Not Dead Enough

Detective Superintendent Cassian Pewe – her new golden boy – would finish his period of convalescence after a car accident and be taking up office here at Sussex House. With the unspoken goal of eating Roy Grace’s lunch and having him transferred sideways to the back of beyond.
    It was when Grace turned to forensics that he could sense everyone concentrate just a little bit harder. Ignoring Nadiuska De Sancha’s pages of elaborate, technical details, he cut to the chase. ‘Katie Bishop died from strangulation from a ligature around her neck, either thin cord or wire. Tissue from her neck has been sent to the laboratory for further analysis, which may reveal the murder weapon,’ he announced. He took another mouthful of coffee. ‘A significant quantity of semen was found in her vagina, indicating sexual intercourse had taken place at some point close to death.’
    ‘She was a dead good shag,’ Norman Potting muttered.
    Bella Moy turned to face Potting. ‘You are so gross!’
    Bristling with anger, Grace said, ‘Norman, that’s enough from you. I want a word after this meeting. None of us are in any mood for your bad-taste jokes. Understand?’
    Potting dropped his eyes like a chided schoolboy. ‘No offence meant, Roy.’
    Shooting him daggers, Grace continued, ‘The semen has been sent to the laboratory for fast-track analysis.’
    ‘When do you expect to have the results back?’ Nick Nicholl asked.
    ‘Monday by the very earliest.’
    ‘We’ll need a swab from Brian Bishop,’ Zafferone said.
    ‘We got that this afternoon,’ Grace said, smug at being ahead of the DC on this.
    He looked down at Glenn Branson for confirmation. The DS gave him a gloomy nod and Grace felt a sudden tug in his heart. Poor Glenn seemed close to tears. Maybe it had been a mistake pulling him back to work early. To be going through the trauma of a marriage bust-up, on top of not feeling physically at his best, and with a hangover that still had not gone away to boot, was not a great place to be. But too late for that now.
    Potting raised a hand. ‘Er, Roy – the presence of semen – can we assume there is a sexual element to the victim’s death – that she’d been raped?’
    ‘Norman,’ he said sharply, ‘assumptions are the mother and father of all fuck-ups. OK?’ Grace drank some water, then went on. ‘Two family liaison officers have been appointed,’ he said. ‘WPC Linda Buckley and WPC Maggie Campbell—’
    He was interrupted by the loud ring tone of Nick Nicholl’s mobile phone. Giving Roy Grace an apologetic look, the young DC stood up, bent almost double, as if somehow reducing his height would reduce the volume of his phone, and stepped a few paces away from his workstation.
    ‘DC Nicholl,’ he said.
    Taking advantage of the interruption, Zafferone peered at Potting’s face. ‘Been away, Norman, have you?’
    ‘Thailand,’ Potting answered. He smiled at the ladies, as if imagining they would be impressed by such an exotic traveller.
    ‘Brought yourself back a nice suntan, didn’t yer?’
    ‘Brought myself back more than that,’ Potting said, beaming now. He held up his hand, then raised his third finger, which sported a plain gold wedding band.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ Zafferone said. ‘A wife ?’
    Bella popped a half-melted Malteser into her mouth. She spoke with a voice that Grace liked a lot. It was soft but always very direct. Despite looking, beneath her tangle of hair, like she was sometimes in another world, Bella was very sharp indeed. She never missed anything. ‘So that’s your fourth wife now, isn’t it?’
    ‘That’s right,’ he said, still beaming, as if it were an achievement to be proud of.
    ‘Thought you weren’t going to get married again, Norman,’ Grace said.
    ‘Well, you know what they say, Roy. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change a man’s mind.’
    Bella smiled at him with more compassion than humour, as if he were some curious but slightly grotesque exhibit in a zoo.
    ‘So where did you meet her?’ Zafferone asked. ‘In a bar? A club? A massage parlour?’
    Looking coy suddenly, Potting replied, ‘Actually, through an agency.’
    And for a moment, Grace saw a rare flash of humility in the man’s face. A shadow of sadness. Of loneliness.
    ‘OK,’ Nick Nicholl said, sitting back down at the workstation and putting his phone back in his pocket. ‘We have something of interest.’ He put his notepad on the surface in front of him.
    Everyone looked