van. On the other side, several cars were parked alongside a wall, including the yellow Saab, with its roof down, belonging to Nadiuska De Sancha and, of much more significance to Roy Grace, a small blue MG sports car, which meant that Cleo Morey was on duty today.
And despite all the horror that lay ahead, he felt a sense of elation. Wholly inappropriate, he knew, but he just could not help it.
For years, he had hated coming to this place. It was one of the rites of passage of becoming a police officer that you had to attend a post-mortem early in your training. But now the mortuary had a whole different significance to him. Turning to Branson, smiling, he retorted, ‘What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.’
‘What?’ Branson responded flatly.
‘Chuang Tse,’ he said brightly, trying to share his joy with his companion, trying to cheer the poor man up.
‘Who?’
‘A Chinese philosopher. Died in 275 bc.’ He didn’t reveal who had taught him this.
‘And he’s in the mortuary, is he?’
‘You’re a bloody philistine, aren’t you?’ Grace pulled the car up into a space and switched the engine off.
Perking just a little, again, Branson retorted, ‘Oh yeah? And since when did you get into philosophy, old- timer?’
References to Grace’s age always stung. He had just celebrated – if that was the right word – his thirty-ninth birthday, and did not like the idea that next year was going to be the big four-zero.
‘Very funny.’
‘Ever see that movie
‘Don’t remember it.’
‘Yeah, well, you wouldn’t,’ Glenn said sarcastically. ‘It only won nine Oscars. Well brilliant. You should get it out on DVD – except you’re probably too busy catching up on past episodes of
‘None of your damn business!’
Although in reality it was Branson’s business, it was everyone’s business, because at this moment it was causing Grace’s focus to be elsewhere, in totally the wrong place from where it should have been. Fighting his urge to get out of the car and into the mortuary, to see Cleo, and changing the subject rapidly back to the business of the day, he said, ‘So – what do you think? Did he kill her?’
‘He didn’t ask for a lawyer,’ Branson replied.
‘You’re learning,’ Grace said, genuinely pleased.
It was a fact that the majority of criminals, when apprehended, submitted quietly. The ones that protested loudly often turned out to be innocent – of that particular crime, at any rate.
‘But did he kill his wife? I dunno, I can’t call it,’ Branson added.
‘Me neither.’
‘What did his eyes tell you?’
‘I need to get him in a calmer situation. What was his reaction when you told him the news?’
‘He was devastated. It looked real enough.’
‘Successful businessman, right?’ They were in the shade here, alongside a flint wall, by a tall laurel bush. Air wafted in through the open sun-roof and windows. A tiny spider suddenly abseiled down its own thread from the interior mirror.
‘Yeah. Software systems of some kind,’ Branson said.
‘You know the best character trait to become a successful businessman?’
‘Whatever it is, I wasn’t born with it.’
‘It’s being a sociopath. Having no conscience, as ordinary people know it.’
Branson pressed the button, lowering his window further. ‘A sociopath is a psychopath, right?’ He cupped the spider in the massive palm of his hand and gently dropped it out of the window.
‘Same characteristics, one significant difference: sociopaths can keep themselves under control, psychopaths can’t.’
‘So,’ Branson said. ‘Bishop is a successful businessman, ergo he must be a sociopath, ergo he killed his wife. Bingo! Case closed. Let’s go and arrest him?’
Grace grinned. ‘Some drug dealers are tall, black, with shaven heads. You are tall, black, with a shaven head. Ergo you must be a drug dealer.’
