Looking Good Dead

by a rather plump black Labrador zigzagging from lamp post to lamp post, and pissing on each one.
    Hilary turned left at the end of the street, following the road round, warily watching her dog for a moment as a double-glazing delivery van roared by, then she crossed the road, went up to a gate that led through into a field of brilliant yellow rape, and called out to Nero – who was about to do a dump in someone’s driveway – in a stentorian voice thatcould have silenced the whole of Wembley stadium without a microphone, ‘Nero! Don’t you dare! COME here!’
    The dog raised his head, saw the open gate, trotted joyfully towards it, then broke into a loping sprint and was off, away up the hill, and lost to her sight among the rape in seconds.
    She closed the gate behind her, then repeated yet again, ‘A handbag, Mr Worthing? A handbag ?’
    She was glowing, she was on fire; she’d already called Don, Sidonie, Julius, Oliver and her mother telling them the news, the incredible news, the best news ever: the phone call, just half an hour ago, from the Southern Arts Dramatic Society, telling her she had got the part of Lady Bracknell, the top role! The star!
    After twenty-five years of amateur acting, mostly for the Brighton Little Theatre Group, always hoping to be discovered, finally she had a real break! The Southern Arts Dramatic Society was semi-professional, putting on an open-air play every summer, first on the ramparts of Lewes Castle, then touring all over the UK, right down to Cornwall. It was famous; it would get reviewed in the press; she was bound to get noticed! Bound to!
    Except, oh God, the nerves were already starting to kick in. She had been in the play before, years ago, in a minor role. But she still knew chunks of it by heart.
    Striding off up the hill, around the edge of the field, thrusting with her arms as she spoke, she proclaimed, at the top of her voice, what she considered one of the most dramatic and funny lines of the play. If she could get that line right, she would have captured the character. ‘A handbag , Mr Worthing? You were found in a handbag ?’
    An airliner circled low overhead, positioning itself for its final approach to Gatwick, and she had to raise her voice a little to hear herself. ‘A handbag, Mr Worthing? You were found in a handbag?
    ‘A handbag, Mr Worthing? You were found in a handbag?’
    She carried on walking, repeating the line over and over, each time changing the inflexions and trying to think who else she could phone and tell. Only six weeks to the opening night, not long. God, so much to learn!
    Then doubts started. What if she wasn’t up to it?

    What if she froze or corpsed in front of such a big audience? That would be the end, completely the end!
    She would be OK; she would somehow get through. After all she came from a theatrical family. It was in her blood; her mother’s parents had been music hall artistes before they’d retired and bought a bed and breakfast business near the sea in Brighton.
    As she crested the brow and saw the next hill unfurling for a mile ahead of her, and wide open farmland to either side broken by just a few solitary trees and mesh fences, she could see no sign of Nero. A strong breeze was blowing, bending the rape and the long green wheat sheaves. She cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, ‘NERO! Come on, boy. NERO!’
    After a few moments she saw a wide ripple in the rape, something zigzagging through it – Nero seemed incapable of ever running in a straight line. Then he broke cover, and came bounding towards her, holding something white and dangly in his mouth.
    A rabbit, she thought at first, and hoped at least the poor thing was dead. She couldn’t bear it when he brought a live, wounded one and plopped it proudly at her feet, wriggling and screeching in fright, which he was fond of doing.
    ‘Come on, boy, what’s that you’ve got there? Drop! Drop!’
    Then her own mouth dropped.
    A shiver rippled all the way through her as she took one nervous step forward, staring down at the motionless white object.
    Then she began to scream.

6
    Roy Grace did not enjoy holding press conferences. But he was well aware the police were paid public servants, and therefore the public had a right to be kept informed. It was the spin that journalists put on everything that he hated. It seemed to him that journalists weren’t interested in informing the public; that their job was to sell newspapers or attract viewers or