Looking Good Dead

in his seat in the swaying taxi, stared at the display of his mobile phone. Stared at the single letter.
    X
    He was having serious trouble focusing and despite – or because of – his drunkenness his emotions were in turmoil. Street lights and headlights flashed past him. On the taxi’s crackly radio some caller on a late-night phone-in programme was talking furiously about Tony Blair and the National Health Service. He looked at his watch. Ten past one.
    How had the evening gone?
    He could still taste Cleo on his lips. Could smell her perfume in the cab, on his clothes. God, she was lovely. He still had a hard-on. He’d walked out of the bloody restaurant with a hard-on. And if she had invited him in, would he have . . . ?
    And he knew the answer.
    But she had not invited him in.
    He inhaled deeply, but this time all he got was the stale plastic smell of the cab’s interior.
    ‘Four hours bloody wait, me mum’s sick with cancer, and they made her wait four hours with her head split open before anyone saw her!’ the man on the radio said bitterly.
    ‘Disgusting, innit?’ the cab driver said.
    ‘Totally,’ Grace said absently, concentrating on the keypad of his phone.
    ‘Nice lady you had there. I think I recognized her. Got a feeling I’ve met her somewhere.’
    ‘Most people only get to meet her when they’re dead.’
    ‘Is that right?’ the driver said, sounding bemused. ‘An angel, is she?’

    ‘Exactly,’ Grace said distractedly, still concentrating on his phone. He tapped out XX . Then sent it.
    When he reached home, several minutes later, he was disappointed that he’d had no response.

42
    Tom woke with a start, feeling muzzy and confused, with a roaring sound in his ears, unable to think for a moment where he was. Motorbikes were racing on the television screen in front of him, he realized, starting to think a bit more clearly – that was the noise.
    Looking around for the remote, he saw an empty brandy glass on the carpet at his feet and then it hit him with a jolt. He’d fallen asleep. What the hell was the time?
    The clock on the DVD read 4.10 a.m. That could not be right. He looked at his watch. 4.09 a.m.
    A cluster of motorbikes, all close together, were howling down a straight that he recognized as part of the Silverstone racetrack. He’d been on a corporate hospitality day there a couple of years ago, and had also been to the British Grand Prix a few times. They were braking now, heeling over into Copse. Finding the remote, he switched the television off and stood up slowly, feeling stiff as hell.
    Why hadn’t Kellie woken him when she came in? he wondered. Carrying his empty glass, he tottered out into the hall, his head feeling muzzy still, his whole body leaden. He set the glass down in the kitchen, then somehow found the strength to haul himself upstairs. Creeping along the landing, trying not to wake anyone – although the motorbike racing had already probably done that – he opened the door to his bedroom. Instantly something felt wrong.
    The curtains were wide open, and there was sufficient grey, predawn light to see that their bed was empty.
    No Kellie.
    And suddenly he was wide awake.
    Very occasionally in the past when one of the children had had a bad dream, she’d crawled into their bed for a few hours. Wondering if she had done that now, he checked out each of their rooms in turn. But she wasn’t there.

    Then, cursing his stupidity, he ran downstairs, opened the front door and stared out at the carport. It was empty.
    To be doubly sure he walked out to the pavement and looked up and down, in case for some reason she’d parked the Audi in the street and had fallen asleep inside it. But there was no sign of the car.
    He looked at his watch again, trying to work out how long he had been asleep. What time had she taken the babysitter home? It had been about half past one. Two and a half hours ago. Two and a half hours to make a four-mile round trip?
    An icy whorl of fear spiralled through him. Had she had an accident? Wouldn’t someone from the police have been in touch by now, if that had happened?
    Was she having a long Kellie moment on her own, out in the darkness somewhere? Surely she would have known he’d be fretting?
    But that was the thing, part of Kellie’s problem; she did the most irrational things sometimes without thinking of the consequences. She had never actually done anything to endanger the kids, but she often just did not think. Like the