cream afterwards!’
‘I want Mummy’s ice cream,’ Max said.
‘I want chocolate, or strawberry,’ Jessica demanded.
Tom exchanged glances with the police officer. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with short blonde hair, a pleasant, open face and a warm but efficient nature. She seemed like someone who could cope with most situations. He gave her a
‘It
Max looked up at him with big round eyes but they seemed completely devoid of expression. Tom could not read them, could not figure out exactly how his son was feeling. Or his daughter.
Or himself.
He desperately wanted to quiz Jessica some more about the vodka she claimed Kellie drank. What the hell was that all about?
‘I don’t like
Tom knelt and put his arms around her. ‘We don’t have any other flavours tonight. I’ll get you chocolate and strawberry for tomorrow – how’s that?’
There was no reaction from his daughter.
‘Give Daddy a hug, darling. I need a hug.’
‘When will Mummy be home?’
He hesitated for a moment, wondering what he should say. The truth, that he just didn’t know? Or a white lie? The lie was easier.
‘Soon.’ He scooped his daughter up in his arms. ‘Bath time?’
‘I want Mummy to bath me.’
‘She might not be back until quite late, so Daddy’s going to bath you tonight. OK?’
She looked away sulkily. In the living room he heard the volume of the television rise: tinkly music, the sound of car tyres squealing, a high-pitched American voice protesting about something. Max was watching The Simpsons. Good. At least that would keep him occupied until supper – or should he give him a bath, too?
He suddenly realized how little he knew about the kids’ routines, about anything to do with the house. Dark, cold mist and a terrible fear engulfed him from within. Tomorrow morning he had to make a major presentation to Land Rover. Their marketing director was talking about a massive contract. If Kellie did not come back tonight, he just didn’t know how he was going to cope with it.
Oh God, my sweet, lovely Kellie, please be OK, please come back. I love you so much.
At the top of the stairs, he carried Jessica into her bedroom then closed the door behind him and sat her down on the bed. He sat beside her.
‘Jessica, can Daddy ask you about something you said this morning about Mummy? I said we would ask Mummy what she would like to do today if she came back in time, and you said, “She’ll probably just want to drink vodka.” Remember?’
Jessica stared silently ahead.
‘Do you remember saying that, darling?’
Pouting grumpily she said, ‘You drink vodka, too.’
‘Yes, I do. But why did you say that?’
Downstairs he suddenly heard Lady barking. Then the doorbell rang. He heard Max shout out, ‘MUMMY! MUMMY! MUMMEEEEEEE! MUMMY’S HOME!’
Tom, his heart racing with sudden elation, tore down the stairs. Max was already opening the front door.
Sergeant Jon Rye stood there, holding his leather laptop case.
56
Roy Grace, sitting at the workstation in MIR One alongside most of his team, was running his eye over the latest incident reports log on the Vantage screen in front of him. It was a quarter to eight on Sunday evening, and although he still wasn’t feeling hungry, he could feel himself getting shaky from lack of sugar or too much caffeine – or both, and was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on his tasks.
Cleo Morey did not help either. Every few minutes his thoughts returned to her text of this morning.
He was checking the latest updates on Reggie D’Eath when he felt a thump on his back.
‘Yo, old timer!’
He looked up. Branson, who had popped out of the room a short while ago, and had returned with a massive carton of doughnuts from the supermarket across the road. He doled out one to each of the team members.
Grace took his and stepped away from the desk, deciding he needed to stretch his legs. Branson joined him as he walked across the room and out into the hallway. ‘You OK, old man? You look like shit.’
Grace took a bite, licking the sugar off his lips. ‘Thanks.’
Lowering his voice Branson said, ‘So, a little birdie told me that you and Cleo Morey were cosying up to each other in Latin in the Lanes last night.’
Grace stared at him in surprise. ‘Oh yes?’
‘She’s the one yanking your chain?’
‘God, this is a small town!’
‘It’s a small planet, man!’
‘How did you know who it was?’
The DS tapped the side of his face with his finger. ‘Something you taught me – one of the first rules of being a good detective – build up your network of informants.’
Grace shook his head, half amused, half annoyed. ‘That was before the regulations changed.
‘Ever see that movie
‘I didn’t see it.’
‘It’s well good. He reminded me of you. Bigger nose, though.’
‘I look like Gerard Depardieu?’
Branson gave him a pat. ‘Na, you’re more like Bruce Willis.’
‘That’s better.’
‘You sort of look like Bruce Willis’s less fortunate brother. Or maybe his father.’
‘You really know how to make a man feel good about himself. You look like-’
‘Like who? Will Smith?’
‘In your fucking dreams.’
‘So tell me more about you and Ms Morey?’
‘Nothing to tell. We had dinner.’
‘Business, of course?’
‘Totally.’
‘Even in the back of your cab?’ Branson pressed.
‘Jesus! Is every fucking taxi driver in Brighton and Hove informing for you?’
‘Nah, just a couple. I got lucky. Anyhow, they’re not informants. They just keep their eyes open for me.’
Grace didn’t know whether to be proud of his protege for becoming such a proficient detective, or angry at him.
Interrupting his thoughts, Branson asked, ‘So did she like your new gear?’
‘She said I needed a new dresser and that you were total crap.’
Branson looked so hurt, Grace felt sorry for him. ‘Don’t worry – actually she didn’t comment.’
‘Shit, that’s even worse!’
‘We have two homicides and a missing woman; can we change the subject?’
‘Don’t change the subject! Cleo Morey! She’s well gorgeous. Like, if I wasn’t happily married, know what I
