Not Dead Enough

an official police visit – I’m going with a colleague.’
    ‘Oh – who?’ she was staring at him hard.
    ‘It’s a DI from another division. We’re meeting to discuss a six-month exchange of officers. It’s an EU initiative thing,’ he said.
    Cleo shook her head. ‘I thought we’d made a pact never to lie to each other, Roy.’
    He stared back at her for a moment, then dropped his eyes, feeling his face flushing.
    ‘I can read you, Roy. I know how to read you. I can read your eyes. You taught me – remember? About that right and left stuff. Memory and construct.’
    Grace felt something drop deep inside his heart. After some moments’ hesitation, he told her about Dick Pope’s possible sighting of Sandy.
    Cleo’s response was to pull away sharply from him. And suddenly he felt a chasm between them as large as the one separating Earth from the moon.
    ‘Fine,’ she said. She sounded like she had just bitten into a lemon.
    ‘Cleo, I have to go there.’
    ‘Of course you do.’
    ‘I don’t mean it like that.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘Cleo, please. I—’
    ‘What happens if you find her?’
    He raised his hands hopelessly. ‘I doubt that I will.’
    ‘And if you do?’ she insisted.
    ‘I don’t know. At least I’ll have found out what happened to her.’
    ‘And if she wants you back? Is that why you lied to me?’
    ‘After nine years?’
    She rolled away from him and lay facing the far wall.
    ‘Even if it is her, which I doubt.’
    Cleo was silent.
    He stroked her back and she shrank further from him.
    ‘Cleo, please!’
    ‘What am I – something to tide you over until you find your missing wife?’
    ‘No way.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Totally and utterly.’
    ‘I don’t believe you.’

44
    There was software on the Time Billionaire’s computer screen which he had written himself. It brought up analogue clock faces for cities in every time zone in the world. He was staring at it now. ‘Taking stock,’ he suddenly said aloud, then grinned at his joke.
    Through the window he could see the dawn sky slowly lightening over the city of Brighton and Hove. It was coming up to five here in England. Six in Paris. Eight a.m. in St Petersburg. Eleven in Bangladesh. One in the afternoon in Kuala Lumpur. Three in the afternoon in Sydney.
    People would be getting up here soon. And going to bed in Peru. Everyone in the world was subservient to the sun, except for himself. He had been liberated. It made no difference any more to him whether it was day or night, whether the stock exchanges of the world were open or shut, or the banks, or anything else.
    There was one man he had to thank for that.
    But he was no longer bitter. That was all packed away in another box that was his past. You needed to be positive in life, have goals. He’d found a site on the internet which was all about living longer. People who had goals lived longer, simple as that. And those people who achieved their goals – well, their life expectancy hit the jackpot! And now he had achieved two goals! He owned even more time, to lavish on whatever he liked.
    Steam curled from the cup of tea beside him. English breakfast tea with a little milk. He picked the spoon up and stirred the tea seven times. It was very important to him always to stir tea exactly seven times.
    Turning his attention back to the computer, he tapped the command for another piece of software he had created for himself. He had never been happy with any of the internet search engines – none of them were precise enough for him. All of them delivered information in the sequence they wanted. This one of his own, which linked and trawled all the major search engines, obtained quickly for him everything that he wanted.
    And at this moment he wanted an original workshop manual for a 1966 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia.
    Then he sucked the back of his right hand. The pain was getting worse, the stinging sensation deepening, which was what had woken him and prevented him from going back to sleep. Not that he was much of a sleeper anyway. He could see a slight swelling around it, which seemed to be affecting the movement of his thumb, although he might be imagining that. And his chest was still stinging.
    ‘Bitch,’ he said aloud.
    He walked into the bathroom, switched on the light, unbuttoned his shirt and opened up the front, then peeled back the strip of Elastoplast. The fresh scratch, over an inch long, crusted with congealed blood, had been gouged from his chest some