Dead Man's Grip

far.’
    ‘And if it’s a boy?’
    ‘I’d like Jack, after your father.’
    ‘You would?’
    She nodded.
    Suddenly his phone rang. Raising an apologetic finger, he hit the hands-free button to answer.
    It was Norman Potting. ‘Sorry about that, chief, my battery is still down. But I thought you should know—’
    Then there was silence.
    ‘Know what?’ Grace asked.
    But he was talking into thin air.
    He dialled the Incident Room number to ask if Potting had left any message. But Nick Nicholl, who answered, said no one had heard from him. Grace told him he would be back for the evening briefing, then hung up.
    Cleo looked at him provocatively. ‘So, this wild sex, then? It’ll have to be a quickie?’
    ‘Hard cheese,’ he replied.
    ‘It’s the soft ones that have listeria.’ She kissed him again. ‘Hard sounds good.’

37
    She did not feel like running any more. She felt in need of alcohol. When the waitress came round, she ordered a Maß of beer. One whole litre of the stuff. Then she stared back again at the words in the Münchner Merkur .
    She could feel blind fury welling inside her. Somehow she had to contain it. It was one of the things she had been learning, anger management. She was much better at it, but she needed to focus hard to do it. Had to spiral back inside her mind to the place she was before she was angry. To the Münchner Merkur , lying on the table.
    She closed the paper and pushed it away, calming a little. But struggling. A fury inside her was threatening to erupt and she must not let it, she knew. She could not let her anger win. It had already ruled too much of her life and had not ruled it well or wisely.
    Extinguish it , she thought. Extinguish it like the flame of a match in the wind. Just let it blow out. Watch it go.
    Calmer now, she opened the paper again and turned back to the page. She looked at the details at the bottom. There was a mailing address, an email address and a phone number.
    Her next reaction was Why?
    Then, calming a little further, she thought, Does it matter?
    She’d kept some tabs on him, especially in recent years, now that the local Sussex newspaper, the Argus , was available online. As an increasingly prominent police officer it was easy; he was frequently being quoted in the news doing his stuff. Doing what he loved, being a copper. A crap husband, but a great copper. As a wife you’d always be second to that. Some accepted it. Some wives were coppers themselves, so they understood. But it had not been the life she had wanted. Or so she had thought.
    But now here, alone, with each passing day she was less certain of the decision she had made. And this announcement was really unsettling her more than she could ever have imagined.
    Dead?
    Me?
    How very convenient for you, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, now in charge of Major Crime for Sussex. Oh yes, I’ve been following you. I’m only a few footsteps behind you. The ghost that haunts you. Good for you, with your passion for your career. Your dad only made it to Sergeant. You’ve already gone higher than your wildest dreams – at least the ones you told me about. How much higher will you go? How high do you want to go? All the way to the very top? The place you told me you didn’t actually want to reach?
    Are you happy?
    Do you remember how we used to discuss happiness? Do you remember that night we got drunk at the bar in Browns and you told me that it was possible to have happy moments in life, but that only an idiot could be happy all of the time?
    You were right.
    She opened the paper and reread the announcement. Anger was boiling inside her again. A silent rage. A fire she had to put out. It was one of the first things they had taught her about herself. About that anger, which was such a big problem. They gave her a mantra to say to herself. To repeat, over and over.
    She remembered the words now. Spoke them silently.
    Life is not about waiting for the storms to pass. It is about learning to dance in the rain.
    As she repeated them, again and again, slowly she began to calm down once more.

38
    Tony Case, the Senior Support Officer at HQ CID, phoned Roy Grace early in the afternoon, to tell him one of the current inquiries at Sussex House had ended in a result sooner than expected and was now winding down, which meant MIR-1 – Major Incident Room One – had become free. Case, with whom Grace got on well, knew that was the place the Detective Superintendent favoured for conducting