Not Dead Enough

seemed to be getting brighter as he watched them. Glowing red for danger, red for luck, red for sex! He liked brake lights; he could watch them the way some people could watch a log fire. And he knew everything about the brake lights on Cleo Morey’s car. The size of bulb; the strength; how they could be replaced; how they were connected into the wiring loom of the vehicle; how they were activated. He knew everything about this car. He’d spent the whole night reading the workshop manual, as well as surfing the net. That was the good thing about the internet. Didn’t matter what time of the day or the night, you could find some saddo enthusiast who could tell you more about the door-locking mechanism of a 2005 MG TF 160 than the manufacturer had ever known.
    She was out of the car! Wearing jeans that stopped at her calves. Pink plimsolls. A white T-shirt. Hefting three Sainsbury carrier bags out of the boot and slinging the strap of her big, canvas handbag over her shoulder.
    He drove past her and turned right at the end of the street. Then right again. Then right again, and now he was approaching the front of her building. He saw her standing outside the gates, doing an awkward balancing act of holding the grocery bags and tapping the number on the keypad. Then she went inside and the gate clanged shut behind her.
    Hopefully she wasn’t going out again tonight. He would have to take a gamble on that one. But of course he had God’s assistance.
    He made one more complete circuit, just to make sure she hadn’t forgotten something in the car and gone running back for it. Women did that sort of thing, he knew.
    After ten minutes he decided it was safe. He doubled-parked his Prius alongside a dusty Volvo covered in bird droppings that didn’t look like it had gone anywhere in a while, temporarily blocking the street, although there was nothing coming. Then he unlocked the MG, drove it out of its spot, double-parked that also for a moment, while he jumped back into the Prius, and glided into the now empty space, between the Volvo and a small Renault.
    Job done.
    The first part.
    It was a shame the MG had its hardtop on, he thought, as he headed towards his lock-up. It would have been a pleasant evening to drive with the roof down.

98
    As soon as the six-thirty briefing was over, Grace grabbed the keys of the pool car that Tony Case had organized for him and, with Glenn Branson in tow, hurried down to the car park beneath the building.
    ‘Let me drive, man!’
    ‘You know your driving scares me,’ Grace replied. ‘Actually, let me rephrase that. Your driving terrifies the living daylights out of me.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’ Branson said. ‘That’s rich coming from you – your driving is rubbish. You drive like a girl. No, actually, you don’t. You drive like an old git – which is what you are!’
    ‘And you recently failed your Advanced Police Driving test!’
    ‘The examiner was an idiot. My instructor said I had natural aptitude for high-speed pursuit driving. My driving rocks!’
    ‘He should be sectioned under the Mental Health Act.’
    ‘Wanker!’
    Grace tossed him the keys as they approached the unmarked Mondeo. ‘Just don’t try to impress me.’
    ‘Did you see The Fast and the Furious , with Vin Diesel?’
    ‘He’s got the most stupid name for an actor.’
    ‘Yeah? Well, he doesn’t think much of yours either.’
    Grace wasn’t sure what sudden mental aberration had prompted him to give his friend the keys. Maybe he was hoping that if Glenn was concentrating on driving, he’d be spared an endless discussion – or more likely monologue – about all that was wrong with his marriage, yet again. He’d endured three hours of his friend’s soul-searching last night, after they’d got back home following the interview with Bishop. The bottle of Glenfiddich, which they had demolished between them, had only partially mitigated the pain. Then he’d had to listen to Glenn again this morning while getting shaved and dressed, and then over his breakfast cereal, with the added negative of a mild hangover.
    To his relief, Branson drove sensibly, apart from one downhill stretch, near Handcross, where he wound the car up to 130 mph especially so he could give Grace the benefit of his cornering skills through two, sharp, uphill bends. ‘It’s all about positioning on the road and balancing the throttle, old-timer,’ he said.
    From where Grace was sitting, stomach in his mouth, it was more about not