Not Dead Yet

‘I have a confirmation,’ he insisted. ‘I have your email.’

She smiled at him again, then frowned at her screen. He hated the way she smiled at him. It was a meaningless smile. She smiled at him not because she wanted to, but because she had to. He felt the anger rising; snakes uncoiling. He wanted to tell her she didn’t need to smile at him, and that if she smiled at him again, with those neat little white teeth, he-

Calm down.

Then he remembered. Stupid fool! It was the jet lag. Then doing his recce when he should have gone to bed and rested. You made mistakes when you were tired. ‘I – ah – you know – gave you the wrong name.’

‘You gave me Mr Drayton Wheeler?’

‘Yuh uh – you’ll find the reservation’s under Baxter. Jerry Baxter.’ He had decided using a fictional name might come in useful.

She looked down her list, frowned, tapped her computer, then saw it almost instantly. ‘Ah yes, a single room for two weeks?’

‘Correct.’ He took several deep breaths.

She handed him the check-in form and a pen, and he filled it out. ‘Do you need a parking space, Mr Wheeler – sorry – er, Baxter?’ she asked.

‘Why would I need a parking space?’

‘I wasn’t sure if you had a car.’ She smiled again and his anger rose further. ‘May I take a credit card imprint, please?’

‘I’ll be paying cash.’

She frowned. Guests who paid cash were a rarity these days. Then she smiled again, breezily. ‘That’s fine, sir. But we will need you to pay for incidentals as you go, if that’s all right?’

‘I will pay incidentally.’ He grinned at her for some moments through stained teeth, then the smile slipped from his face as she failed to get his little joke.

She tapped away at her keyboard then, after some moments, handed him his plastic key card in a small folder. ‘Room 608.’

‘Do you have anything a little lower? I’m rather nervous of heights.’

She looked back at her screen, and tapped again on the keyboard. ‘I’m afraid not, sir, we are fully booked.’

‘Ah yes, you have that singer staying, Gaia?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot comment on other guests.’

‘I heard it on the news. It’s in the newspapers.’

She feigned surprise. ‘Really? I wonder where they got that from.’

‘I wonder too,’ he said, a tad too petulantly, taking the card.

‘Do you need any help with your luggage.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I would if I had any. But thank you, British Airways, they’ve managed to lose it.’

This time her smile was genuine. ‘Poor you.’

‘They tell me it will turn up later today.’

‘We’ll bring it up to you as soon as it arrives.’

Really, he nearly said. I thought you might just put it in the middle of the lobby and have all your staff perform a rain dance around it. Instead he replied, stonily, ‘Yes, I would appreciate that.’

Then he walked away towards the lifts, clutching the little plastic room key in its paper folder, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

He was here. Checked in.

He’d reached first base of his very sketchy plan. Following his anger, unsure where it would lead.

The thing was, there was no point in suing those slimeball producers Brooker and Brody, for stealing his story. Lawsuits like that took years, he knew, he’d sued other pondlife in this goddamn viperous movie industry, and each time it was five years minimum and sometimes ten, with no certainty of winning. He didn’t have the luxury of time any more. Six months, tops, the oncologist had said. Maybe a little longer if he could control his anger, and stop that from eating him up. Pancreatic cancer, inoperable, secondaries spread too far around his body. He was riddled with the stuff.

No point in suing with that time frame. But at least he could get even. Hurt a couple of total shysters big time, before the final cut. Before he himself got flushed out of this shithole toilet called earth.

33

‘Unexpected item in bagging area. Remove item from the bagging area.’

Glenn Branson stared, bleary-eyed, down at the self-service machine in the Tesco Express in Hove.

‘Please remove item from the bagging area,’ the imperious, robotic female voice commanded. Glenn looked at the display on the screen, wondering what he had done wrong. The people either side of him did not seem to have any problems at all.

‘Unexpected item in bagging area,’ she proclaimed again.

He looked around for help, and yawned. It was 8 p.m., Sunday evening, and he felt exhausted. Since yesterday morning when Roy Grace had made him deputy SIO on Operation Icon, he had taken his duties seriously, staying up for most of the night working on his Policy Book, reading through the Murder Manual, and ensuring all the lines of enquiry that Grace had suggested he make were being covered.

He looked down at the bagging area, trying to figure out what the offending item might be. The quart of skimmed milk? The low-calorie moussaka that he was planning for his supper along with the mixed leaf salad? The aerosol can of spray polish? The packet of absorbent cloths? The box of goldfish food? The six-pack of Grolsch lager?

For months now he had been lodging in Grace’s house, thanks to his mate’s kindness. Roy Grace had effectively moved in to Cleo’s home, so he felt a sense of responsibility for looking after the place and keeping it neat and tidy, especially since it was now on the market. He knew that in his first few months of living there he had let the place become a tip; he was so cut up over his marriage breakdown, he had at times been finding it hard to focus. He was still cut up, but he was getting through it – largely thanks to Roy’s support. The least he could do to repay him was keep his house in good order.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

A young, Indian man in a blue Tesco top and black trousers was smiling at him.

Yes, you can, you can tell me the identity of a headless, armless, legless corpse found at Stonery Farm yesterday, he would have liked to have said. Instead he replied, ‘Yeah, thanks. I can’t figure out why she keeps shouting at me.’

The young man held a card on a chain over the barcode reader, then tapped several buttons. ‘Okay, sir, enter your credit card, please.’

Two minutes later, Glenn left the store and walked across the expanse of tarmac towards his car. As he did so he passed a young couple unloading the contents of their trolley into the boot of their car. His heart tightened. A year ago – less – that would have been Ari and himself.

Sunday evening. They would have put the kids to bed and settled in front of the television with a simple, healthy snack. Hummus and pitta bread and olives was Ari’s favourite Sunday evening meal. And Top Gear, of course. He glanced at his watch.

Shit.

Top Gear was on tonight and he’d forgotten to record it.

He broke into a run.

34