchline, but it didn’t come.

  “Last year you saved my life, Roy. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but it’s funny how life works out. I don’t want to go into the New Year feeling any tension between us—that’s why I’ve come to see you tonight. You’re a damned fine copper. You’re the best. I’m proud to be working with you, and I’m sorry if I doubted you in the past. OK?” He held out his hand.

  Grace shook it. Pewe’s handshake was limp and slimy. “OK!”

  “I’m sure you want to know the latest on the recovery of Crisp’s body. We’ve had some problems; the tunnel’s flooded from fractured pipes and it’s full of water and sewage that we’re pumping out but it’ll take a few days.

  “Now, as I understand it you’ve just moved home, but Operation Haywain has prevented you from helping out in any way—is that correct?”

  “Well, I suppose so. Luckily, I have an understanding wife.”

  Pewe tapped his chest. “And an understanding ACC. I’m told you will be allowed home before the New Year. I understand you’ll be on a month’s sick leave, Roy. Spend some quality time at home, getting straight, and with your lovely wife and your baby son. And forget all about Major Crime. Come back on Feb 1st fully charged up—we’re going to be needing you in the New Year firing on all cylinders. Right?”

  “A month?” Grace tried to remember the last time he’d had that amount of time off, and couldn’t. Instantly he was suspicious. “I’m sure I won’t need that long.”

  “It’s not an option, Roy, it’s an order. I’ve seen too many marriages in the police ruined because of the workload of officers.” He grinned, exposing a set of immaculate white teeth and shiny, rosebud lips.

  Five minutes later, to Roy Grace’s relief, Pewe left.

  106

  Saturday 27 December

  “I can’t believe I have you home for an entire month!” Cleo said, holding the door, then taking his arm to help him out of the car. “Welcome back!” She handed him his stick, then went around to the rear of the car to get his little suitcase.

  Roy Grace grinned, gripping the walking stick, supporting himself on his good leg, and stood in the unseasonably warm sunlight staring excitedly at the cottage, and breathing in the smells of the country air. He could hardly believe he was actually, finally, back. For years he had dreamed of living in the countryside, and while they were only eight miles from his beloved Brighton, this was wonderfully rural.

  The house was small and rectangular, with whitewashed walls, a white front door and a steeply pitched tiled roof, approached down a bumpy drive that was little more than a cart track. All the tiny windows were a different shape, and one side of the house was covered in unruly ivy. The garden was an overgrown riot of shrubs, bushes and long grass. In a slightly elevated position, it had a view from the rear across miles of open fields. They’d got it for a good price because it was in need of modernization, but he loved it all the more for that. Cleo had great taste and had already begun the redecorating.

  As he reached the front door he heard Humphrey barking excitedly inside. Moments later it was opened by Cleo’s younger sister, Charlie, in paint-spattered dungarees.

  Humphrey came bounding out, almost knocking him over in his excitement, jumping up at him.

  Steadying himself on his stick, he hugged the dog. “Good boy, like your new pad, do you?” Moments later Humphrey spotted something and raced off into the undergrowth, barking furiously.

  He went into the hallway, treading carefully across the dust sheets, inhaling the heady smell of fresh paint combined with the sweet smell of an open fire. As he kissed Charlie, wishing her a belated Happy Christmas, he heard Noah gurgling.

  “He’s been good as gold all morning!” Charlie said. “He must be excited to have his Daddy home!”

  “I’ll bring him down!” Cleo said and hurried up the stairs. “Go through to the living room. I’ve put a bottle of champagne in the fridge—we’ve got some overdue celebrating to do!” she called out.

  Ten minutes later, on a sofa in front of the crackling, popping fire in the inglenook, with a glass in his hand and Noah lying on his play mat on the floor, Roy Grace felt almost overwhelmed with happiness. Finally, he felt, his new life was really beginning.

  Charlie, whose love life had been a disastrous series of wrong choices, was dating a television commercials director whom the whole family—apart from him—had met and really liked, and she looked happier than he had ever seen her. Humphrey was wrestling to the death with a squeaky rubber toy.

  “So,” Charlie said, “Detective Superintendent Grace is now a country squire. How does that feel?”

  He grinned, drained his glass and looked up at Cleo. “Pretty damned good!”

  Charlie refilled their glasses and went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. “We’ve got a whole month together, darling,” Roy said to Cleo. “What are we going to do with it? Have that housewarming for starters?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “And let’s have a couple of dinner parties. And we should go to London shopping in the sales—now’s the best time to buy stuff for the house. And there’s a Bryan Ferry concert coming on at the Dome in three weeks—shall we try to get tickets?”

  * * *

  Later on, when the bottle was almost empty, Cleo scooped Noah into her arms to take him upstairs for a feed.
>
  Charlie excused herself to serve lunch. Grace sat and sipped more of his champagne. Then his phone rang.

  It was his German Landeskriminalamt friend, Marcel Kullen.

  Instantly his mood changed, as if the sky had clouded over.

  “Hey, Roy, Happy New Year. How are you?”

  “Happy New Year, Marcel. I’m OK—apart from being shot in the leg just before Christmas.”

  “Shot? You have been shot?”

  “Eleven pellets removed from my leg.”

  “You are serious?”

  “Yep, they were an early Christmas present from someone who didn’t like me very much.”

  “My God, but you are OK?”

  “I’m OK, thanks. It hurts a bit to walk, but I’ll be fine in another week or so. Alcohol helps! So how are you?”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Kullen said, “This lady in the hospital I spoke to you about, yes?”

  “Uh huh,” he replied hesitantly.

  “I have some more information about this woman. Tell me something, did your Sandy—was she ever taking drugs?”

  “Drugs? What do you mean, Marcel? What kind of drugs?”

  “Heroin?”

  “No way! No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I think I would have known!”

  “I do not think always people know, Roy.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I have another question. This lady, they are calling Frau Lohmann—she has a son I mentioned who is ten years and six months old. Do you think there is any possibility your Sandy could have had such a son by you?”

  He stared at the dancing flames in the grate. “A son? By me?”

  “Could she have been pregnant when she left you?”

  “Pregnant? Pregnant, no—no.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Grace said hesitantly and tried to do the maths. It was just possible, he calculated. Just.

  “This son has told the friends he is staying with that his mother has taken him twice to Brighton. The last time he said he went to a wedding with her in November and she seemed very upset. They left the wedding.”