Looking Good Dead

think that’s really possible at the moment.’
    She closed her eyes, trying desperately to think clearly, to fight the terrible craving for alcohol. For just one tiny sip of that Stoli. But she was not going to give this fat American the satisfaction. Never, no way in hell, no way, never, never, never.
    Then the craving took over her brain.
    ‘Please can I have a drink now?’ she asked.
    Moments later the bottle was inside her lips and she was greedily gulping the liquid down. Its effect on her was almost instant. God, it felt good. Maybe she was wrong about this man – maybe he was kind after all.
    ‘That’s good, Kellie! Keep drinking. That’s really good, isn’t it?’
    She nodded in gratitude.
    ‘See! All I want to do is be nice to you. You be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you. Any part of that you don’t understand?’
    She shook her head. Then felt bereft, suddenly, as he abruptly pulled the bottle away.
    And suddenly she was thinking clearly again. And every scary movie she had ever seen started playing in her mind simultaneously.Who the hell was this man? A serial killer? What was he going to do to her? Fear squirmed like some wild creature loose inside her. Was she going to be raped? Tortured?
    I’m going to die, here, in the darkness, without ever seeing Jessica or Max or Tom again.
    How did you deal with a person like this? In films she had seen prisoners trying to establish a relationship, a bond, with their captors. It made it much harder for them to harm you if they got to know you a little.
    ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
    ‘I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that, Kellie.’
    ‘I’d like to know.’
    ‘I’m going to leave you now for a little while. With a bit of luck, your husband will be joining you soon.’
    ‘Tom?’
    ‘You got it!’
    ‘Tom’s coming?’
    ‘Tom’s coming. You don’t want him to see you lying on the floor like that, do you?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘I’ll get you sat upright. Want you to look good for the camera!’
    ‘Camera?’
    ‘Uh huh.’
    Feeling a little drunk, she asked, her voice slurring, ‘Sshwhy camera?’
    ‘You’re going to be a star!’

67
    At 1.25 a.m. there was a sudden burst of Jay-Z as Glenn Branson’s mobile phone rang in his bedroom. Hurriedly shooting his arm out, to answer it and silence the bloody thing before it woke Ari, he knocked over the glass of water on his bedside table, and sent the phone and his alarm clock thudding to the floor.
    He sprang out of bed in the darkness, his brain a little scrambled, and scrabbled under the chair beside the table where the phone had fallen, the music getting louder. He finally grabbed hold of it and thumbed the answer button. ‘DS Branson,’ he said, as hushed as he could, crouching as if somehow that would make his voice even quieter.
    It was Tom Bryce, and he sounded terrible. ‘Detective Sergeant Branson, I’m sorry to call you so late.’
    ‘No, no worries, Tom – just hold—’
    ‘For Chrissake!’ Ari said. ‘You arrive home after midnight and wake me up, and now you’re waking me up again. I think we should consider separate bedrooms.’ Then she pointedly turned over away from him.
    Great way to start the week, Branson thought gloomily, heading out of the room. He carried the phone into their bright orange bathroom and closed the door.
    ‘Sorry about that. I’m with you now,’ he said, perching naked on the lavatory seat for want of anywhere else. ‘So tell me?’ The room smelled of grout. He looked at the shiny new glass shower door, fitted only last week, and the crazy tiger-striped tiles Ari had chosen and which the fitter had only finished putting up on Friday. They’d moved into the house three months ago. It was in a nice position, a short distance from both sea and open countryside, in Saltdean, although at the moment, Ari had told him, the whole neighbourhood was on edge because it was less than a mile away that Janie Stretton’s body had been discovered.

    ‘I need to know this line is secure,’ Tom Bryce said, sounding close to hysterics. There was a roaring sound, as if he was driving.
    Branson looked at the caller display; the man was calling on his mobile phone. Trying to help keep Bryce calm, he said, ‘You’ve phoned my police mobile – all its signals are encrypted. It’s totally secure.’ He decided not to mention that Tom’s mobile, presumably a normal one, was open to anyone out there who tuned into its