Looking Good Dead

to return an open verdict. More succinct but less informative than a shipping forecast.
    It was half past four when Roy Grace finally left the blaze, which was a long way yet from being under control. He drove straight to the Royal Sussex County Hospital and went to find Glenn Branson in the emergency ward.
    Glenn’s pretty wife, Ari, was already there. She had never shown much warmth towards Grace, blaming him, he suspected, for keeping her husband away from home so much. And there was no thaw today. Glenn had been lucky. Only one bullet had hit, and it had gone through his abdomen, missing his spine by half an inch. He would be a little sore for a while, and Grace had no doubt he would enjoy much of hisconvalescence watching movies in which screen heroes took bullets and survived.
    Next, in the intensive care unit, he met Emma-Jane’s parents, her mother an attractive woman in her forties who gave him a stoical smile, her father a very quiet man who sat squeezing a yellow tennis ball in his hand as if his daughter’s life depended on it. Emma-Jane seemed to be improving; that was the best they could say.
    When he left the hospital, he felt depressed, wondering what kind of a leader he was to let two of his team come so close to death. He stopped off at a workmen’s cafe, went in and had a massive fry-up and a strong cup of tea.
    When he had finished, feeling considerably better now, he sat hunched over the Formica table and made a series of phone calls. As he stood up to leave, his mobile rang. It was Nick Nicholl, asking how he was, then telling him he hadn’t had a chance to report on his meeting with the officer from the Met, about the girl who had been found dead on Wimbledon Common with a scarab design on her bracelet. It had turned out to be a dead end. A coincidence. The girl’s boyfriend had confessed to her murder. Bella Moy, who had been working on all the other forces, had found no other murders with a scarab beetle at the crime scene.
    Maybe we got lucky and caught them early? Grace wondered. But not early enough for poor Janie Stretton.
    He told the young DC to go home, to put his arms around his wife, who was due to give birth any day, and tell her he loved her. Nicholl, sounding surprised, thanked him. But that was how Grace felt at this moment. That life was precious. And precarious. You never knew what was around the corner. Cherish what you had while you had it.
    As he climbed back into his car, Cleo rang, sounding bright and perky.
    ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Sorry to be so long calling you back! Are you free to talk?’
    ‘Totally,’ he said.
    ‘Good. I’ve had one hell of a day. Four cadavers – you know what it’s like after a weekend!’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘One motorbike fatality, one fifty-year-old man who fell off aladder, and two old ladies. Not to mention a male head that came in yesterday without much else left of him – but I think you know about that one.’
    ‘Just a little.’
    ‘Then I had to go into the centre of Brighton at lunchtime to buy an anniversary present for the aged Ps.’
    ‘Aged whats?’
    ‘My parents!’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘And I got my damned car stuck in the Civic Square car park. There was a bomb scare – can you bloody believe it?’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘When I finally got the car out, the whole bloody city was gridlocked!’
    ‘I did hear something about that,’ he said.
    ‘So how was your day?’ she asked.
    ‘Oh, you know – average.’
    ‘No big excitement?’
    ‘Nah.’
    There was a strange but comfortable silence between them for some moments. Then she said, ‘I’ve been longing to speak to you all day. But I wanted to do it when we had some quality time. I didn’t want it to be just a hurried, Hi! Great shag last night. Bye! ’
    Grace laughed. And suddenly it seemed an awfully long time since the last time he’d laughed. It had been a long, long few days.
    Later, much later, after hours in the office making a start on the mountain of paperwork that would keep him occupied for the rest of the week and beyond, Grace found himself back in Cleo’s flat.
    That night, after they had made love, he slept in her arms like a baby. He slept the sleep of the dead. And for a few of those hours it was without any of the fears of the living.

88
    On Thursday morning, his hands heavily bandaged and still hurting like hell from the acid burns, Tom Bryce went into his office for a couple of hours.
    It was clear from the exuberant greetings from his staff