Dead Man's Grip

You’ll find that useful when you come to sell it – unless you’re planning to drive it over a cliff, like your last one.’
    ‘Very funny.’
    Roy Grace’s previous car, his beloved maroon Alfa Romeo 147 sports saloon, had been wrecked during a police pursuit the previous autumn, and he had been wrangling with the insurance company ever since. Finally they had agreed a miserly settlement figure.
    ‘You need to think about these things, old-timer. Getting near retirement, you need to look after the pennies.’
    ‘I’m thirty-nine.’
    ‘Forty’s looming.’
    ‘Thanks for reminding me.’
    ‘Yeah, well, the old brain starts going at your age.’
    ‘Sod off! Anyhow, black’s the wrong colour for an Italian sports car.’
    ‘It’s the best colour for everything.’ Branson tapped his chest. ‘Look at me.’
    Roy Grace stared at him. ‘Yes?’
    ‘What do you see?’
    ‘A tall, bald bloke with rubbish taste in ties.’
    ‘It’s Paul Smith,’ he said, looking hurt. ‘What about my colour?’
    ‘I’m not allowed to mention it under the Racial Equality Act.’
    Branson raised his eyes. ‘Black is the colour of the future.’
    ‘Yep, well, as I’m so old I won’t live long enough to see it – especially standing here in the pissing rain. I’m freezing. Look, I like that one,’ he said, pointing at a red two-seater convertible.
    ‘In your dreams. You’re about to become a father, remember? What you need is one of those.’ Glenn Branson pointed across at a Renault Espace.
    ‘Thanks, I’m not into people carriers.’
    ‘You might be if you have enough kids.’
    ‘Well, so far it’s just one on the way. Anyhow, I’m not choosing anything without Cleo’s approval.’
    ‘Got you under her thumb, has she?’
    Grace blushed coyly. ‘No.’
    He took a step towards a sleek silver two-door Alfa Brera and stared at it covetously.
    ‘Don’t go there,’ Branson said, stepping along with him, keeping him covered with the umbrella. ‘Unless you’re a contortionist!’
    ‘These are really gorgeous!’
    ‘Two doors. How are you going to get the baby in and out of the back?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You have to get something more practical now you’re going to be a family man.’
    Grace stared at the Brera. It was one of the most beautiful cars
he’d ever seen. The price tag was £9,999. Within his range – although with rather high mileage. As he took a further step towards it, his mobile phone rang.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a salesman in a sharp suit, holding up an umbrella, scurrying towards them. He glanced at his watch as he answered the phone, mindful of the time, because he was due for a meeting with his boss, the Assistant Chief Constable, in an hour’s time, at 10 a.m.
    ‘Roy Grace,’ he said.
    It was Cleo, twenty-six weeks pregnant with their child, and she sounded terrible, as if she could barely speak.
    ‘Roy,’ she gasped. ‘I’m in hospital.’

6
    He’d had enough of Meat Loaf. Just as the railway-crossing barrier began to rise, Stuart Ferguson switched to an Elkie Brooks album. ‘Pearl’s a Singer’ began to play. That song had been on in the pub the first time he’d gone out with Jessie.
    Some women on a first date tried to distance themselves from you, until they knew you better. But they’d had six months of getting to know each other over the phone and the Internet. Jessie had been waiting tables in a truck stop just north of Edinburgh when they’d first met, late at night, and chatted for over an hour. They were both going through marriage bust-ups at the time. She’d scrawled her phone number on the back of the receipt and hadn’t expected to hear from him again.
    When they’d settled into the quiet side booth, on their first proper date, she’d snuggled up to him. As the song started playing, he’d slipped an arm around her shoulder, fully expecting her to flinch or pull away. Instead she’d snuggled even closer and turned her face towards him, and they’d kissed. They continued kissing, without a break, for the entire duration of the song.
    He smiled as he drove forward, bumping over the rail tracks, mindful of a wobbly moped rider just in front of him, the wipers clunking. His heart was heavy with longing for Jessie, the song both beautiful and painful for him at the same time. Tonight he would be back in her arms.
    ‘In one hundred yards turn left,’ commanded the female voice of his satnav.
    ‘Yes, boss,’ he grunted,