Not Dead Enough

‘Hi!’ she said breezily. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, relieved beyond belief at hearing her voice.

‘Me? Fine! I’ve got a glass of wine in my hand and I’m about to dive into my bath!’ she said sleepily. ‘How are you?’

‘I’ve been worried out of my wits.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Jesus! You said there was someone outside the mortuary! You were going to call me straight back! I was – I thought—’

‘Just a couple of drunks,’ she said. ‘They were looking for Wood-vale Cemetery – mumbling about going to pay their respects to their mother.’

‘Don’t do this to me!’ he said.

‘Do what?’ she asked, all innocence.

He shook his head, smiling in relief. ‘I have to get back.’

‘Of course you do. You’re an important detective, on a big case.’

‘Now you’re taking the piss.’

‘Already had one of those, when I got home. Now I’m going to have my bath. Night-night!’

He walked back into the observation room, smiling, exasperated and relieved. ‘Have I missed anything?’ he asked Jane Paxton.

She shook her head. ‘DS Branson’s good,’ she said.

‘Tell him that later. He needs a boost. His ego’s on the floor.’

‘What is it with you men and ego?’ she asked him.

Grace looked at her head, poking out of her tent of a blouse, her double chin and her flat-ironed hair, and then at the wedding band and solitaire ring on her podgy finger. ‘Doesn’t your husband have an ego?’

‘He wouldn’t bloody dare.’

91

The Time Billionaire knew all about happy pills. But he had never taken one. No need. Hey, who needed happy pills when you could come home on a Monday night to find the postman had delivered to your doormat the workshop manual for a 2005 MG TF sports car that you had ordered on Saturday?

It was the last year that this model was manufactured before MG ceased production and were bought up by a Chinese company. It was the model that Cleo Morey drove. Navy blue. Now fitted with its matching blue hardtop, despite the blistering hot weather, because some jerk had vandalized the soft-top roof with a knife. What a son of a bitch! What a creep! What a goddamn piece of lowlife shit!

And it was Tuesday morning! One of the days that the stupid, grumpy cleaning woman with the ungrateful daughter didn’t come! She had told him that herself, yesterday.

Best of all, Brian Bishop had been arrested. It was the front-page splash of the morning edition of the Argus. It was on the local radio! It would be on the local television news, for sure. Maybe even the national news! Joy! What goes around comes around! Like the wheels of a car! Cleo Morey’s car!

Cleo Morey had the top of the range, the TF 160, with its variable valve controlled engine. He listened to it now, 1.8 litres revving up sweetly in the cool, early-morning air. Eight o’clock. She worked long hours, had to credit her that.

Now she was pulling out of her parking space, driving up the street, holding first gear too long, but maybe she was enjoying the echoing blatter of the exhaust.

Getting in through the front gates of the courtyard development where Cleo Morey lived was a no-brainer. Just four numbers on a touch pad. He’d picked those up easily enough by watching other residents returning home through his binoculars, from the comfort of his car.

The courtyard was empty. If any nosy neighbour was peeking from behind their blinds, they would have seen the same neatly dressed man with his clipboard, the Seeboard crest on his jacket pocket, as yesterday and assumed he had come to recheck the gas meter. Or something.

His freshly cut key turned sweetly in the lock. Thanks to God’s help! He stepped inside, into the large, open- plan downstairs area, and shut the door behind him. The silence smelled of furniture polish and freshly ground coffee beans. He heard the faint hum of a fridge.

He looked around, taking everything in, which he had not had the time to do yesterday, not with the grumpy woman on his back. He saw cream