Grace pierced the soft suet with his knife and instantly steam and gravy erupted from it.
'Instant heart attack on a plate that is,' Branson chided. 'You know what suet is? Beef fat. Yuk.'
Spooning some mustard onto his plate, Grace said, 'It's not what you eat, it's worrying about what you eat. Worry is the killer.'
Branson forked some fish into his mouth. As he started chewing, Grace continued. 'I read that the levels of mercury in sea fish, from pollution, are at danger level. You shouldn't eat fish more than once a week.'
Branson's chewing slowed down and he looked uncomfortable. 'Where did you read that?'
'It was a report from Nature, I think. It's about the most respected scientific journal in the world.' Grace smiled, enjoying the expression on his friend's face.
'Shit, we eat fish like - almost every night. Mercury1?'
'You'll end up as a thermometer.'
'That's not funny - I mean--' Two sharp beeps in succession silenced him.
Grace tugged his mobile from his pocket and stared at the screen.
Why no reply to my text, Big Boy? ClaudineXX
'God, this is all I need,' he said. 'A frigging bunny boiler.'
Branson raised his eyebrows. 'Healthy meat, rabbit. Free range.'
'This one isn't healthy and she doesn't eat meat. I mean bunny boiler as in that old movie with Glenn Close.'
'Fatal Attraction? Michael Douglas and Anne Archer, 1987. Great movie - it was on Sky on Sunday'
Grace showed him the text.
Branson grinned. 'Big Boy, eh?'
'It never got that far and it's never going to.'
Then Branson's mobile rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and answered. 'Glenn Branson. Yeah? OK, great, I'll be there in an hour.' He ended the call and left his phone on the table. Looking at Grace, he said, 'The Vodafone log from Michael Harrison's phone just came in. Want to come to the office and help me with it?'
Grace thought for a moment, then checked his diary on his Blackberry. He'd kept the afternoon clear, intending to clear up some paperwork relating to the Suresh Hossain trial that Alison Vosper had requested at their 12.30 meeting, then read the report on the Tommy Lytle case. But that had waited twenty-seven years, and another day would not make much difference either way. Whereas Michael Harrison's disappearance was urgent. Although he did not know the characters, he felt for them. Particularly for the fiancee; he knew just how wrenching it was when a loved one went missing. At this moment, if there was any way he could be of help, he should doit.
'OK,' he said. 'Sure.'
Branson ate his salad, and left the rest of his fish untouched, while Grace tucked into his steak and kidney pudding with relish. 'I read a while ago,' he told Branson, 'that the French drink more red wine than the English but live longer. The Japanese eat more fish than the English, but drink less wine and live longer. The Germans eat more red meat than the English, and drink more beer, and they live longer, too. You know the moral of this story?'
'No.'
'It's not what you eat or drink - it's speaking English that kills you.'
Branson grinned. 'I don't know why I like you. You always manage to make me feel guilty about something.'
'So let's go find Michael Harrison. Then you can enjoy your weekend.'
Branson pushed his fish to the side of his plate and drained his Diet Coke.
Tilled with Aspartame, that stuff,' Grace said, looking disapprovingly at his glass. I read a theory on the web that it can give you Lupus.'
'What's Lupus?'
'It's far worse than mercury'
'Thanks, Big Boy'
'Now you're just jealous.'
As they entered the tired-looking, six-storey building that housed Brighton police station from the parking lot at the rear, Grace felt a pang of nostalgia. This building had a reputation as being the busiest police station in Britain. The place hummed and buzzed and he had loved his time - almost fifteen years - working here. It was the buzz that he missed most about his recent posting to the relatively quiet backwater of the CID headquarters building on the outskirts.
As they climbed up the cement stairs, blue walls on either side of them, the familiar noticeboards with events and procedures pinned to them, he could smell that he was still in a busy police station. It wasn't the smell of hospitals, or schools, or a civil service building, it was the smell of energy.
They went on up past the third floor, where his old office had been, and then along a corridor on the fourth floor, past a large sign dominating an entire noticeboard, with the wording 'OVERALL CRIME DETECTION RATE. APRIL 2004. 27.8%'. Then he followed Branson into the long, narrow office his colleague was setting up as
the incident room for Michael Harrison. Six desks, each with a computer terminal. Two of them were occupied, both by detectives he knew and liked - DC Nick Nicholl and DS Bella Moy. There was a SASCO flip chart on an easel and a blank whiteboard on the wall, next to a large-scale map of Sussex, on which was a pattern of coloured pins.
