Not Dead Yet

security guards closed around her, cocooning her and the boy and sweeping them through into the hotel lobby, past more hopefuls clutching record sleeves and CD booklets, and straight to the lift.
    None of the entourage paid much attention to the gaunt, cadaverous-looking man in a drab, grey sports jacket over a plain cream shirt, who was reading a newspaper and apparently waiting for a friend or a taxi.
    But he was paying a lot of attention to them.

46
    ‘Did you fall off your bicycle?’ Angela McNeill asked, clutching a file folder in her hand.
    Eric Whiteley, seated in his tomb-like back office, was in flustered mood. Things weren’t going right today, at all. He had meant to come in even earlier than usual, so that he could leave the office early, but instead, for the first time in all the years he had worked for this accountancy firm, he had arrived late.
    And now he was being interrupted while eating his lunch – which was something he hated. He considered eating a private function.
    His tuna mayo sandwich, with sliced tomato on wholegrain, and one bite taken from it, lay in its opened wrapper on his desk. The Twix bar, apple and bottle of sparkling water lay beside it. In front of him was the front page of the Argus , with its headline: Gaia fever hits Brighton!
    ‘No, I did not fall off my bicycle; I’ve never fallen off my bicycle, actually, well not for a very long time.’ He eyed his meal, anxious to return to it.
    This woman was new to the firm. A professional book-keeper, widowed two years ago, she had been trying for some time to strike up a friendship with Eric, the only single man in the firm. She didn’t find him attractive, but she sensed he was lonely, like herself, and that perhaps they could be occasional companions, go to plays or concerts. But she could not figure him out. From the brief conversations they’d had, she knew he wasn’t married, and he didn’t appear to have a girlfriend. But she didn’t think he was gay, either. With her finger she traced a line down her cheek, mirroring the mark on his face. ‘What happened?’
    ‘My cat,’ he said, defensively.
    Her face brightened. ‘You have a cat? So do I!’
    He glanced down at his sandwich again, hungry because he had missed breakfast, and wished she would leave. ‘Yes,’ he said.
    ‘What kind of cat?’
    ‘One that scratches.’
    She grinned. ‘You’re funny!’ She squeezed her way through the narrow gap between the filing cabinets and his desk and put the folder down. ‘Mr Feline asked if you could do the monthly management accounts on Rawson Technology as soon as possible. Any chance of looking at them today?’
    Anything for peace, he thought. ‘Yes.’ He nodded.
    But she didn’t leave. Instead she said, ‘Do you like chamber music? There’s a concert on at The Dome on Sunday and a friend gave me some tickets. I just wondered – you know – if you weren’t doing anything?’
    ‘Not my thing,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’
    She glanced down at the newspaper. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a Gaia fan?’
    He was silent for some moments, thinking about a reply that would get rid of her. ‘Actually, I love her, I am a huge fan.’
    ‘Seriously? So am I!’
    Inwardly he groaned. ‘Well, there we go, who would have believed it?’ he responded.
    She looked at him through fresh eyes. ‘Well, well, you’re a dark horse, Eric Whiteley!’
    Inside, he was tightening with irritation. How could he get rid of this bloody woman? He gave her a thin smile. ‘We all have our guilty secrets, don’t we?’
    ‘We do,’ she said. ‘That’s so true. So true. We do, don’t we?’
    He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t tell anyone!’
    ‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I promise. Our secret!’
    She left the room and he returned, relieved, to his sandwich. He flicked through the pages of the paper. On the fifth page the headline caught his eye. Sussex murder mystery on Crimewatch .
    He read the article slowly and intently while he finished his lunch. Then he returned to the front page story. Guilty secrets!
    He smiled.

47
    ‘I think I may be in love!’
    Roy Grace looked up as Glenn Branson entered his office, swung around one of the chairs in front of his desk, and sat astride it like he was riding a horse.
    ‘So do I!’ Grace held up a printout of a Frosts Garage fact sheet and photograph of a shiny black Alfa Romeo Giulietta. ‘What do you think of her?’
    ‘Awesome!’
    ‘A year old, high mileage, but