Dead Man's Footsteps

gone into the mobile phone shop – what was the bitch doing in there? No doubt dithering about which colour to buy.
    The cab would be costing a bloody fortune! And whose money would she be using to pay for it?
    His, of course.
    Was she doing it deliberately to make him angry, knowing that he would be watching somewhere?
    She would pay for this. Every which way. And then some.
    She would scream apologies to him. Over and over and over. Before he was finished with her.
    A shadow fell across his nearside window. Then he saw a traffic warden’s face peering in. He put down the window.
    ‘I’m picking up my mother,’ Ricky said. ‘She’s disabled – won’t be a few minutes.’
    The warden, a lanky youth with a sullen face and his cap at a jaunty angle, was not impressed. ‘You’ve been here half an hour.’
    ‘She’s driving me nuts,’ Ricky said. ‘She’s suffering dementia – first stages.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Got toget her to the hospital. Just give me a couple more minutes.’
    ‘Five minutes,’ the warden said, and swaggered off. He then stopped by the car in front and began tapping out a ticket on his machine.
    Ricky watched his altercation moments later with the returning owner, an irate-looking woman, and continued to watch his slow progress into the distance. He realized, with a shock, that another twenty minutes had passed.
    Jesus, how long do you need to buy a fucking phone?
    Another five minutes went by. Followed by another. Suddenly the taxi drove off and was swallowed by the traffic.
    Ricky did a double-take. Had he missed her? Had the warden moved the taxi on?
    He started the car and followed. Several vehicles in front, the taxi headed down to the sea, then turned right. Keeping his distance, staying several vehicles back, he followed the imbecilic, moronic, geriatric, dithering fool of a driver at a pace where he was likely to be overtaken by a tortoise. They went along the seafront, then up the winding hill into wide, open national park and farmland, and along towards the cliff-top beauty and favoured suicide spot of Beachy Head.
    A double-decker bus was on his tail, pushing for him to speed up. ‘Come on, fuckwit!’ he shouted through the windscreen at the cab. ‘Put your fucking foot down!’
    Still at the same speed, he passed the Beachy Head pub, following the winding road towards Birling Gap, then up through East Dean village. The agony continued through more open countryside, winding past the Seven Sisters and into Seaford. Then on, past the Newhaven ferry port, and up the hill into Peacehaven. A long-haired youngman and a girl stood on a street corner in the distance waving and, to Ricky’s astonishment, the for hire light suddenly came on and the taxi pulled over.
    He pulled over too and a line of traffic that had built up behind him shot past.
    He watched the couple get into the back.
    The taxi had been empty.
    He’d been following an empty taxi.
    Shit, shit, shit .
    Oh, you little bitch, now you’ve really fucking done it .

76
OCTOBER 2007
    A scarlet-haired bimbo dressed in skimpy purple, with legs up to her neck and massive boobs spilling out of her bra, winked at Roy Grace.
    He took hold of the card and, as the angle changed, the other eye winked at him. He grinned and opened it. A cheesy voice, which was a bad imitation of some female vocalist he could not immediately place, began singing ‘Happy Birthday’.
    ‘This is wonderful!’ he said. ‘Who did you say it was for?’
    With her tall, leggy good looks, DC Esther Mitchell was, no contest, currently the best-looking detective in the whole of Sussex House. She was also one of the cheeriest.
    ‘It’s for DI Willis,’ she said breezily. ‘His fortieth.’
    Grace grinned. Baz Willis, an overweight slug who should never, in anyone’s opinion, have been promoted to the rank of Detective Inspector, was a renowned groper. The card was therefore eminently fitting. He found a space between the dozen or so other signatures, scrawled his name on it and handed it back to her.
    ‘He’s having a party. Open bar at the Black Lion tonight.’
    Grace grimaced. The Black Lion in Patcham, Sussex House’s local, was one of his least favourite pubs and thethought of two consecutive nights there was more than his constitution could handle – besides he had a far, far better offer.
    ‘Thanks, I’ll swing by if I can,’ he said.
    ‘Someone’s organizing a minibus – if you want to book on that—’
    ‘No,