Not Dead Yet

Chief?’
    The helicopter clattered past overhead, making conversation momentarily impossible as the din of its engine and blades echoed around the bare walls and bare floor. ‘We’re okay,’ Grace said.
    Branson looked around wildly. ‘Where’s Whiteley? They said he was up here.’
    Grace dropped down on his knees and crawled towards the edge of the hatch.
    ‘Careful, sir!’ one of the guards said.
    Grace carried on to the edge, and looked down. Then he backed away and turned to the DS. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’
    ‘Kitchen?’
    ‘What – what’s – like – who’s with him? What’s he doing there?’
    ‘I’ll tell you what he’s not doing – he’s not cooking dinner.’
    Ignoring his bleeding face and increasingly painful hands, Grace hurried down the spiral stairs with Branson close behind. When they reached the bottom, they ran along the corridor, into the Banqueting Room, where there was a bizarre mix of men and women in elegant Regency clothing mingled with the film crew who were mostly in jeans, trainers and T-shirts.
    Larry Brooker called out, ‘Detective Grace, can you tell us what’s—?’
    Grace ignored him, pushing the door open and running into the first of the kitchen rooms. It was a small, bare space, with beige walls and brown linoleum on which stood a stainless steel trolley that reminded him of a mortuary gurney. He looked up, but there was no hatch above, just a low ceiling.
    Followed by Branson he pushed open a sludge-coloured door and went into the next room, which was similar, but smaller. There was a faint smell of human excrement. He crossed over and opened another door, which was slightly ajar. Both men recoiled at the sight.
    ‘Jesus,’ Branson said.
    There was a strong stench of fresh human excrement.
    Grace stared levelly ahead. At the man who had nearly killed Gaia, and had come close to killing him, too. He shot a quick glance up at the smashed ceiling, fifteen feet above, which Whiteley had crashed through, and saw the guard with the moustache, forty feet above that, peering curiously down. Then, holding his breath for some moments against the smell, he looked ahead again, at the bizarre sight in the centre of the room.
    The wig had gone, and was lying a short distance away. A balding, middle-aged head, with grey hair, protruded from the neck of the elegant Regency dress. Whiteley appeared to have hit the floor feet first, then collapsed back against a stainless steel sink, which was supporting him, giving the illusion he was sitting upright of his own accord. The scarlet dress lay pooled all around him, as if carefully arranged so as not to get creased.
    Two pale-coloured sticks, each about eighteen inches long, rose up through rips in the dress below his midriff, like a pair of ski poles. Except they had blood and small strips of sinew and skin on them. Grace realized with horror what they were. The lower sections of the man’s legs, driven up through his knees by the impact.
    The stench of excrement was even worse now. He walked over, and looked at Whiteley’s make-up-caked face. The man was blinking, non-stop, three or four blinks a second, as if some wiring loop inside his head had short-circuited. Tiny moans were coming from his mouth, which was opening and closing slowly, gormlessly, like a goldfish. Grace took hold of Whiteley’s wrist and found a pulse. He did not bother to time it, but could tell it was dangerously low. ‘He’s still alive, just. Call for an ambulance.’
    Branson, staring bug-eyed at the stricken man, pulled out his phone.

120
    ‘Would she have done the same for you?’ Cleo asked.
    ‘That’s not the issue.’
    ‘Isn’t it?’
    ‘It was my job to protect her.’
    ‘You’re a trained hostage – and suicide – negotiator. You told me once, Roy, that part of what you were instructed was never to put your own life in danger. Well, you just did, didn’t you? Again.’
    It was a warm Friday evening, a glorious summer night, and to celebrate Cleo’s last day at work before maternity leave, they’d booked a table at a country restaurant they liked called the Ginger Fox, a short drive out of Brighton. Cleo liked to remind him that with the birth of the baby increasingly imminent, each quiet dinner out together might be their last for a very long time. Roy never took much persuading. There were few things he enjoyed more in life than sitting in a restaurant with Cleo, with some good food and a decent glass of wine.
    He ran