Not Dead Yet

other fans on the sofas.
    Standing in front of a life-size cardboard cut-out of her idol, she stared into those blue eyes. ‘What went wrong? Hey? Tell me? I’m your number one fan and you turned away from me? Tell me why? Hey? Tell me? You found someone else? Someone who’s more into you than me?’
    Not possible.
    No way.
    ‘You’ve made my life worth living, don’t you know that, don’t you care? You’re the only person who’s ever loved me.’
    In her left hand she held a knife. A kukri. The knife one of her father’s ancestors had taken from a dead soldier way back during the Gurkha wars. Gurkhas were brave people. They did not care about dying.
    If a man says he is not afraid of dying, he is either lying or is a Gurkha.
    What do you think about that, Gaia? Are you lying or a Gurkha?
    Or just a parvenue from Whitehawk in Brighton who thinks you are too big to bother to acknowledge your fans?
    She strutted very slowly down the steep wooden stairs, went through into the kitchen and filled her glass with the remainder of the drink that was in the silver cocktail shaker. Then she went back upstairs to her shrine.
    ‘Cheers, Gaia!’ she said. ‘So tell me, did it feel good cutting me dead yesterday? Hey? Tell me about it? Who put you on your platform? Did you ever think about that? Did you ever think about me? You stared at me so often. I watched you watching me on Top Gear . And on so many other shows. So what do you think gave you the right to treat me like – like – scum – shit – like – like – trash? Tell me, I’m really interested. Your number one fan needs to know.
    ‘I do really.
    ‘Tell me.
    ‘Tell me.
    ‘Tell me?’

71
    For the Friday evening briefing, Glenn Branson chose a seat that gave him a clear view of Bella. He noticed that, as usual, she and Norman Potting sat well apart so that eye contact between them was difficult. Experienced detectives, he thought, they’d clearly planned this between them. So just how long had their relationship being going on? It wasn’t that long ago that Potting had married for the fourth time, suckered by a Thai girl who’d been bleeding him dry of money.
    He watched her pop a Malteser into her mouth. She wasn’t in any sense beautiful, but there was something about her that he found very attractive. Warmth and a vulnerability that made him want to scoop her up into his arms. Just a short while ago he’d thought he might be able to offer her something better than the life of drudgery she had looking after her ailing mother. Now it was a different challenge altogether. Potting was so not right for her. He looked at him. At the smug grin on his face.
    Come on, Bella, how on earth could you fancy him?
    ‘Glenn? Hello? Glenn?’
    With a start, he realized Roy Grace was speaking to him, and he had no idea what about.
    ‘Sorry, chief, I was somewhere else.’
    ‘Welcome back from Planet Zog!’
    There was some sniggering in the room.
    ‘Long day?’ Potting queried. His words were like a knife twisting inside him.
    ‘I asked you about the DNA results on the four limbs,’ Grace said, glancing briefly down at his notes. ‘You said you were expecting them back from the lab today?’
    Branson nodded. ‘Yep. I have the results.’ He opened a plastic folder. ‘I can read you out the full lab report if you want, chief?’
    Grace shook his head. To most police officers, himself included,DNA reports were a mysterious, arcane art. He had always been rubbish at science at school. In fact he had been rubbish at most things at school except for rugby and running. ‘Just summarize for now, Glenn.’
    ‘Okay. So all four limbs are from the same body and it’s a millions-to-one certainty that they belong to the torso of “Unknown Berwick Male”,’ he said.
    ‘Good work,’ Grace said. ‘Right, so we have another piece of our jigsaw in place. All we are missing now is his head.’
    ‘Could be we are looking for a man who lost his head to a woman,’ Potting said, and guffawed.
    ‘You should know!’ Bella rounded on Potting. Potting blushed and looked down. To everyone else present her remark was a barb about his marital failures. Only Glenn knew the truth behind it.
    ‘Not very helpful, actually, Norman,’ Grace said.
    ‘Sorry, boss.’ He looked around with a sheepish grin, but no one responded.
    Roy Grace stared at Potting. He was a fine detective, but sometimes he could be so damned irritating with his bad jokes, and on this enquiry he