Dead Simple

feeling dog tired and with a blinding headache, he was cold. It was tipping down with rain outside and there was an icy draught in the room. For some moments he watched rain running down his window, staring at the bleak view of the alley wall beyond, then he unscrewed the cap of a bottle of mineral water he’d bought at a petrol station on his way in, rummaged in a drawer of his desk and took out a packet of Panadol. He popped two capsules from the foil, swallowed them, then checked the time the message had been sent: 2.14 a.m.
    Claudine.
    Oh God. Now it registered.
    His cop-hating, vegan blind date from U-Date of Tuesday night. She’d been horrible, the evening had been a disaster, and now she was texting him. Terrific.
    He held his mobile phone in his hand, toying with whether to reply or just delete it, when his door opened and Branson walked in, dressed in a crisp brown suit, a violent tie and two-tone brown and cream co-respondent’s shoes, holding a capped Starbucks coffee in one hand and two paper bags in the other.
    ‘Yo, man!’ Branson greeted him, breezily, as usual, plonking himself in the chair opposite Grace and setting the coffee and paper bag down on his desk. ‘Still own a shirt, I see.’
    ‘Very funny,’ Grace said.
    ‘You win last night?’
    ‘No, I did not sodding well win.’ Grace was still smarting at his loss. Four hundred and twenty quid. Money wasn’t a problem for him, and he had no debts, but he hated losing, especially losing heavily.
    ‘You look like shit.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘No, I mean, really. You look like absolute shit.’
    ‘Nice of you to come all this way to tell me.’
    ‘You ever see The Cincinatti Kid ?’
    ‘I don’t remember.’
    ‘Steve McQueen. Got wiped out in a card game. Had a great ending – you’d remember, the kid in the alley challenging him to a bet, and he tosses his last coin at him.’ Branson peeled the lid off, spilling coffee onto the desk, then removed an almond croissant, dropping a trail of icing sugar next to the coffee spill. He proffered it to Grace. ‘Want a bite?’
    Grace shook his head. ‘You should eat something more healthy for breakfast.’
    ‘Oh really? So I get to look like you? What did you have? Organic wheat grass?’
    Grace held up the Panadol packet. ‘All the nourishment I need. What are you doing here in the sticks?’
    ‘Got a meeting in ten minutes with the Chief. I’ve been drafted onto the Drugs Performance committee.’
    ‘Lucky you.’
    ‘It’s all about profile, isn’t that what you told me? Stay visible to your chiefs?’
    ‘Good boy, you remembered. I’m impressed.’
    ‘But actually that’s not why I’m here to see you, old-timer.’ Branson pulled a birthday card out of the second bag and laid it in front of Grace. ‘Getting everyone to sign – for Mandy.’
    Mandy Walker was in the Child Protection Unit in Brighton. At one time Grace and Branson had both worked with her.
    ‘She’s leaving?’ Grace said.
    Branson nodded, then mimed a pregnant belly. ‘Actually, thought you’d be in court today.’
    ‘Adjourned to Monday.’ Grace signed alongside a dozen other names on the card; the coffee and pastry suddenly smelled good. As Branson took a bite of croissant he reached out a hand, took the other croissant from its bag and tore a mouthful off, savouring the instant hit of sweetness. He chewed slowly, peering at Branson’s tie, which had such a sharp geometric pattern it almost made him dizzy, then handed back the card.
    ‘Roy, that flat we went to on Wednesday, right?’
    ‘Down The Drive?
    ‘There’s something I don’t get. I need the wisdom of your years. You got a couple of minutes?’
    ‘Do I have any choice?’
    Ignoring him, Branson said, ‘Here’s the thing.’ He took another bite of his croissant, icing sugar and crumbs falling onto his suit and tie. ‘Five guys on a stag night, right? Now—’
    There was a rap on the door, then it opened, and Eleanor Hodgson, Grace’s management support assistant, brought in a sheaf of papers and files. A rather prim, efficient middle-aged woman, with neat black hair and a plain, slightly old-fashioned face, she always seemed nervous of just about everything. At the moment she looked nervous of Glenn Branson’s tie.
    ‘Good morning, Roy,’ she said. ‘Good morning, DS Branson.’
    ‘How you doing?’ Glenn replied.
    She put the documents down on Roy’s desk. ‘I’ve got a couple of forensics reports back from Huntingdon.