Looking Good Dead

smells of hot olive oil, frying garlic and searing fish coming from the kitchen. He breathed it in, getting increasingly turned on.
    In truth he was aroused by everything about her. By her cute turned-up nose, her rosebud lips, her dimpled chin. By her stylish cream jacket, the loose, low-cut silky grey T-shirt, the ocelot scarf slung around her slender neck, by her two huge, funky but classy silver earrings. He noticed more rings on her fingers: a gold signet ring with a crest on it, an ornate antique with a large ruby set in a clasp of diamonds, and a modern-looking silver one with a square, pale blue stone.
    She was a classic, English-rose beauty in every way. And she was here, on a date with him! The butterflies in his stomach were out ofcontrol. The waiters were all eyeing her. So were other diners. She was the most beautiful woman in this restaurant by a thousand miles. She was looking absolutely, bloody, drop-dead gorgeous!
    There was just one problem. Suddenly he could think of absolutely nothing to say to her.
    Not one word.
    His mind was a blank, as if some geek had hacked into his brain and removed every thought from it. Smiling at her, trying to think of something that would not sound totally inane, he leaned forward to reach a packet of breadsticks and knocked an empty wine glass over in the process; it struck Cleo’s side plate and shattered.
    He felt his face reddening. Cleo immediately put her hand out to help pick up the larger shards, before a waiter intervened.
    ‘Sorry about that,’ Grace said to her.
    ‘It’s meant to be lucky, to break a glass,’ she said.
    ‘I thought that was at Greek weddings.’
    ‘It’s plates at Greek weddings. Glasses at Jewish weddings.’
    He loved her voice; it was just so plummy and posh and confident. It was a voice that belonged to a different world to the one he had come from. The world of private schools, money, privilege. Society. She was way too upmarket to be working in a mortuary. Yet Janie Stretton had been posh too, judging from her family home. And she had worked for a sleazy escort agency.
    Maybe being brought up posh gave you a veneer of being different. Scott Fitzgerald, a writer he liked, had written that the rich were different. But maybe they weren’t so very different.
    ‘I, er – love your rings,’ he said lamely. It was all he could think of to say.
    She looked genuinely delighted, holding her long, elegant and finely manicured fingers up one at a time, showing her seriously upmarket bling to him. ‘You don’t wear any?’ she said. Then almost immediately she blushed, realizing she had put her foot in it. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very sensitive.’
    Grace shook his head. ‘I never did wear one,’ he said. Then he almost added, when I was married. But of course he was still married. Technically.
    The drinks arrived. He raised his glass and chinked Cleo’s. ‘Cheers!’he said, and something about her smile just suddenly, inexplicably, gave him a boost. ‘You don’t look bad for something that came out of a mortuary,’ he added.
    ‘Thanks a lot!’ She sipped her drink, then after a few moments retorted, ‘You know, you really look quite cool yourself – for a copper.’
    Grace grinned, but for the second time today he suddenly had big doubts about the gear he had on. The first doubts had been in the trendy clothing store, Luigi’s, which Glenn had insisted on taking him to this afternoon. The Detective Sergeant had gone mad, hauling stuff off the shelves like a deranged bargain-hunter on the first day of the January sales, and wheeling him in and out of the changing room.
    Tonight he was wearing the outfit Branson had put together specially for this date: an unlined brown suede blouson from Jasper Conran, the most expensive black T-shirt he had ever bought, beige Dolce & Gabbana trousers, an insanely pricey belt, brown loafers and even brand new yellow socks – which Branson insisted added a hip touch.
    In addition he now had an entire new wardrobe for just about every occasion. The bill had come to over two and a half thousand pounds. He had never spent more than a hundred quid in a clothing shop in his life before.
    But what the hell, he thought; these last few years he had barely bought any items of new clothing at all. Get it all over with in one big hit. And anything he didn’t like he could go back and change.
    ‘ For a copper? Do I take that as a compliment?’ he asked with a quizzical grin.
    She smiled