gyratory system, past a sign, in gold letters on a black ground, saying B RIGHTON AND H OVE C ITY M ORTUARY . ‘You ought to donate your rubbish music collection to it.’
‘Very funny.’
As if out of respect for the place, Branson leaned forward and turned down the volume of the Katie Melua CD that was playing.
‘And anyhow,’ Grace said defensively, ‘I like Katie Melua.’
Branson shrugged. Then he shrugged again.
‘What?’ Grace said.
‘You should let me buy your music for you.’
‘I’m very happy with my music.’
‘You were very happy with your clothes, until I showed you what a sad old git you looked in them. You were happy with your haircut too. Now you’ve started listening to me, you look ten years younger – and you’ve got a woman, right? She’s well fit, she is!’
Ahead, through wrought-iron gates attached to brick pillars, was a long, single-storey, bungalow-like structure with grey pebbledash rendering on the walls that seemed to suck all the warmth out of the air, even on this blistering summer’s day. There was a covered drive-in one side, deep enough to take an ambulance – or more often, the coroner’s dark green 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 The Last Emperor ?’
‘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 Desperate Housewives . And,’ he added, nodding towards the mortuary, ‘are you still – you know – she still yanking your chain?’
‘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
‘Very funny.’
As if out of respect for the place, Branson leaned forward and turned down the volume of the Katie Melua CD that was playing.
‘And anyhow,’ Grace said defensively, ‘I like Katie Melua.’
Branson shrugged. Then he shrugged again.
‘What?’ Grace said.
‘You should let me buy your music for you.’
‘I’m very happy with my music.’
‘You were very happy with your clothes, until I showed you what a sad old git you looked in them. You were happy with your haircut too. Now you’ve started listening to me, you look ten years younger – and you’ve got a woman, right? She’s well fit, she is!’
Ahead, through wrought-iron gates attached to brick pillars, was a long, single-storey, bungalow-like structure with grey pebbledash rendering on the walls that seemed to suck all the warmth out of the air, even on this blistering summer’s day. There was a covered drive-in one side, deep enough to take an ambulance – or more often, the coroner’s dark green 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 The Last Emperor ?’
‘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 Desperate Housewives . And,’ he added, nodding towards the mortuary, ‘are you still – you know – she still yanking your chain?’
‘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
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