Dead Man's Time

partially assembled, lay in front of him on the top floor of his rented town house. He had imagined opening the box, removing the scanner, and bingo!
    Instead, the first thing he had to do was install the software, via the CD provided, on his computer. He had done that, although he was not entirely sure he had successfully followed all the
instructions, which had been there to trick him at every level.
    But finally, he had the thing working, and so far it had picked up little of interest. He had listened in on a banal conversation between Cleo Morey and a girlfriend, comparing notes on feeding
babies and sore nipples.
    Purrrleasse!
    What he was most interested in was Roy Grace’s work pattern. He needed a few clear hours when Grace was out of the house and Cleo and Noah were home alone.
    He still had not yet decided which one to hurt, or whether to hurt both. His priority remained, as it had all along, to destroy Roy Grace. What would work best? His beloved Cleo disfigured for
life? Their baby dead? Both?
    He felt a warm buzz deep in his bones.
    Both
was good.

75
    Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor sat in the unmarked Ford Focus estate, in Shirley Drive, a short distance up the hill from Sarah Courteney’s house and on the opposite side of
the road, giving them a clear view of the property. Her Mercedes SLK was parked in the driveway, alongside the black Range Rover Sport belonging to her husband. It was because of the Range Rover,
indicating Lucas Daly was at home, that they had not gone to knock on her door. They knew, from checking with the BBC, that she was on the regional news tonight, at 6.30 p.m. Which meant she would
be leaving for the studio very shortly.
    After ten minutes, their guess proved accurate. She came out of the front door, hurrying through the drizzle, and climbed into her car. She reversed out and headed away down the hill, towards
the Old Shoreham Road.
    They waited for some moments, then Grace started the engine and drove after her, pulling up behind her at the lights. She was indicating right. He could see through the rear window that she was
making an illegal call on her phone, held to her ear.
    The lights changed and she turned right, heading west. He followed, a few lengths behind, as she crossed the junction with Sackville Road and continued heading west. Then he reached out his left
hand, switched on the car’s blue lights and shot in front of her, braking gently, then pulled over onto the forecourt of Harwood’s garage, watching her follow in his rearview
mirror.
    He climbed out, walked back to the passenger side of her car, and signalled for her to unlock the door. Then, as she lifted her handbag onto her lap, he climbed into the passenger seat and
pulled the door shut. There was a pleasant mix of smells: of leather seats and her fragrant perfume. ‘Using your mobile phone whilst driving is an offence,’ he said, with a grin.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, dropping it into the cradle on the dash. ‘The Bluetooth isn’t working. Is that why you’ve stopped me?’
    ‘No, but I wouldn’t let the Traffic guys see you.’
    ‘Thank you. I wouldn’t normally be driving myself, but I need the car to meet a friend later.’
    ‘I thought it might be better to have a discreet word with you away from home – after Tuesday night.’ He gave her a quizzical look and she blushed.
    ‘I thought I was going to die from embarrassment,’ she replied.
    ‘Let’s just make it clear that your personal life is of no interest to me, Ms Courteney. If it was, I’d have knocked on your front door, regardless of whether your husband was
in or not.’
    ‘Thank you for not.’ She switched the engine off.
    Rush-hour traffic swished by on the wet road. Roy Grace turned to face her. ‘So, if it’s not too personal, may I ask how long you and Gareth Dupont have been an item?’
    ‘It is pretty personal, actually.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I really can’t stop for long – I’m on air at 6.30.’
    ‘I know that. I don’t intend to make you late. But Gareth Dupont is a suspect in the murder of your husband’s aunt, and you were in bed with him two nights ago.’
    ‘Does that make me a suspect too?’
    ‘Not at this stage, no.’
    ‘But I might be?’
    ‘Excuse me being personal again, but does your husband beat you?’
    Shaking, she opened her handbag and rummaged inside it, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
    ‘I like the smell.’
    She offered