learned a long time ago in police work never to take anything at face value; turn over every stone, open every door, always think out of the box. It was important to consider Michael Harrison as an active participant in his disappearance, as much as a passive one. Despite the corpse that should already be at the mortuary by now.
'I'm not sure,' he answered.
'What happens if you don't ever find Michael?'
It was an innocent question, but it hit home with his emotions. 'I think we will find him.' He didn't want to say anything about the corpse.
'But what happens if you don't?' she persisted. 'How long will you keep looking?'
He smiled sadly at her innocence. She'd been born a year after Sandy had disappeared and had no idea of the poignancy of her questions. 'For as long as it takes.'
'That could be a long time, if he's hidden really well. Couldn't it?'
'It's possible.'
'So that means we might not get to see a giraffe for years and years?'
After he had finished his conversation with her, he immediately dialled Emma-Jane Boutwood in the Incident Room. 'What did you find out about the earring?'
'Michael Harrison used to wear one all the time - a small gold
ring, until his fiancee stopped him. But it's possible he was wearing it for his night out.'
Not good news, Grace thought. 'OK. Mobile phones. We should have the mobile phone numbers of Mark Warren and Ashley Harper on file by now - I want you to get on to the companies and get copies of their logs from - ' he thought for a moment, ' - last Saturday.'
'I might not get much joy until tomorrow, sir. I've had problems getting anything out of phone companies at weekends before.'
'Do your best.'
'Yes, sir.'
Ten minutes later, for the second time this weekend, Grace drove up to the long, low building that housed the Brighton and Have City Mortuary. The bright May sunlight made no impact on its grim exterior, as if the grey pebbledash walls were there to ward off any therms of warmth that might dare try to enter. Only cold corpses and even colder souls were permitted inside.
Cleo Morey excepted.
He hoped she was on duty again today. Very much hoped, as he walked over to the entrance and rang the bell. Moments later, to his delight, Cleo opened the door. Dressed as usual in her uniform of green gown, green apron and white boots - the only kit he had ever seen her in - she greeted him with a bright smile, seeming genuinely pleased to see him.
And for a moment he stood, tongue-tied, like a kid on his first date with a girl he knows in his heart is out of his league. 'Hi!' he said, and then added, 'We can't go on meeting like this.'
'I prefer you walking in, than to have you come in feet first,' she said.
He shook his head, grinning. 'Thanks a lot.'
She ushered him in to her tiny office with its pink walls. 'Can I offer you some tea? Coffee? A cold drink?'
'Can you do a full Cornish cream tea?'
'Sure - scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream?'
'And toasted tea cakes?'
'Of course.' She tossed her blonde hair back, her eyes never leaving his, very definitely flirting with him. 'So, this is your idea of a relaxing Sunday afternoon?'
'Absolutely. Doesn't everyone take a Sunday afternoon drive out into the country?'
'They do,' she said, switching on the kettle. 'But most people go to enjoy the flowers and the wildlife - not to look at corpses.'
'Really?' he feigned. 'I knew there was something wrong with my life.'
'Mine too.'
There was a silence between them. An opportunity, he knew. The kettle made a faint hissing sound. He saw a trickle of steam from the plastic spout. 'You told me you weren't married - have you ever been?' he asked. 'Do you have a family?'
She turned to look at him, resting her eyes on his, a warm, friendly, relaxed gaze. 'You mean do I have an ex-husband, twopointtwo children, a dog and a hamster?'
'That sort of thing.' Grace smiled at her, his collywobbles gone, feeling comfortable with her. Extremely comfortable.
'I have a goldfish,' she said. 'Does that count as family?'
'You do? Me too.'
'What's she called.'
'It's he. Marlon.'
She burst out laughing. 'That's an absurd name for a goldfish.'
