daylights out of me.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Branson said. ‘That’s rich coming from you – your driving is rubbish. You drive like a girl. No, actually, you don’t. You drive like an old git – which is what you are!’
‘And you recently failed your Advanced Police Driving test!’
‘The examiner was an idiot. My instructor said I had
‘He should be sectioned under the Mental Health Act.’
‘Wanker!’
Grace tossed him the keys as they approached the unmarked Mondeo. ‘Just don’t try to impress me.’
‘Did you see
‘He’s got the most stupid name for an actor.’
‘Yeah? Well, he doesn’t think much of yours either.’
Grace wasn’t sure what sudden mental aberration had prompted him to give his friend the keys. Maybe he was hoping that if Glenn was concentrating on driving, he’d be spared an endless discussion – or more likely monologue – about all that was wrong with his marriage, yet again. He’d endured three hours of his friend’s soul-searching last night, after they’d got back home following the interview with Bishop. The bottle of Glenfiddich, which they had demolished between them, had only partially mitigated the pain. Then he’d had to listen to Glenn again this morning while getting shaved and dressed, and then over his breakfast cereal, with the added negative of a mild hangover.
To his relief, Branson drove sensibly, apart from one downhill stretch, near Handcross, where he wound the car up to 130 mph especially so he could give Grace the benefit of his cornering skills through two, sharp, uphill bends. ‘It’s all about positioning on the road and balancing the throttle, old-timer,’ he said.
From where Grace was sitting, stomach in his mouth, it was more about not flying off into the seriously sturdy-looking trees that lined both bends. Then they reached the M23 motorway and Grace’s repeating of his warning about speed traps, and traffic cops who loved nothing better than to book other officers, had some effect.
So Branson slowed down, and instead tried to phone home on his hands-free mobile.
‘Bitch!’ he said. ‘She’s not picking up. I’ve got a right to speak to my kids, haven’t I?’
‘You’ve got a right to be in your house,’ Grace reminded him.
‘Maybe you could tell her that. Like – you know – give her the official police point of view.’
Grace shook his head. ‘I’ll help you all I can, but I can’t fight your battle for you.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. It was wrong of me to ask. I’m sorry.’
‘What happened about the horse?’
‘Yeah, she was on about it again when we spoke. She’s decided she wants to try show-jumping. That’s serious money.’
Grace decided, privately, that she needed to see a psychologist. ‘I think you guys should go to Relate,’ he said.
‘You already said that.’
‘I did?’
‘About two o’clock this morning. And the day before. You’re repeating yourself, old-timer. Alzheimer’s kicking in.’
‘You know your problem?’ Grace said.
‘Apart from being black? Bald? From an underprivileged background?’
‘Yep, apart from all that.’
‘No, tell me.’
‘Lack of respect for your peers.’
Branson took one of his hands from the wheel and raised it. ‘Respect!’ he said deferentially.
‘That’s better.’
Shortly after nine, Branson parked the Mondeo on a single yellow line in Arlington Street, just past the Ritz Hotel and opposite the Caprice restaurant.
‘Nice wheels,’ he said, as they walked up the hill, passing a parked Ferrari. ‘You ought to get yourself a set of those. Better than that crappy Alfa you pootle around in. Be good for your image.’
‘There’s a small matter of a hundred grand or so separating me from one,’ Grace said. ‘And lumbered with you on my team, my chances of a pay rise of that magnitude are somewhat reduced.’
At the top of the street they rounded the corner into Piccadilly. Immediately on their right they saw a handsome, imposing building, in black and gold paintwork. Its massive, arched windows were brightly illuminated, and the interior seemed humming with people. A smart sign on the wall said
