Looking Good Dead

any change in Mrs Bryce’s behaviour in recent months?’
    And now Grace saw the flickering hesitation in Tom Bryce’s eyes; they darted very definitely to the left, to construct mode. He was about to lie to them. ‘No, not at all.’
    Then immediately after Tom had said this, he wondered whether it was time to come clean and tell them about the vodka. And about her strange Kellie moments?
    But he was scared that if he did they might lose interest. So what the hell was the point in telling them?
    Grace picked up his coffee cup, then set it down again without bringing it to his lips. Again fixing on Bryce’s eyes, he asked, ‘Do you have any concerns that Kellie might be having an affair?’
    Eyes securely right again. ‘Absolutely none. We have a strong marriage.’
    Roy Grace continued with his questions for another half an hour, at the end of which Tom felt the Detective Superintendent had expertly and thoroughly – and at times more than a little unpleasantly – filleted him.
    He felt drained as he finally closed the door on them at almost eleven o’clock, and also uncomfortable. It seemed from the DS’s questions – and the way he had reacted to Tom’s answers – that he was to the police a prime suspect. This was something he wanted to change, quickly, because all the time they were suspicious of him, they would be focusing their energies in the wrong direction. And he realized he had forgotten to ask DS Branson why he had kept quiet about the dickhead’s identity this afternoon.
    Tom popped his head round the living room door, to see the FLO engrossed in his book. He told him to help himself to anything he fancied in the kitchen, and apologized for not having a spare bed. DC Willingham told him he had had some sleep during the day and planned to stay up all night.
    Then Tom climbed upstairs to his den, far too keyed up to contemplate sleep. He had some important emails to write about the morning’s presentation and somehow had to find the strength to concentrate on them.
    He tapped the return key on his laptop, to wake it up. Moments later a load of emails downloaded. Twenty, thirty, forty. The junk-mail filter picked up most of them, leaving just half a dozen. Three were from friends, no doubt containing jokes. One was from Olivia, his ever-efficient secretary, listing the week’s appointments and reminding him what he needed for the presentation in the morning. One was from Ivanhoe , the Web-doctor site he subscribed to, but rarely had time to read properly.
    The last one was from [email protected] . The header read simply: Private and confidential.
    He double-clicked to read the email. The text was brief and unsigned.
    Kellie has a message for you. Remain online.

60
    At 11.15 p.m. Emma-Jane Boutwood and Nick Nicholl were still at their desks at the workstation. The rest of the team had left, heading home to their lives, one by one, with the exception of Norman Potting, who was just getting to his feet now, straightening his tie and pulling on his jacket.
    A handful of people remained at the other two stations. The surfaces were littered with empty coffee cups, soft-drink cans, food cartons, and the waste bins were overflowing. The room was always fresh first thing in the morning, Emma-Jane thought, and by late evening it smelled like an institutional canteen: a faintly sickly confection of aromas – onion bhajis from the deli counter of the Asda supermarket across the road, pot noodles, potato soup, microwaved burgers and fries, and coffee.
    Potting gave a long yawn, then burped. ‘Ooops,’ he said. ‘Pardon me. Them Indian things always do that to me.’ He hesitated for a moment, getting no reaction. ‘Well, I’m off then.’ Then he lingered where he was. ‘Either of you care for a quick jar? One for the road on the way home? I know a place that will serve us.’
    Both shook their heads. Nick Nicholl was engrossed in what appeared to be, at least to Emma-Jane, a difficult personal call on his mobile. From the few words she had caught it sounded as if he was trying to pacify his wife, who was upset about something. Probably that her husband was still at work at this hour on a Sunday. In a way, although she missed having a boyfriend – it was a year since she had broken up with Olli – Emma-Jane was relieved that she had no one in her life at the moment. It meant she could concentrate on her career and not have to feel guilty about the crazy hours she put in.
    Ignoring