Grace knelt and stroked his face. ‘Hey, fellow!’
Still jumping up and down with excitement, Humphrey licked his chin.
Cleo was curled up on one of the huge sofas, surrounded by paperwork and holding a book – no doubt one of the tomes on philosophy she was studying for her Open University degree.
‘Look, Humphrey!’ she said, with a puppy-dog squeal in her voice. ‘Detective Superintendent Roy Grace is home! Your master! Somebody’s pleased to see you, Roy!’
‘Only the dog?’ he said, in mock disappointment, standing up and walking across to her, with Humphrey tugging at his trouser legs.
‘He’s been a very good boy today!’
‘Well, that’s a first!’
‘But I’m even more pleased to see you than he is!’ she said, putting down the book, which was entitled Existentialism and Humanism and had several pages tagged with yellow Post-it notes.
Her hair was clipped up and she was wearing a thigh-length, loose-knit brown top and black leggings. For an instant he just stood and stared down at her in utter joy.
He felt the music soaring into his soul, he savoured the cooking smells again and he was overwhelmed by happiness, by a sense of belonging. A sense that he had finally, after so many nightmare years, arrived in a place – a place in his life – where he felt truly contented.
‘I love you,’ he said, lowering himself, putting his arms around her neck and kissing her longingly on the lips. He pulled back briefly and said, ‘Like, I really love you.’
Then they kissed again, for even longer.
When they finally broke away from each other she said, ‘Yeah, I quite like you too.’
‘You do?’
She screwed up her face in thought, looked very pensive for some moments, as if performing some massive mental calculation, then nodded. ‘Uh huh. Yep!’
‘I’m going to buy you a ring, this weekend.’
She looked at him, with her big round eyes, like an excited schoolgirl. Then she grinned and nodded.
‘Yes, I want a big, fuck-off bling thing, covered in rocks!’
‘I’ll buy you the biggest, most fuck-off bling thing in the world. If the Queen ever sees you, she’ll eat her heart out!’
‘Talking of eating, Detective Super, I’m cooking you stir-fried scallops.’
That was just his favourite dish. ‘You’re amazing.’
She raised a finger. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Never forget that!’
‘And so modest.’
‘That too.’
He glanced down at the tome beside her and read the author’s name. Jean-Paul Sartre.
‘Good book?’
‘Actually yes. I just read something he wrote that could apply to both of us – before we met.’
‘Uh huh?’
Cleo picked the book up and flicked back to one of the tagged pages.
‘Tell me.’
‘It was something about if someone is lonely when they are on their own, then they’re keeping bad company.’ She looked at him. ‘Yes?’
He nodded. ‘Very true. I was. I was in totally crap company!’
‘So,’ she said, ‘at what time does my darling fiancé want to eat?’
He pointed at his briefcase. ‘Somewhere this side of midnight?’
‘I’m feeling rather horny. I had in mind a bit of an early night…’
‘Half an hour?’
Pouting her lips seductively, she stopped at one of the tagged pages. ‘Did you read this passage, about satiating desires? Apparently if you refuse to satisfy them, then your soul can become infected.’ She put the book down. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t like me to have an infected soul, would you, Detective Superintendent?’
‘No, I really wouldn’t want you to have one of those at all.’
‘I’m glad we’re on the same page.’
Reluctantly dragging himself away from her, Roy lugged his bag up the wooden stairs and went into Cleo’s den, which he had now more or less seconded as his office-away-from-the-office. On the desk sat a City Books plastic carrier. Stuck to it was a Post-it note with his name scrawled on in Cleo’s writing. He removed a book with a picture of a racehorse on the cover. It was entitled Eclipse.
He remembered Cleo telling him her father was mad on horseracing and she was ordering a book for him to give as a present.
He put it carefully to one side, then from his bag he took out a wodge of papers, the first of which bore the Sussex Police shield and the wording, beneath, SUSSEX POLICE. HQ CID. MAJOR CRIME BRANCH. OPERATION NEPTUNE. LINES OF ENQUIRY. Next he took out his red ring-binder Strategy File, followed by his pale blue, A4-sized INVESTIGATOR’S NOTEBOOK, in which he had written up his notes from all the briefing meetings on Operation Neptune, including this evening’s.
Five minutes later, Cleo came silently into the room, kissed him on the back of his neck and placed a cocktail glass, filled to the brim with a vodka martini, on the desk beside him.
‘Kalashnikov,’ she said. ‘It will make you very fiery.’
‘I already am! How’s your soul?’ he whispered.
‘Fighting off infection.’ She kissed him again, in the same place, and went out.
‘This book, Eclipse - is it the one I’m giving to your father for Christmas?’ he called after her.
She came back in. ‘Yes. It will get you about a thousand brownie points with him. Eclipse was the most famous racehorse ever. He’ll think you’re very smart knowing that.’
‘You’d better brief me some more.’
She smiled. ‘Why not read the book?’
‘Duh!’ he said, slapping his forehead. ‘Hadn’t thought of that!’ He peered more closely at the cover, at the author’s name. ‘Nicholas Clee. Was he a famous jockey?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I have a feeling he was a tennis player originally, but I may be wrong.’ She went out again.
He read through his notes from the briefing, marking up significant new developments for his MSA, from which she would amend the Lines of Enquiry, prior to tomorrow morning’s briefing meeting.
They still had no suspect, he thought. Feedback from the United Kingdom Human Trafficking Centre was that there was no evidence of any persons being trafficked into the UK for their organs – something that had been confirmed, so far at any rate, from the HOLMES analyst’s scoping.
Trafficking of humans for organ transplantation was one of the major lines of enquiry on the list. But in the absence of any evidence that this practice had happened before in the UK, Grace was concerned not to throw all his resources into this one line, despite all the pointers to it.
It could simply be some kind of maniac killer.
Someone with surgical skills.
But then why would that person have just stopped with those four organs. The high-value ones?
What would Brother Occam have done? What is the most obvious explanation here? What would the great philosopher monk cut through with his razor?
Then Cleo cut through his thoughts. Dinner, she called up sweetly to him, was on the table.
74
Lynn heard the sound of music blasting out from the living room as she arrived home, shortly before nine. She slammed the door behind her against the icy wind and unwound the Cornelia James shawl she had bought on eBay – where she bought most of her accessories – a few weeks earlier.
Then, with her coat still on, she peered around the living-room door. Luke was lounging on the sofa, drinking a can of Diet Coke, his hair looking even more stupid than ever, most of it hanging in one big, gelled, lopsided spike over his right eye. But he did not look as stupid as the two slender girls dancing on the screen, in the pop video that was playing.
Clad only in black bras and briefs, wearing silver boxes on their heads, they were gyrating in jerky, mechanical movements to a hard, repetitive beat. Various phrases were stencilled in crude black letters on different parts of their arms, legs and midriffs. do it! make it! work harder! ever better!