Dead Man's Footsteps

moved? Had she been so stupid that she’d not thought about that possibility?
    She tried pleading with her eyes. But all he did was look back mockingly, drink more whisky, smoke the cigarette down to the butt and trample it on the floor.
    ‘Right, Abby, you and I are going to have a little chat. Very simple. I ask you questions, you move your eyes right for yes , left for no . Any part of that you don’t understand?’
    She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t. She could move it only a fraction to the right and left.
    ‘No, Abby, you didn’t hear me right. I said move your eyes , not your head . Like to show me you’ve got that?’
    After some moments’ hesitation, she moved her eyes to the right.
    ‘Good girl!’ he said, as if he was praising a puppy. ‘ Very good girl!’
    He put his glass down, pulled out another cigarette and gripped it between his lips. Then he picked his glass up, shaking the ice cubes. ‘Nice whisky,’ he said. ‘Single malt. Expensive. But I don’t suppose money is much of a problem for you, right?’
    He knelt, so he was at eye level, and inched forward, until he was eyeballing her from just a few inches away. ‘Eh? Money? Not a problem for you?’
    She stared rigidly ahead, shivering from the cold.
    Then he took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke straight in her face. The smoke stung her eyes. ‘Money?’ he said again. ‘Not a problem for you, right?’
    Then he stood up. ‘The thing is, Abby, not many people know you are here. Not many people at all. Which means no one’s going to miss you. No one’s going to come looking for you.’ He drank some whisky. ‘Nice shower,’ he said. ‘No expense spared. I expect you’d like to enjoy it. Well, I’m a fair man.’
    He rattled the ice cubes hard, staring at the glass, and for a moment Abby thought he was actually going to cut her a deal.
    ‘Here’s my offer to you. Either I hurt you until you give it all back to me. Or you just give it back to me.’ He smiled again. ‘Strikes me as a no-brainer.’
    He took a slow, relaxed drag on his cigarette, as if enjoying her eyes watching him, enjoying the knowledge that she was probably desperate for one. He tilted his head and allowed the blue smoke to curl out of his mouth and drift upwards.
    ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you sleep on it.’
    Then he shut the door.

54
OCTOBER 2007
    Roy Grace sat at the work station in Major Incident Room One, nursing the mother, father, brother, sister, uncle, grandson, first cousin and second cousin-once-removed of all hangovers. His mouth was like the bottom of a parrot’s cage and it felt as if a chainsaw was blunting its teeth on a steel spike inside his head.
    His one consolation was that Glenn Branson, seated diagonally opposite him, looked like he was suffering too. What the hell had come over them last night?
    They’d gone to the Black Lion for a quick drink, because Glenn wanted to talk to him about his marriage. They had staggered out some time around midnight, having drunk – how many whiskies, beers, bottles of Rioja? Grace did not even want to think about it. He vaguely remembered a taxi ride home, and that Glenn was still with him because his wife had told him she didn’t want him coming home in the state he was.
    Then they had drunk more whisky and Glenn had started riffling through his CDs, criticizing his music, as he always did.
    Glenn had still been there this morning, in the spare room, moaning about his blinding headache and telling Grace he was seriously thinking of ending it all.
    ‘The time is 8.30, Tuesday 23 October,’ Grace read from his briefing notes.
    His policy book, and his notes, typed out half an hour earlier by his MSA, sat in front of him, along with a mug of coffee. He was maxed out on paracetamols, which weren’t working, and he was chewing mint gum to mask his breath, which he was sure must reek of alcohol. He had left his car at the pub last night and decided a walk there to get it, later this morning, would do him some good.
    He was starting to get seriously worried about his lack of self-control over drinking. It didn’t help that Cleo drank like a fish – he wondered if it was to help her cope with the horrors of her work. Sandy liked an occasional glass of wine or two at weekends, or a beer on a hot evening, but that was all. Cleo, on the other hand, drank wine every night and seldom just one glass, except when she was on call. They would often go through a