the car clock then at his watch. In just over twenty minutes’ time, the live
He left him a voicemail wishing him luck. He knew how Glenn would be feeling right now. He’d be in the green room, with Bella and the other guests on the show, throat dry, nervous as hell. That was how he always felt himself before going on live television. It was impossible to feel any other way – you had one chance and blowing it was not an option, and that feeling of responsibility always got to you.
He dialled Cleo. When she answered he heard furious barking. ‘Hi, darling!’ she said cheerily over it. Then she said, her voice raised, ‘QUIET!!!’
‘What’s he barking at?’ Grace asked, apprehensive suddenly.
‘Someone just rang a doorbell on television!’
He smiled with relief. ‘How are you feeling?’ Across the road he watched the two smokers go back inside.
‘Tired, but a lot better. Bump’s been very active. Treating me like I’m a football!’
‘God, poor you!’
‘What time do you think you’ll be home?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you had supper?’
‘A stale KitKat.’
‘Roy!’ she said, admonishing him. ‘You have to eat properly.’
‘Yep, well there’s a bit of a limited menu where I am at the moment.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’ll explain when I see you.’
‘I’m going to bed soon. Did you get my message about food?’
‘Message?’
‘I left you a message, earlier this afternoon – I couldn’t get through. Asking what you were doing about food tonight.’
‘I didn’t hear any message.’ Strange, he thought. Had she dialled a wrong number? He doubted it.
‘Shall I leave you something in the fridge? I’ve got some nice lasagne.’
‘That would be great, thanks,’ he said.
‘I’ve made a salad – I want you to eat it, okay?’
‘I promise! Hey, Glenn’s on
‘I know, you told me earlier, I’m recording it for you.’
He was about to ask her more about the message she’d left, when the pub door opened and a figure stepped out into the rain, looking a little unsteady on his pins. Although it was across the street, in a rain-lashed dusk, there was no mistaking him.
Hastily ending the call, he watched Amis Smallbone, nattily attired in a brown Crombie coat with a velvet collar, popping open an umbrella. Then, with his head held arrogantly high and a slightly swaying gait, he strutted along the pub’s short forecourt towards him, then stopped on the pavement, as if looking around for a taxi.
Grace was astonished the man was unaccompanied. And could not believe his luck. He stepped out of the car, and strode quickly and decisively over to him, noting the street seemed empty of people in both directions. Good.
Diminutive and perfectly formed, like a bonsai version of a much bigger thug, Smallbone looked as neat and tidy as a carefully gift-wrapped package. He spoke with a small sharp voice, perfectly matched to his stature, but imbued with phoney grandeur. It was as if he imagined himself having the appearance of a respected country squire, whereas to the outside world he looked like a racetrack spiv, or a sleazy character on a street corner selling fake wristwatches.
‘Amis Morris Smallbone. Fancy bumping into you here! Roy Grace – remember me?’
Amis Smallbone stopped in his tracks. He blinked through the gloom, as if he were having difficulty in focusing. Then, his voice a little slurred but as unpleasant as ever, he said, ‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t you know what it means when someone uses all three of your names?’
Smallbone squinted, puzzled, then momentarily lost his balance. Grace gripped his arm to steady him, and kept hold of it. He could smell the booze on the man and he reeked of tobacco. ‘No,’ he said sullenly.
‘Think!’ Grace said.
‘I have no idea.’
‘It means you’re being arrested.’
41
Anna sat in her Gaia shrine, dressed in the turquoise, feathered ball gown Gaia had worn on stage in her
She was busy revising. Re-reading parts of Gaia’s authorized biography, after having spent the first part of this evening testing and re-testing herself on Gaia’s song history, to make sure she had absolutely every single title, and in the right order, and the date it was first performed. It really would not do, when they finally met tomorrow, for her to make a silly mistake. She wanted to be perfect for her idol.
And she was pretty confident she did have them all right. She was good at dates, always had been. She’d excelled at history at school – she could remember the dates of every king and queen of England; and every battle; and just about all the other important dates. Some of her fellow pupils had called her a swot. So? She didn’t care. What did they know about the world? How many of them today, all these years later, had a Gaia collection like this?
Huh?
‘How many do you think, Diva?’ she said to the cat.
The cat sat at the foot of a glass display cabinet, which contained framed concert tickets and racks of programmes. It did not respond.
She checked her watch. 8.55 p.m. It was time to go downstairs to watch one of her favourite programmes,
True crimes. With luck there would be a murder on the show; perhaps a reconstruction. She replaced the cat litter on a couple of pages torn from
She liked the filmed reconstructions, the more violent and gruesome the better. So much more powerful than in a TV drama or a movie, because you knew they were for real. She could close her eyes and imagine the victim’s fear; the pain; the desperation. It aroused her. Sometimes Gaia played around with bondage in her stage acts. She loved that. That really aroused her too.
Maybe Gaia would tie her up tomorrow? She could suggest it to the star, couldn’t she? She shivered, deliciously, at the thought.
Twenty minutes into the show the presenter Kirsty Young introduced a tall, black detective dressed as if he had just come from a funeral. On the screen appeared the caption,
