Not Dead Yet

boots? In every murder enquiry he had to balance the costs of deployment of officers against the probabilities of achieving any result. Sixty-four stockists would consume a lot of the outside enquiry team manpower, if he wanted to get a result quickly. How many a day could any individual cover? In his experience, having to wait for staff they needed to interview to come back from breaks, and the like, was time consuming. Six retail outlets a day would be good going. It would take two officers a good week to cover every shop and store.
    DC Reeves put her hand in the air. ‘Sir, Hunter is a very expensive brand – I know because I recently went shopping forsome wellies. Do you think there is some significance in this? That it tallies with the expensive suit material from the victim? What I mean by this is it tells us the perpetrator might be financially well off.’
    Grace nodded. ‘Good point, Emma.’ He made a note. Then he instructed Jon Exton to proceed and have all stockists interviewed. Although, in his heart, he knew there was a slim likelihood of a result from that effort. At least it would cover his backside when he wrote it up in his Policy Book, should his investigation get questioned at a later date.
    He turned to the forensic podiatrist Haydn Kelly. ‘Anything to add at this stage, Haydn?’
    Kelly shook his head.
    ‘Okay. I don’t think we are going to achieve a lot more overnight. The next meeting will be at 6.30 p.m. tomorrow,’ Grace said. ‘Glenn and I will be holding a press conference at eleven o’clock, so if there are any significant developments that come in before then, let me know.’
    As he stood up, Emma Reeves asked, ‘Any chance of Gaia’s autograph, chief?’
    Grace smiled.

72
    Cleo lay in bed, her laptop propped in front of her on the duvet, logged into Mumsnet, her coursework papers for the Open University degree she was taking in Philosophy spread all around her. She was leadenly tired, but it was only 7.30 p.m., far too early to go to sleep. Laura Marling, one of her current favourite folk singers, was playing on her iPod.
    The baby was going wild tonight – it felt like it was dancing inside her. She lifted the duvet, hitched up her nightdress and watched, fascinated, as her belly looked like it was dancing too, its shape shifting from round to square, with little pointy bits sticking out.
    She wished Roy was here to see this. He’d promised to be home soon. She hoped the baby would still be active when he got here.
    ‘You’re going to be amazing, Bump. You know that? You’re going to be the most loved baby in the whole world!’
    Bump danced even more wildly, as if in acknowledgement.
    She left Mumsnet and logged on to Amazon to look up prices of car seats. With the birth of the baby imminent, she was focused on all the stuff she needed to get. She had a list compiled by her best friend Millie, who had two daughters, and another list compiled by her sister Charlie, an interior designer, who had insisted on decorating the baby’s room herself.
    Cot; crib linens; mattress pad; waterproof mattress pads; blankets; baby wipes; nappies; changing pad; nappy bag; nappy-rash cream. The list just went on and on. Everyone had told her that her life would change, but only now was it really starting to dawn on her how right they were. She went on through the list. Six bottles and sterilizing equipment; bottle brush; bottle warmer; infant formula milk; nipple cream; breast pads; nursing bras; a breast pump in case Roy had to feed the baby when she wasn’t there.
    And just how often would Roy be there? That was one of herbiggest concerns. She knew just how wedded to his work he was. In her job at the mortuary there was a constant stream of sudden deaths, which police officers had to attend. Whenever the name Roy Grace came up, she heard nothing but positive comments. He seemed universally liked and respected. He was a good man, she knew that – just one of the countless reasons why she loved him.
    But there was one shadow to their relationship. He was a great copper, but would that mean he’d be a great father?
    Would he be there for their child’s first Nativity play – or would he be tied up on a murder investigation? And on Parents’ Evening? Sports Day?
    When they talked about it he always dismissed her concerns, reminding her that his father had been a police officer, yet had always managed to find the time to attend the things that had mattered. But he had not been a