Not Dead Yet

was momentarily distracted by the arrival of his coffee, and waving away the offer of sugar, said, ‘If it’s any comfort, most of the murders were low-life criminals on criminals or domestics.’
    Gulli scratched behind his left ear. ‘I’ve been reading a lot of history on your city. In the 1930s Brighton was known as the “Crime Capital of the UK” and the “Murder Capital of Europe”. You know, it doesn’t seem like much has changed.’
    Grace was starting to feel annoyed with the man. But he kept his patience. ‘I’ll talk to the Chief Constable and pass on your concerns.’
    ‘I’d be very grateful,’ Gulli said. ‘In the meantime I’d appreciate it if you maintained the current level of officers.’
    ‘I can’t make promises but I’ll do all I can.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Gaia said. She was smiling at him sweetly, and with an almost mesmerizing concentration, staring into his eyes. Was he imagining it, he wondered, or was he getting the come-on from her?
    ‘Mom, I’m like so bored!’
    Roan walked across the room, barefoot, in baggy jeans and an orange T-shirt, a Nintendo console hanging from his fingertips.
    She patted the side of the sofa and he sat down grumpily beside her. ‘He’s not too impressed with the weather, are you, sweetie?’
    He peered at his Nintendo screen.
    ‘Is that the new one?’ Roy Grace asked. ‘The 3DS?’
    The boy studied the screen and gave him a reluctant nod.
    ‘He wants to go on the beach, but nothing doing with this weather.’ She pointed to the window at the pelting rain. There was a sudden change in her expression. ‘Do you have kids, Detective Superintendent?’
    ‘No, I don’t. Just a goldfish.’
    She laughed. ‘I figured it would be nice for Roan to meet some kids his age. Do you know anyone who has some who might be willing to play with him, hang out with him a little?’
    His eyes widened. ‘Actually, I do, yes!’
    ‘I would so appreciate that.’ She kissed her son’s cheek, but he barely noticed, he was so focused on his console. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, hon? Someone to play with?’
    He shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
    ‘I could make a quick call – Roan’s six, right?’
    ‘Just had his sixth birthday party three weeks ago.’
    ‘This person’s got two kids – I think they’re about six and nine.’
    ‘Perfect!’
    He dialled Glenn Branson’s number.
    ‘Yuh, old timer, what’s up?’
    ‘I have someone who wants to speak to you.’
    ‘Who’s that.’
    ‘I’ll put her on!’ He handed Gaia the phone and said, ‘His name’s Glenn.’
    ‘Hi, Glenn!’ she said in her huskiest voice.
    Grace smiled. He was trying to imagine his mate’s face at the other end of the line.

66
    ‘What do you mean, you don’t have any?’
    The man hunched over the counter in a white coat was the kind of miserable jerk who should not have been there at all. He should have quit or retired long before he’d decided he hated doing this job so much he wasn’t ever going to be pleasant or helpful to anyone who came in here. With his frayed grey hair and his thick, round bottle-lensed glasses he looked like a Nazi geneticist who’d had a career change. He spoke like one, too.
    ‘Ve don’t haf any.’
    ‘You’re a fucking pharmacist; all pharmacists sell thermometers.’
    The man shrugged and said nothing.
    Drayton Wheeler glared at him. ‘You know where there’s another pharmacist?’
    He nodded. ‘I do.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Vy should I tell you? I don’t like you. I don’t like your attitude.’
    ‘Fuck you.’
    ‘Vuck you too.’
    For an instant, Wheeler was tempted to punch his smug, evil face. But there were all kinds of potential repercussions from that. Not smart. He mustn’t get side-tracked, had to keep focus. Focus. Focus.
    He walked out of the shop in a rage and collided with a woman pushing a shopping trolley. ‘Stupid old woman!’ he shouted at her. ‘Watch where you’re going!’ Then he stormed off up the street, everything a blur, his rage playing havoc with his eyes. He was tired. He was grungy. He was hungry. He needed food. He needed a bath.
    But most of all he needed a thermometer.

67
    As he walked through The Grand Hotel shortly before midday, threading his way along the corridors towards the car park, Roy Grace’s phone rang. It was Glenn Branson for the second time. The first had been to thank him for putting him on the line to Gaia; he had seemed totally blown away.
    ‘Darren Spicer, right?’