Not Dead Yet

course of his work, inevitably, because Brighton was home to a huge and diverse number of celebrities, but Gaia was in a different league to all of them. Standing dwarfed by the two bodyguards, he was expecting the door to be opened by one of her assistants, and was surprised that it was Gaia herself who greeted him. She was wearing a denim shirt, white jeans, high-heeled espadrilles and a dazzling smile. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace – thank you so much for coming!’ She sounded genuinely grateful, as if most people might kowtow instantly to her every whim, but not police officers.
    He did a double-take, looking at her again, then entered the room, which smelled of freshly brewed coffee and a dense perfume. Her hair was completely different from a few days earlier – it had now been cropped short in a boyish cut. Pointing her fingers at her head she asked, ‘What do you think?’
    ‘Nice,’ he said, and in truth it did suit her. But then again, he thought, she had such striking looks she’d have looked good in a bin-liner with a rusty bucket on her head. Behind her, a woman in her late twenties, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt with a small, gold Secret Fox logo on it, strode across the room with a script in her hand, and put it down on a table beside the sofa. Grace noticed that although most of the pages were white, some were blue, pink, yellow, green, and cherry.
    ‘Latest changes,’ the assistant said, and walked out again.
    Gaia acknowledged her with a briefly raised hand, then turned her attention back to Roy Grace, pointing at her own head again. ‘You think so?’
    ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, although his personal preference had always been for long hair.
    ‘Gotta wear a goddamn wig for the production – this huge heavy Maria Fitzherbert thing – it’s so hot – feels like I’m wearing a rug on my head. The hair falls all around my face, I can hardly see a goddamn thing when I’m wearing it.’
    Grace grinned. ‘I believe in her time women only used to wash their hair a couple of times a year.’
    ‘Yuh huh – Marie Antoinette actually had birds in her hair.’
    ‘Very hygienic.’
    ‘So,’ she said. ‘I got saved by your colleague – Chief Superintendent Barrington?’
    Grace frowned. ‘You did?’
    ‘My hairdresser didn’t get over to England – she travels with me everywhere, now she’s pregnant and she went down with complications. So he’s found me this great hairdresser – actually she’s a police officer’s wife!’
    ‘She is – who?’
    ‘Tracey Curry. Chief Inspector Steve Curry’s wife.’
    ‘I know him – I didn’t realize his wife was a hairdresser.’
    ‘She’s a genius!’
    ‘I’m glad to hear Sussex Police are turning out to be a full service agency!’ he said.
    ‘Just keep me alive and look after my kid – that’s all the service I need.’ She indicated an armchair opposite the sofa, and he sat down.
    ‘We have some good news on that front,’ Grace said. ‘I imagine you’ve heard?’
    The voice of James Cagney said, ‘We sure did!’ Her security chief Andrew Gulli strode into the room, dressed as before in a dapper suit. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, it’s so good to see you again.’ He sat in the chair next to him.
    Another young female assistant materialized out of the ether and asked Grace how he took his coffee.
    Gulli raised both his hands in the air, as if holding up an imaginary football, then lowered them, still with the ball, to his lap. ‘The thing is, Detective Superintendent, they may have caught this guy, but I don’t want us relaxing our guard on Gaia and Roan. You have a lot of crazy people in your city, right?’
    ‘We have our fair share,’ Grace admitted. ‘But no more than anywhere else in this country. Brighton’s a pretty safe place.’
    ‘I read you normally have around fifteen to twenty homicides a year, but you’ve already had sixteen, and we’re only halfway through this year. So your homicide rate has doubled.’
    Gaia, who sat herself down attentively on the edge of the sofa, was staring at Grace. He could see, beneath her beauty, the crease lines of fear.
    ‘It’s a statistical blip,’ he replied cheerfully, and instantly knew he had said the wrong thing.
    ‘Yeah, right,’ Gulli said, his Cagney accent even more pronounced now. ‘So tell me, how did those people lying in body bags in your mortuary feel about being a statistical blip, Detective Superintendent Grace?’
    Grace