produce such a hideous sound.
He raised a finger to his lips, then leaned down and kissed her, pressing his own lips hard against hers, forming a seal. At the same time he pinched her nostrils tightly closed with his surgically gloved hand. He kept his lips to hers as she struggled, sucking, sucking, sucking the very last breath from her, feeling the water rising up against his face, still sucking. Then he released her nostrils, let go of her lips and stood up. He watched the bubbles rising. Not many at all.
Heâd taken that very last breath from her.
Now he possessed her. Forever.
Soon, while she was still warm, he would make love to her.
She could never reject him!
Â
18
Friday 12 December
Logan Somerville was still missing in the morning, and that knowledge weighed heavily on Roy Grace, who had come straight from a briefing of his team in the Incident Room at Sussex House.
The rain had stopped during the night and the patches of sky in the gaps between the swift-moving clouds above Hove Lagoon were a stark, cold blue. There was an inner and outer cordon marked off by blue and white crime scene tape, each cordon protected by a PCSO scene guard. A knot of onlookers stood just beyond the outer cordon, several of them taking photos with their phones. Inside the inner cordon, there were now four blue CSI tents rippling and crackling in the strong, salty wind coming in straight off the Channel, the guy ropes tugging at their pegs.
It looked like an entire army of people had moved in since he and Branson had been here last night, Grace thought. The Surrey and Sussex Police helicopter, NPAS 15, hovered overhead, taking photographs to map the scene, and added to the feel of a military operation. A cluster of cars and vans and a small mechanical digger were parked nearby. There was a marked police car, the Major Incident van, another van belonging to the construction company and several private cars. One of these, a yellow Saab convertible, Roy Grace recognized to his relief as belonging to Home Office pathologist Nadiuska De Sancha.
Out of the two specialist pathologists covering this area, who could be called in to investigate suspected homicides, all the SIOs in Surrey and Sussex much preferred the pleasant, easy-going Nadiuska to the pedantic and arrogant Dr. Frazer Theobald. De Sancha was popular because not only was she good at her job, she was a fast worker and good-natured with it.
A CSI scene sketcher was making a detailed plan of the entire site, and another CSI, like all the others wearing a disposable scene suit, gloves, face mask, hairnet and over-shoe protectors, was scanning the area immediately around the scene with ground-penetrating radar, searching for any other bodies that might also be here.
Several workmen in hi-viz jackets were hanging around close to the construction company van, some drinking tea or coffee and one struggling with the flapping pages of the Sun newspaper. A Crime Scene Photographer, James Gartrell, whom Grace had worked with many times, was busy taking photographs of the whole scene, and making a digital recording of the events.
Grace glanced at his watch as he strode with Glenn Branson through the onlookers beyond the outer cordon, toward the uniformed PCSO scene guard who was rubbing her hands against the cold. Several gulls bobbed like marker buoys on the near lagoon, and on the far pond a windsurfer in a wetsuit, under tuition, wobbled on his board, bent over, struggling to bring the sail up out of the water. As they reached the PCSO and signed in, Grace heard a female voice call out behind him. âDetective Superintendent!â
The two detectives turned to see a young, attractive fair-haired woman, in a bright red mackintosh, hurrying toward them. Siobhan Sheldrake, a recent addition to the Argus newspaper reporting team, and a replacement for their previous Crime Reporter, Kevin Spinella, who had been the bane of Graceâs life.
The relationship with the
He raised a finger to his lips, then leaned down and kissed her, pressing his own lips hard against hers, forming a seal. At the same time he pinched her nostrils tightly closed with his surgically gloved hand. He kept his lips to hers as she struggled, sucking, sucking, sucking the very last breath from her, feeling the water rising up against his face, still sucking. Then he released her nostrils, let go of her lips and stood up. He watched the bubbles rising. Not many at all.
Heâd taken that very last breath from her.
Now he possessed her. Forever.
Soon, while she was still warm, he would make love to her.
She could never reject him!
Â
18
Friday 12 December
Logan Somerville was still missing in the morning, and that knowledge weighed heavily on Roy Grace, who had come straight from a briefing of his team in the Incident Room at Sussex House.
The rain had stopped during the night and the patches of sky in the gaps between the swift-moving clouds above Hove Lagoon were a stark, cold blue. There was an inner and outer cordon marked off by blue and white crime scene tape, each cordon protected by a PCSO scene guard. A knot of onlookers stood just beyond the outer cordon, several of them taking photos with their phones. Inside the inner cordon, there were now four blue CSI tents rippling and crackling in the strong, salty wind coming in straight off the Channel, the guy ropes tugging at their pegs.
It looked like an entire army of people had moved in since he and Branson had been here last night, Grace thought. The Surrey and Sussex Police helicopter, NPAS 15, hovered overhead, taking photographs to map the scene, and added to the feel of a military operation. A cluster of cars and vans and a small mechanical digger were parked nearby. There was a marked police car, the Major Incident van, another van belonging to the construction company and several private cars. One of these, a yellow Saab convertible, Roy Grace recognized to his relief as belonging to Home Office pathologist Nadiuska De Sancha.
Out of the two specialist pathologists covering this area, who could be called in to investigate suspected homicides, all the SIOs in Surrey and Sussex much preferred the pleasant, easy-going Nadiuska to the pedantic and arrogant Dr. Frazer Theobald. De Sancha was popular because not only was she good at her job, she was a fast worker and good-natured with it.
A CSI scene sketcher was making a detailed plan of the entire site, and another CSI, like all the others wearing a disposable scene suit, gloves, face mask, hairnet and over-shoe protectors, was scanning the area immediately around the scene with ground-penetrating radar, searching for any other bodies that might also be here.
Several workmen in hi-viz jackets were hanging around close to the construction company van, some drinking tea or coffee and one struggling with the flapping pages of the Sun newspaper. A Crime Scene Photographer, James Gartrell, whom Grace had worked with many times, was busy taking photographs of the whole scene, and making a digital recording of the events.
Grace glanced at his watch as he strode with Glenn Branson through the onlookers beyond the outer cordon, toward the uniformed PCSO scene guard who was rubbing her hands against the cold. Several gulls bobbed like marker buoys on the near lagoon, and on the far pond a windsurfer in a wetsuit, under tuition, wobbled on his board, bent over, struggling to bring the sail up out of the water. As they reached the PCSO and signed in, Grace heard a female voice call out behind him. âDetective Superintendent!â
The two detectives turned to see a young, attractive fair-haired woman, in a bright red mackintosh, hurrying toward them. Siobhan Sheldrake, a recent addition to the Argus newspaper reporting team, and a replacement for their previous Crime Reporter, Kevin Spinella, who had been the bane of Graceâs life.
The relationship with the
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