Looking Good Dead

He should either be back at his desk in the Major Incident Suite or, at this late hour on a Sunday night, heading home to bed, to be fresh for the morning’s briefing and all the follow-ups he needed to do on Janie Stretton. As well as keeping on top of the progress of the Suresh Hossain trial.
    In his mind he was turning over the interview he had just come from with Tom Bryce. As part of Grace’s training in recent years he hadattended several psychological profiling courses, but he had never found them that helpful. They could give you useful clues if you were having to pick between three different suspects, perhaps, but nothing he had learned was helping him at this moment assess whether Tom Bryce was acting his grief and concern or whether it was real.
    But the man had very definitely told one lie.
    Have you noticed any change in Mrs Bryce’s behaviour in recent months?
    No, not at all.
    What was that all about? Bryce was covering up something. Did he suspect she might be with a lover? Or have left him? And despite all his sympathy for the man, it was this moment of hesitation, this lie, that had sowed sufficient doubt in Grace’s mind to prevent him from pushing all the buttons tonight for a full-scale hunt for Kellie Bryce. He would suggest to Assistant Chief Constable Alison Vosper, in the morning, that Cassian Pewe be put in charge of the woman’s disappearance.
    And, with luck, the smug little shit would end up with a lot of bright yellow yolk all over his face on his very first job. How sweet that would be.
    He stared at the entryphone panel and felt butterflies in his stomach. Get a grip, man! Standing here on a doorstep like a pathetic teenager! At half past bloody eleven on a Sunday night!
    He felt tired suddenly. Drained. For a moment anger flared up inside him – anger at Cleo and at himself for being so weak in coming here – and he was tempted to go back to his car and drive home. He turned, felt in his pocket for his keys, and was in the process of pulling them out when he heard her voice, sounding strangely distorted through the speakerphone. ‘Hi!’
    And that voice did something to him. It totally energized him. ‘Pizza!’ he said in a bad Italian accent. ‘You have-a-order-a pizza?’
    She laughed. ‘Come into the courtyard and turn right. Number six, far end on the left! I hope you didn’t forget the extra anchovies!’
    The lock opened with a sharp click. He pushed the heavy gate open, digging in his pocket, suddenly remembering his chewing gum, and popped a stick in his mouth, as he walked across the spotless cobblestones illuminated by a row of lights inside glass domes. As hereached her door he put the gum back in its foil wrapper and balled it into his pocket.
    The door opened before he had even pressed the bell, and Cleo stood there, barefoot, in tight jeans and a loose blue sweatshirt, some of her hair clipped up, the rest loose. Her face was pale, she was wearing hardly any make-up, yet she looked more beautiful than ever.
    She greeted him with a meek smile, and a round-eyed guilty sort of look, like a child who has done something just a little bit naughty. ‘Hi!’ she said, and gave a little shrug.
    Grace shrugged back. ‘Hi.’
    There was an awkward silence, as if each of them was waiting for the other to offer a kiss. Neither did. She stepped aside for him to come in, then closed the door behind him.
    He entered a large, open-plan living room, softly lit with a dozen or more small white candles and some hip, ultra-modern lights; there was a strong scent in the room, faintly sweet, musky, feminine and very seductive.
    The room had a good vibe; he felt instantly relaxed, could feel it was every inch Cleo. Cream walls and throw rugs on a polished oak floor, two red sofas, black-lacquered furniture, funky abstract paintings, an expensive-looking television and a Latino song from El Divo playing quietly, but assertively, from four seriously cool-looking black speakers.
    There were several lush green plants, and in a square glass fish tank on the coffee table, a solitary goldfish was swimming around through the remains of a submerged miniature Greek temple.
    ‘Still up for a whisky?’ Cleo asked.
    ‘I think I need one.’
    ‘Ice?’
    ‘Lots.’
    ‘Water?’
    ‘Just a splash.’
    He walked over to the tank.
    ‘That’s Fish,’ she said. ‘Fish, meet Detective Superintendent Roy Grace.’
    ‘Hi, Fish,’ he said, then turning to Cleo, added, ‘I have a goldfish,