Not Dead Yet

broadcast would be starting at the dedicated BBC studio in Cardiff. At some point during the hour, Glenn Branson would be speaking on air, presenting the case. Immediately afterwards Glenn and Bella Moy would man the phones in the studio, on the number Glenn had given out. They would remain there until midnight following the live update programme at 10.45. Then they’d be staying at a hotel in Cardiff and taking the train back to Brighton in the morning. Grace knew the procedure, he’d done it several times. It was one of the best possible resources for an enquiry, almost always yielding an immediate response from the public and, frequently, positive leads. He dialled Glenn’s number, but his phone was off.
    He left him a voicemail wishing him luck. He knew how Glenn would be feeling right now. He’d be in the green room, with Bellaand the other guests on the show, throat dry, nervous as hell. That was how he always felt himself before going on live television. It was impossible to feel any other way – you had one chance and blowing it was not an option, and that feeling of responsibility always got to you.
    He dialled Cleo. When she answered he heard furious barking. ‘Hi, darling!’ she said cheerily over it. Then she said, her voice raised, ‘QUIET!!!’
    ‘What’s he barking at?’ Grace asked, apprehensive suddenly.
    ‘Someone just rang a doorbell on television!’
    He smiled with relief. ‘How are you feeling?’ Across the road he watched the two smokers go back inside.
    ‘Tired, but a lot better. Bump’s been very active. Treating me like I’m a football!’
    ‘God, poor you!’
    ‘What time do you think you’ll be home?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Have you had supper?’
    ‘A stale KitKat.’
    ‘Roy!’ she said, admonishing him. ‘You have to eat properly.’
    ‘Yep, well there’s a bit of a limited menu where I am at the moment.’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘I’ll explain when I see you.’
    ‘I’m going to bed soon. Did you get my message about food?’
    ‘Message?’
    ‘I left you a message, earlier this afternoon – I couldn’t get through. Asking what you were doing about food tonight.’
    ‘I didn’t hear any message.’ Strange, he thought. Had she dialled a wrong number? He doubted it.
    ‘Shall I leave you something in the fridge? I’ve got some nice lasagne.’
    ‘That would be great, thanks,’ he said.
    ‘I’ve made a salad – I want you to eat it, okay?’
    ‘I promise! Hey, Glenn’s on Crimewatch tonight.’
    ‘I know, you told me earlier, I’m recording it for you.’
    He was about to ask her more about the message she’d left,when the pub door opened and a figure stepped out into the rain, looking a little unsteady on his pins. Although it was across the street, in a rain-lashed dusk, there was no mistaking him.
    Hastily ending the call, he watched Amis Smallbone, nattily attired in a brown Crombie coat with a velvet collar, popping open an umbrella. Then, with his head held arrogantly high and a slightly swaying gait, he strutted along the pub’s short forecourt towards him, then stopped on the pavement, as if looking around for a taxi.
    Grace was astonished the man was unaccompanied. And could not believe his luck. He stepped out of the car, and strode quickly and decisively over to him, noting the street seemed empty of people in both directions. Good.
    Diminutive and perfectly formed, like a bonsai version of a much bigger thug, Smallbone looked as neat and tidy as a carefully gift-wrapped package. He spoke with a small sharp voice, perfectly matched to his stature, but imbued with phoney grandeur. It was as if he imagined himself having the appearance of a respected country squire, whereas to the outside world he looked like a racetrack spiv, or a sleazy character on a street corner selling fake wristwatches.
    ‘Amis Morris Smallbone. Fancy bumping into you here! Roy Grace – remember me?’
    Amis Smallbone stopped in his tracks. He blinked through the gloom, as if he were having difficulty in focusing. Then, his voice a little slurred but as unpleasant as ever, he said, ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Don’t you know what it means when someone uses all three of your names?’
    Smallbone squinted, puzzled, then momentarily lost his balance. Grace gripped his arm to steady him, and kept hold of it. He could smell the booze on the man and he reeked of tobacco. ‘No,’ he said sullenly.
    ‘Think!’ Grace said.
    ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘It