Not Dead Enough

flying off into the seriously sturdy-looking trees that lined both bends. Then they reached the M23 motorway and Grace’s repetition of his warning about speed traps, and traffic cops who loved nothing better than to book other officers, had some effect.
    So Branson slowed down, and instead tried to phone home on his hands-free mobile.
    ‘Bitch!’ he said. ‘She’s not picking up. I’ve got a right to speak to my kids, haven’t I?’
    ‘You’ve got a right to be in your house,’ Grace reminded him.
    ‘Maybe you could tell her that. Like – you know – give her the official police point of view.’
    Grace shook his head. ‘I’ll help you all I can, but I can’t fight your battle for you.’
    ‘Yeah, you’re right. It was wrong of me to ask. I’m sorry.’
    ‘What happened about the horse?’
    ‘Yeah, she was on about it again when we spoke. She’s decided she wants to try show-jumping. That’s serious money.’
    Grace decided, privately, that she needed to see a psychologist. ‘I think you guys should go to Relate,’ he said.
    ‘You already said that.’
    ‘I did?’
    ‘About two o’clock this morning. And the day before. You’re repeating yourself, old-timer. Alzheimer’s kicking in.’
    ‘You know your problem?’ Grace said.
    ‘Apart from being black? Bald? From an underprivileged background?’
    ‘Yep, apart from all that.’
    ‘No, tell me.’
    ‘Lack of respect for your peers.’
    Branson took one of his hands from the wheel and raised it. ‘Respect!’ he said deferentially.
    ‘That’s better.’

    Shortly after nine, Branson parked the Mondeo on a single yellow line in Arlington Street, just past the Ritz Hotel and opposite the Caprice restaurant.
    ‘Nice wheels,’ he said, as they walked up the hill, passing a parked Ferrari. ‘You ought to get yourself a set of those. Better than that crappy Alfa you pootle around in. Be good for your image.’
    ‘There’s a small matter of a hundred grand or so separating me from one,’ Grace said. ‘And lumbered with you on my team, my chances of a pay rise of that magnitude are somewhat reduced.’
    At the top of the street they rounded the corner into Piccadilly. Immediately on their right they saw a handsome, imposing building, in black and gold paintwork. Its massive, arched windows were brightly illuminated, and the interior seemed humming with people. A smart sign on the wall said The Wolseley.
    They were greeted effusively by a liveried doorman in a top hat. ‘Good evening, gentlemen!’ he said with a soft Irish accent.
    ‘The Wolseley restaurant?’ Grace asked, feeling a little out of place here.
    ‘Absolutely! Very nice to see you both!’ He held the door open and gestured them through.
    Grace, followed by Branson, stepped inside. There was a small crowd of people clustered around a reception desk. A waiter hurried past with a tray laden with cocktails, into a vast, domed and galleried dining room, elegantly themed in black and white, and packed with people. There was a noisy buzz. He looked around for a moment. It had an old-world Belle Epoque grandeur about it, yet at the same time it felt intensely modern. The waiting staff were all dressed in hip black and most of the clientele looked cool. He decided Cleo would like this place. Maybe he would bring her up for a night in London and come here. Although he thought he had better check out the prices first.
    A young woman receptionist smiled at them, then a tall man, with fashionably long and tangled ginger hair, greeted them. ‘Gentlemen, good evening. Can I help you?’
    ‘We’re meeting Mr Taylor.’
    ‘Mr Phil Taylor?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He pointed at a bar area, off to the side. ‘He’s in there, gentlemen, first table on the right! We’ll take you to him!’
    As Grace entered the bar, he saw a man in his early forties, wearing a yellow polo shirt and blue chinos, looking up at him expectantly.
    ‘Mr Taylor?’
    ‘Aye!’ He half stood up. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’ He spoke in a distinct Yorkshire accent.
    ‘Yes. And Detective Sergeant Branson.’ Grace studied him fleetingly, weighing him up on first impression. He was relaxed and fit-looking, a tiny bit overweight, with a pleasant open face, a sunburnt nose, thinning fair hair and alert, very keen eyes. No flies on this man, he thought instantly. A set of car keys, with a Ferrari emblem on the fob, was lying on the table in front of the man next to a tall glass containing a watery-looking