Dead Man's Time

could try out when I’m up to it again.’ She gave him a sideways look.
    ‘You took Noah into a sex shop?’
    ‘He loved it! He looked around quite excitedly – I think he liked the red and pink colours in Ann Summers.’
    ‘He’s two months old and you’re getting him into bad ways!’ Grace grinned.
    She said nothing for a moment, then she frowned. ‘You do still fancy me, don’t you? Even though I’m fat and I’ve got varicose veins? I read that some men get put off sex
after their wives have given birth.’
    He took her in his arms and kissed her. ‘You look stunning.’ She did look really stunning, he thought. She was wearing a loose cream linen summer dress, suede ankle boots with killer
heels, her hair, the colour of winter wheat, shining and smelling freshly washed. ‘I fancy you like crazy. I fancy you more than ever.’ He kissed her again.
    The doorbell rang.
    Cleo took a reluctant step back. ‘That’ll be the Aged Ps!’
    Grace glanced at his watch. It was 6.45 p.m. Cleo’s parents, who he really liked, always arrived at least
fifteen minutes early for anything. They were babysitting their grandson tonight, giving Roy and Cleo their first evening out since Noah’s birth.
    *
    Although many people considered summer officially over at the end of August, in Roy Grace’s experience September was often the most glorious month of all. Normally he did
not like to take any time out during a murder enquiry, and he had felt torn between spending the night working on the Aileen McWhirter case and taking Cleo out.
    It was Cleo starting to sound a little tetchy last night that had been a reality check for him. It reminded him so much of Sandy. Sandy had never accepted how dead people could be more important
than she was. How his work took priority over their life together. He had tried to explain, back then, the words instilled in him when he had been at the police training college, learning to be a
detective. An instructor had read out the FBI moral code on murder investigation, written by its first director, J. Edgar Hoover:
No greater honour will ever be bestowed on an officer, nor a
more profound duty imposed on him, than when he or she is entrusted with the investigation of the death of a human being.
    He would never stop fighting his corner for his murder victims. He would work night and day to catch and lock up the perpetrators. And mostly, so far in his career, he had succeeded.
    But he was a father now, too. And soon to be a husband again. And that gnawed at him; the realization that there was someone in this world now who needed him even more than a murder victim. His
son. And his wife-to-be.
    He was glad he had made that decision as he walked hand in hand along Gardner Street with this beautiful woman he was so proud of. They passed Luigi’s clothes shop, where some months ago
Glenn Branson, as his self-appointed style guru, had coerced him into spending over two thousand pounds to transform his wardrobe. He was wearing some of the gear now: a lightweight bomber jacket
over a white T-shirt buttoned at the front, tapered blue chinos and brown suede loafers. Men turned and looked at Cleo as they passed. Roy Grace liked that, and wondered, with a private smile, if
they would still ogle her if they knew what she did for a living, and might one day, if they were unlucky enough, be preparing them for a post-mortem.
    They walked the narrow Lanes he loved so much, passing packed restaurants and bars, and came into the square, Brighton Place, dominated by the flint façade of one of Brighton’s
landmarks, the Sussex pub. English’s restaurant was directly across, with a long row of outside tables roped off, Mediterranean style.
    ‘Inside or outside?’ the restaurant manager asked.
    ‘I booked outside,’ Cleo said decisively, and glanced at Roy Grace for approval. He nodded enthusiastically.
    They were led down the line to the one table that was free. From long experience, Cleo indicated for Roy to take the chair with its back to the wall. ‘You take the
policeman’s
chair
, darling.’
    He squeezed her hand. After a few years in the force, most police officers only felt comfortable in restaurants and bars if they had their backs to the wall and a clear view of the room and the
entry points. It had become second nature to him.
    They took their seats. Behind Cleo, an endless stream of people walked along the alley from Brighton’s trendy East Street into the Lanes. He picked