Not Dead Enough

Grace looked at Jane Paxton. She was nodding in agreement.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Good plan.’

His internal phone rang. He stepped away from the table and over to his desk to answer it. ‘Roy Grace?’ He listened for some moments, then said, ‘Fine. OK. Thanks. We’ll be ready.’

He replaced the phone and joined them back at the round table. ‘Bishop’s solicitor will be here at half past nine.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Forty-five minutes.’

‘Who is it?’ Jane Paxton asked.

‘Leighton Lloyd.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Branson shrugged. ‘Who else?’

They turned their focus on exactly what Lloyd would be told and what at this stage would be held back from him. Then the four of them left the building and walked briskly to the ASDA supermarket, taking a short cut through the bushes at the back, to grab a quick sandwich for their evening meal.

Ten minutes later they crossed back over the road. Branson and Nicholl walked through the side gate and up towards the custody block. Inside, they were taken to an interview room, where they would outline to Bishop’s solicitor the background, and why Bishop had been arrested, without Bishop present. Then he would be brought into the room, too, for an interview.

Jane Paxton and Grace went back to their respective offices, Grace intending to use the next half-hour to catch up on some emails. He sat at his desk and rang Cleo, and discovered she was still at work at the mortuary.

‘Hi, you!’ she said, sounding pleased to hear from him.

‘How are you?’ he said.

‘I’m shattered. But it’s nice that you rang.’

‘I like your voice when you’re tired. It goes sort of croaky – it’s sweet!’

‘You wouldn’t think that if you saw me. I feel about a hundred. And you? What’s happening?’

He filled her in briefly, telling her he wouldn’t be finished until around midnight, and asked if she’d like him to come over then.

‘I would love to see you, my darling, but as soon as I’m out of here I’m going to fall into a bath and then crash. Why don’t you come over tomorrow?’

‘Sounds like a plan!’

‘Are you eating properly?’ she asked, motherly suddenly. ‘Have you had some dinner?’

‘Sort of,’ he said evasively.

‘An ASDA pot noodle?’

‘A sandwich,’ he confessed.

‘That’s not healthy! What kind of a sandwich?’

‘Beef.’

‘God, Roy. Fatty meat and carbohydrate!’

‘It had a lettuce leaf in it.’

‘Oh, well, that’s all right then,’ she said sarcastically. Then her voice changed. ‘Can you hang on a sec? There’s someone outside the building.’ She sounded worried.

‘Who’s there with you?’

‘No one, I’m on my own. Poor Darren and Walter came in at four this morning. I sent them home a little while ago. I’m just going to check this out, OK? Call you back in a sec.’

The phone went dead.

86

I received a letter this morning from someone called Lawrence Abramson at a firm of solicitors in London called Harbottle and Lewis. It is a really unpleasant letter.

I recently wrote to the man who looks just like me, who started this company, suggesting that, as it was my idea – and I have all the paperwork from my patent agent, Mr Christopher Pett at Frank B. Dehn & Son, to prove it – he should be paying me a royalty on his revenues.

Mr Abramson is threatening to obtain an injunction against me if I ever approach his client again.

I’m really very angry.