Not Dead Enough

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. For driving too slowly. Can you believe that?’

‘Me, believe that?’

‘Jesus, you hack me off. You’re always the same. Every time I ask you a question you answer with a question. Can’t you ever stop being a bloody detective?’

Grace smiled.

‘It’s not funny. Yeah? I asked you a simple question, can you believe I got failed for driving too slowly?’

‘Nah.’ And he really could not! Grace remembered the last time Glenn had driven him, when his friend had been practising his high-speed driving for his test. When Grace had climbed out of the car with all his limbs intact – more by luck than by anything to do with driving skills – he had decided he would prefer to have his gall bladder removed without an anaesthetic than be driven in earnest by Glenn Branson again.

‘For real, man,’ Branson said.

‘Good to know there are still some sane people in the world.’

‘Know your problem, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace?’

‘Which particular problem?’

‘The one you have about my driving?’

‘Tell me.’

‘No faith.’

‘In you or in God?’

‘God stopped that bullet from doing serious harm to me.’

‘You really believe that, don’t you?’

‘You have a better theory?’

Grace fell silent, thinking. He always found it easier to park his God questions safely away and to think about them only when it suited him. He wasn’t an atheist, not even really an agnostic. He did believe in something – or at least he wanted to believe in something – but he could never define exactly what. He always fell short of being able to openly accept the concept of God. And then immediately after that he would feel guilty. But ever since Sandy had disappeared, and all his prayers had gone unanswered, much of his faith had eroded.

Shit happened.

As a policeman, a big part of his duty was to establish the truth. The facts. Like all his fellow officers, his beliefs were his own affair. He watched Brian Bishop, on the other side of the window. The man was totally grief-stricken.

Or putting on a great act.

He would soon know which.

Except, wrong though it was, because it was personal, Sandy had priority in his mind right now.

24

Skunk was tempted to call his dealer’s mobile on the phone he had stolen, because credit on his own one had just run out, but he decided it wasn’t worth risking the man’s wrath. Or worse, getting ditched as a customer, tight bastard though his dealer was. The man would not be impressed to have his number on the call list of a hot mobile – particularly one he would be selling on.

So he stepped into a payphone in front of a grimy Regency terrace on The Level and let the door swing shut against the din of the Friday afternoon traffic. It felt like an oven door closing on him, the heat was almost unbearable. He dialled, holding the door open with his foot. After two rings, the phone was answered with a curt, ‘Yeah?’

‘Wayne Rooney,’ Skunk said, giving him the password they had agreed last time. It changed each time they met.

The man spoke in an east London accent. ‘Yeah, all right then, your usual? Brown you want? Ten-pound bag or twenty?’

‘Twenty.’

‘What you got? Cash?’

‘A Motorola Razor. T-Mobile.’

‘Up to my neck in ’em. Can only give you ten for that.’

‘Fuck you, man, I’m looking for thirty.’

‘Can’t help you then, mate. Sorry. Bye.’