Mark squinted at Grace's glass.
Standing up and joining them, Ashley said, 'Why don't you circulate, Mark?'
Grace clocked the edge in her voice. Something very definitely did not feel right but he couldn't place quite what.
Then Mark Warren jabbed him in the chest. 'You know your problem? You don't give a fuck, do you?'
'Why do you think that?'
Mark Warren gave him an asinine grin, raising his voice. 'Come on. You don't like rich people, do you? We can go fuck ourselves, can't we? You're too busy looking at speed cameras, trapping motorists. Why should you give a fuck about some poor rich sod who's the victim of some prank that's gone wrong, hey? When you could be out earning a fat bonus from trapping motorists?'
Grace deliberately lowered his voice, almost to a whisper, which he knew would force Mark Warren to lower his voice, also. 'Mr Warren, I don't have any connection with the Traffic Division. I'm here to try to help you.'
Mark leaned closer, straining to hear him. 'Sorry, I missed that. What did you say?'
Still speaking deliberately quietly, Grace said, 'When I was at Police Training College we had to do a parade and be inspected. I'd buffed my belt buckles to a shine like a mirror. The Chief made me take the belt off and held up the back for everyone to see. I hadn't polished that at all and I felt ashamed. It taught me a lesson - it's not just what you can see that matters.' He gave Mark a quizzical look.
'What exshacktly ish that meant to mean?'
'I'll leave you to think about that, Mr Warren - next time you have your BMW washed.'
Grace turned and walked away.
47
Back in his car, with the rain pattering down on the windscreen, Grace was deep in thought. So deep, it was several moments before he even noticed the parking ticket tucked under the wiper.
Bastards.
He climbed out of the car, grabbed the ticket and tore it from its cellophane wrapping. Thirty-quid fine for being five minutes over the time on his voucher - and no chance of putting it through expenses. The Chief had clamped down firmly on that.
Hope you appreciate this, Mr Branson, having your nice weekend break in Solihull. He grimaced, tossing the ticket into the passenger footwell in disgust. Then he turned his mind back to Mark Warren. Then back five years to the fortnight's course in forensic psychology he had done at the FBI training centre in Quantico in the USA. It had not been enough to make him an expert, but it had taught him the value of his instincts, and it had taught him how to read certain aspects of body language.
And Mark Warren's body language was all wrong.
Mark Warren had lost four close friends. His business partner was missing, maybe dead. Very likely dead. He ought to be in shock, numb, bewildered. Not angry. It was too soon for anger.
And he had noticed the reaction to his remark about the car wash. He had touched a nerve there very definitely.
I don't know what you are up to, Mr Mark Warren, but I'm making it my business to find out.
He picked up his phone, dialled a number, listened to it ringing. On a Saturday afternoon he was expecting to get the answering machine, but instead he got a human voice. Female. Soft and warm. Impossible for anyone to guess from her voice what she did for a living.
'Brighton and Have City Mortuary,' she said.
'Cleo, it's Roy Grace.'
'Wotcher, Roy, how you doing?' Cleo Morey's ordinarily quite posh voice was suddenly impish.
Involuntarily, Grace found himself flirting with her over the phone. 'Yes, OK. I'm impressed you're working on a Saturday afternoon.' 'The dead don't know what day of the week it is.' She hesitated. 'Don't 'spose the living care much, either. Most of them anyhow,' she added as an afterthought.
'Mosf of them?'
'Seems to me most living people don't really know what day of the week it is - they give the impression they do, but they don't really. Don't you think?'
'This is heavy philosophy for a wet Saturday afternoon,' Grace said.
'Well I'm doing my Open University degree in philosophy, so I've got to practise my arguments on someone - and I don't get much response from the lot in here.'
Grace grinned. 'So how are you?'
'OK.'
'You sound a bit - low.'
'Never felt better, Roy. I'm tired, that's all. Been here on my own all week - short-staffed - Doug's on holiday.'
'Those lads who were killed on Tuesday night - are they still in the mortuary?'
'They're here. And so is Josh Walker.'
The one who died afterwards, in hospital?'
