‘And?’
There was a long silence. Just the hiss of static from the phone.
‘What’s the and?’ he asked.
Even more seductively, she said, ‘That’s for your imagination.’
‘Did you have anything particular in mind?’
‘Yes, lots… We have the whole of last night to catch up on as well as tonight. Think you can rise to the occasion, with your hangover and all?’
‘I think I could.’
‘Good. So, you give Humphrey a treat and I’ll give you one in exchange. Deal?’
‘Shall I bring some biscuits?’
‘For Humphrey?’
‘No, for you.’
‘Sod you, Grace.’
He grinned.
‘Oh, and one other thing – don’t get tooooo aroused. Humphrey likes chewing on hard things.’
75
He could have done with another Mars bar – he was starving – but Ricky didn’t want to risk leaving the car to buy one, in case he missed her. Christ, it was over half an hour since she had gone into the mobile phone shop – what was the bitch doing in there? No doubt dithering about which colour to buy.
The cab would be costing a bloody fortune! And whose money would she be using to pay for it?
His, of course.
Was she doing it deliberately to make him angry, knowing that he would be watching somewhere?
She would pay for this. Every which way. And then some.
She would scream apologies to him. Over and over and over. Before he was finished with her.
A shadow fell across his nearside window. Then he saw a traffic warden’s face peering in. He put down the window.
‘I’m picking up my mother,’ Ricky said. ‘She’s disabled – won’t be a few minutes.’
The warden, a lanky youth with a sullen face and his cap at a jaunty angle, was not impressed. ‘You’ve been here half an hour.’
‘She’s driving me nuts,’ Ricky said. ‘She’s suffering dementia – first stages.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Got to get her to the hospital. Just give me a couple more minutes.’
‘Five minutes,’ the warden said, and swaggered off. He then stopped by the car in front and began tapping out a ticket on his machine.
Ricky watched his altercation moments later with the returning owner, an irate-looking woman, and continued to watch his slow progress into the distance. He realized, with a shock, that another twenty minutes had passed.
Jesus, how long do you need to buy a fucking phone?
Another five minutes went by. Followed by another. Suddenly the taxi drove off and was swallowed by the traffic.
Ricky did a double-take. Had he missed her? Had the warden moved the taxi on?
He started the car and followed. Several vehicles in front, the taxi headed down to the sea, then turned right. Keeping his distance, staying several vehicles back, he followed the imbecilic, moronic, geriatric, dithering fool of a driver at a pace where he was likely to be overtaken by a tortoise. They went along the seafront, then up the winding hill into wide, open national park and farmland, and along towards the cliff-top beauty and favoured suicide spot of Beachy Head.
A double-decker bus was on his tail, pushing for him to speed up. ‘Come on, fuckwit!’ he shouted through the windscreen at the cab. ‘Put your fucking foot down!’
Still at the same speed, he passed the Beachy Head pub, following the winding road towards Birling Gap, then up through East Dean village. The agony continued through more open countryside, winding past the Seven Sisters and into Seaford. Then on, past the Newhaven ferry port, and up the hill into Peacehaven. A long-haired young man and a girl stood on a street corner in the distance waving and, to Ricky’s astonishment, the for hire light suddenly came on and the taxi pulled over.
He pulled over too and a line of traffic that had built up behind him shot past.
He watched the couple get into the back.
The taxi had been empty.
He’d been following an empty taxi.
Shit, shit, shit.
Oh, you little bitch, now you’ve really fucking done it.
76
A scarlet-haired bimbo dressed in skimpy purple, with legs up to her neck and massive boobs spilling out of her bra, winked at Roy Grace.
He took hold of the card and, as the angle changed, the other eye winked at him. He grinned and opened it. A cheesy voice, which was a bad imitation of some female vocalist he could not immediately place, began singing ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘This is wonderful!’ he said. ‘Who did you say it was for?’
With her tall, leggy good looks, DC Esther Mitchell was, no contest, currently the best-looking detective in the whole of Sussex House. She was also one of the cheeriest.
‘It’s for DI Willis,’ she said breezily. ‘His fortieth.’
Grace grinned. Baz Willis, an overweight slug who should never, in anyone’s opinion, have been promoted to the rank of Detective Inspector, was a renowned groper. The card was therefore eminently fitting. He found a space between the dozen or so other signatures, scrawled his name on it and handed it back to her.
‘He’s having a party. Open bar at the Black Lion tonight.’
Grace grimaced. The Black Lion in Patcham, Sussex House’s local, was one of his least favourite pubs and the thought of two consecutive nights there was more than his constitution could handle – besides he had a far, far better offer.
‘Thanks, I’ll swing by if I can,’ he said.
‘Someone’s organizing a minibus – if you want to book on that-’
‘No, thanks,’ he said, and shot a glance at his watch. He needed to leave in five minutes, to get sodding little Humphrey to his dog-training class. Then he gave her a smile. She had a nice energy about her and had managed to make herself popular – and not just for her looks – in the short while she had been here.
‘Oh, and Detective Superintendent Pewe asked me to check with you about travel arrangements for Australia.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry – I’ve been seconded to work with him, along with DC Robinson, on his cold-case files.’
‘Did you say Australia?’
‘Yes, he wanted me to ask you which airlines Sussex Police has business-class deals with.’
‘Business-class deals?’ he said. ‘Where does he think he is? A law firm?’
She grinned, looking embarrassed. ‘I – er – I assumed you knew about this.’
‘I’m just dashing out,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll stop by his office.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Thanks, Esther.’
She gave him a look as she left his office. It was an I-don’t-like-him-either acknowledgement.
Five minutes later, Grace entered his old office with its crappy view of the custody block. Cassian Pewe was sitting there, in his shirtsleeves, making what was clearly a personal call. Grace didn’t give a toss about his privacy. He pulled one of the four chairs away from the tiny, round conference table and plonked it directly in front of Pewe’s desk, then sat down.
‘I’ll call you back, my angel,’ Pewe said, looking warily at Grace’s glowering face. He hung up and beamed. ‘Roy! Good to see you!’
Grace cut to the chase. ‘What’s this about Australia?’
‘Ah, I was just going to come and tell you. There’s something I’m looking into today for the Victoria police in Melbourne – well, the Melbourne area – that I’ve just learned has a connection to your Operation Dingo. Bit of a coincidence, the name, Dingo – that’s an Australian wild dog, isn’t it?’
‘What connection? And what are you doing getting a DC