Looking Good Dead

thought about Cleo Morey. Half a dozen police cars were now in the street, and the Major Incident Vehicle was reversing into a space.
    Two uniformed Community Support Officers were knocking on thefront door of the next-door neighbour, starting their house-to-house enquiries.
    He walked a short distance up the street, out of earshot, and first dialled the Somers and apologized to Jaye that he was going to have to cancel again. The disappointment in her voice made him feel terrible. They would go next week instead, he promised her. But she didn’t sound much like she believed him.
    Then he dialled Cleo’s number.
    All he got was her voicemail.
    ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Just calling to say it was great to see you last night. Give me a call when you’ve got a moment. Oh, and I hope you’re not on call today, for your sake. I have a seriously unpleasant cadaver on my hands.’
    His headache – hangover – whatever – was back with a vengeance, and his throat felt as if it had been sandpapered. Feeling low as he walked back to the house, he went over to Nicholl and Potting, who were standing outside, chatting to the constable on guard. ‘Either of you feel like a drink? Because I fucking well need one.’
    ‘So long as it’s not Mr D’Eath’s bath water,’ Potting said.
    Grace almost smiled.

49
    Kellie tried to move, but the pain in her arms worsened each time she struggled, the string, or wire, or whatever had been tied around them cutting deeper and deeper into her flesh. And when she tried to shout, the deep sound made her whole face vibrate and stayed trapped in her mouth.
    ‘Mmmmnnnnnnnnnnnuuuug.’
    She could see nothing, could not open her eyes. There was total bitumen blackness beyond the images inside her head. She could hear nothing except for the sound of her blood roaring in her ears. The sound of her own fear.
    Shaking in terror and from cold. And from lack of alcohol.
    Her throat was parched. She needed a drink. Desperately, desperately needed a gulp of vodka. And water.
    Her crotch was cold and itchy. A while ago, when she had finally let go of the urine she could no longer contain, it had felt strangely, comfortably warm for several minutes. Until it had started to turn cold. Occasionally she could smell it; then it would just be the musty, chilly, cellar smell again.
    She had no idea what the time was. Nor where she was. Her head pounded. Cold, sick fear swirled in the deep, black well of her insides, swirled in the blood inside her veins. She was so scared it was impossible to think clearly.
    Just occasionally, she thought she could hear the very faint sound of traffic. An occasional siren. Coming to rescue her?
    But she had no idea where she was.
    Tears welled in her sealed eyes. She wanted Tom, she wanted Jessica and Max, wanted to hear all their voices, feel their arms around her. She tried to remember those moments, those confused, all-speeded-up moments.
    She had driven Mandy Morrison home. Pulled up outside her parents’ modern Spanish-style house in swanky Tongdean Lane, asteep hill near the Withdean sports stadium. She sat in the car, music playing on the radio, waiting to see that Mandy had let herself safely in the front door before driving on.
    Mandy had opened the door, gone inside, turned and waved and closed the door.
    Then the passenger door of her car had opened.
    And the rear door behind her.
    A hand as strong as steel had pulled her neck back. Then something wet and acrid was being held against her nose.
    She whimpered at the memory.
    Then she was here.
    Shaking uncontrollably.
    On her back on a rock-hard floor.
    She struggled, trying to move her arms again, but the pain became unbearable. She tried to move her legs, but they felt cemented together. Her breathing was getting faster, her chest tightening.
    She felt light pouring onto her. The darkness behind her eyelids became a red haze.
    Then she emitted a muffled bellow of pain as tape was ripped away from her eyes, taking what felt like half her skin. And she blinked, momentarily dazzled by the light. A squat man with a smug grin and wavy silver hair pulled back into a small pigtail, grossly overweight, in a baggy shirt open to the navel, was standing over her.
    At first she felt relief; she thought this man had come to help her. She tried to speak to him, but all she could make was a gurgling sound.
    He stared back at her without speaking, eyeing her up and down with an expression of deep thoughtfulness. Then, finally,