Dead Tomorrow

not remotely near them.
    ‘Should be coming up on the left,’ Emma-Jane said.
    He slowed the blue unmarked Mondeo down. Moments later they saw a pair of imposing wrought-iron gatesbetween two pillars topped with stone balls. Written in gold letters on a black plate was the name, T HAKEHAM P ARK .
    They pulled up in front of the gates, under the cyclops gaze of a security camera mounted high up. On the opposite pillar was a yellow sign, with a grinning face, beneath which was written the legend SMILE, YOU ARE ON CCTV .
    The young DC climbed out and pressed the button on the speakerphone panel beneath. Moments later, she heard a crackly, broken-English, female voice.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Detective Sergeant Batchelor and Detective Constable Boutwood,’ she announced. ‘We have an appointment with Sir Roger Sirius.’
    There was a sharp crackle from the speakerphone, then the gates began to open. She climbed back into the car and they drove through, along a tarmac drive, lined by mature trees on either side, which wound steadily for about half a mile up an incline. Then a huge Jacobean mansion came into view, with a circular driveway in front, in the grassed-in centre of which was a lily pond.
    Several cars were parked in front of the house including, Guy recognized, a black Aston Martin Vanquish. To their right, on a large concrete circle in the middle of a manicured lawn, sat a dark blue helicopter.
    ‘Seems like there’s money in medicine!’ he commented. ‘If you are in the right area of it,’ she retorted.
    ‘Or maybe the wrong area,’ he corrected her.
    Emma-Jane did not even bother trying to count the number of windows. This place must have twenty or thirty bedrooms–maybe more. It was on the scale of a stately home.
    ‘I think we chose the wrong career,’ she said.
    He drove slowly around the pond and pulled up almostdirectly in front of the grand front door. ‘Depends what you want out of life, doesn’t it? And the moral code by which you choose to live.’
    ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
    ‘Have you ever met Jack Skerritt?’
    ‘A few times,’ she said. ‘But only briefly.’
    Jack Skerritt was the Chief Superintendent of HQ CID–the most senior detective in Sussex. And the most respected.
    ‘I had a drink with him a couple of years ago,’ Batchelor said. ‘In the bar at Brighton nick, when he was Commander of Brighton and Hove. We were talking about what coppers earned. He told me he was on seventy-three thousand pounds a year, plus a couple of grand more in allowances. That might sound a lot , he said, but it is less than a school headmaster earns–and I’m in charge of the entire city of Brighton and Hove . He then said something I’ll never forget.’
    She looked at him inquisitively.
    ‘He said, In this job, the riches come from within .’
    ‘That’s nice.’
    ‘And true. Being a copper, doing this job, makes me feel like a millionaire, every day of my life. I never wanted to be anything else.’
    They climbed out of the car and rang the doorbell.
    Moments later the huge oak front door was opened by a slight, unassuming-looking man of about seventy. He had a trim figure, a kindly, bird-like face, with a small, crooked nose and alert, wide blue eyes filled with curiosity. His thinning head of hair was grey, going on white, and tidy, and he was dressed in a beige cardigan over a gingham shirt, with a paisley cravat around his neck, rust-coloured corduroy trousers, which looked like they were used forgardening, and black leather slippers. The only hint from his appearance that he was a rich man was the faint, but distinct, glow of a tan.
    ‘Hello,’ he said in a cheery, cut-glass voice that belonged in a 1950s film.
    ‘Sir Roger Sirius?’ Batchelor asked.
    ‘That’s me.’ He held out a slender, hairy hand, with long, immaculately manicured fingers.
    The detectives shook hands with him, then Batchelor pulled out his warrant card and held it up. Sirius gave it only the most cursory of glances and stepped aside with a theatrical wave of his hand.
    ‘So, do come in. I’m intrigued to know how I can be of help. Always fascinated by you chaps. Read a lot of crime novels. I quite like The Bill . Ever watch it?’
    Both officers shook their heads.
    ‘ Morse. Used to like him. Didn’t care too much for that John Hannah in Rebus , but thought Stott was a lot better. D’you watch them?’
    ‘Don’t get a lot of time, sir,’ Batchelor said.
    They followed the distinguished transplant