‘Bruno? Bruno is great with him. Don’t start thinking bad of him. It’s one of his positive traits.’
‘All I’m saying is we’ll need to keep a very close eye on the dog when he’s with Noah and the new arrival. If he shows any aggression—’ Cleo held back from saying something she might regret.
‘Hey, come on, darling, you’re always telling people a dog is not just for Christmas, it’s for life. We’ll watch him and, if we need to, we can separate them. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ she said, flatly.
‘I hear what you’re saying, OK. Come on, let’s not get annoyed about something that hasn’t even happened! I’ll be all over Humphrey, watching him like a hawk, and he won’t do anything to any of the children. I promise. Remember, I’m a detective, so you have to believe me!’ he said, trying to lighten up the conversation a little.
‘Good. OK, detective, how was the rest of your day?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been going through the paperwork for Dr Crisp’s trial with Glenn and our legal team.’
‘Slippery Dr Crisp. Who nearly blew your leg off. But it’s not personal, is it, for you?’
He grinned. ‘Personal, moi? A nice kind family doctor who has a penchant for raping and killing young women and who shot me in the leg with a twelve-bore, so I’m still limping a little eighteen months on — why should it be personal?’ He grinned again. ‘He was just doing his job and I was doing mine.’
Cleo gave him a strange look, as if unsure for an instant whether he was joking or not.
‘The bastard is scheming to escape, I know it, and I want extra security — hospitals are easy for a man of Crisp’s ingenuity, but idiot Pewe won’t hear of it. He refuses to liaise with the Met Police on this, because of costs coming back to us. Can you believe it?’
‘How did Pewe ever get to be where he is?’ she asked. ‘Who on earth promoted him in the first place?’
‘The Peter Principle,’ Grace replied.
‘The what?’
‘A guy back in the 1960s — I think he was a sociologist called Peter something — came up with the theory that in every organization, sooner or later people get promoted to the level of their incompetence.’
‘That fits,’ she replied. ‘Guess you’d better make sure you don’t get promoted again.’ She grinned.
‘Thanks a lot!’ He gave her a friendly punch on the shoulder then shook his head. ‘The problem with Pewe is no one ever knows where they are with him. I’m only just back from the Met and I’ve seen him a couple of times and he’s been fine, almost friendly. In fact, he’s going to support my application for the Chief Superintendent process in Sussex. But this Crisp business is taking him back to his old self.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, I’m almost wishing that he would bloody escape, just to piss off Pewe!’
His job phone rang, interrupting him. It was Norman Potting.
Roy Grace got his wish. Crisp had escaped.
66
Thursday 16 May
7.30 p.m. and it felt as hot as mid-afternoon in the still air. Dozens of people were on the beach, soaking up the last of the day’s rays, and the tide was far out, exposing a vast area of mud. Closer in, just beyond the pebbles, two toddlers in sun hats, under the scrutiny of their parents, were busy digging with their plastic spades, creating a lopsided castle. A detectorist in a combat jacket and safari hat worked his way across the expanse, sweeping his scanner in arcs, occasionally stopping and digging with his trowel, and a short distance beyond the lazy surf, a paddleboarder moved serenely along. There was a tempting smell of barbecuing wafting in the air.
Alison and Meg found a quiet spot by a breakwater and settled down. Alison was someone who always seemed to Meg to be happy in her skin. She had a good marriage with Archie, a gentle giant of a man, a former bodybuilder who owned a couple of small health clubs in the city, and whom Meg liked a lot. Alison was a partner in a local advertising agency, a job she enjoyed, and she had the knack of always dressing appropriately for any occasion. This evening she wore a baseball cap over her long brown hair, fashionably large Dior sunnies, a short, floral smock and diamanté-studded sandals. She dug into her beach bag, produced a bottle of wine in a cool bag, a corkscrew and two large glasses.
‘I’ve got a spare in here, in case,’ she said, tapping the bag with a smile. She worked the cork out, then filled both glasses halfway and handed Meg one. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers.’ Meg was wearing a large straw hat and one of Nick’s shirts over a bikini, in case for some mad reason they went in for a swim, and flip-flops.
They clinked glasses and each sipped a little.
‘Right,’ Alison said. ‘So, talk to me.’
Further out to sea a jet-ski rasped along, trailed by a plume of spray. Meg sat in silence, staring at her glass, turning it round in her hands. She’d left the phone behind, deliberately, despite what they had told her, in case there was a listening device of some kind implanted in it by the bastards. She looked around, warily. Had anyone followed her here? Was anyone in earshot? The nearest people were two young canoodling lovers, a good fifty yards away. She took another sip; it tasted good, cold and crisp. Then another for courage.
‘God, Ali,’ she said, leaning forward and peering down into her glass again. Thinking. She’d recently watched an episode of an American spy drama where someone had used a directional mic to pick up a conversation hundreds of yards away. And another episode of the same series where two operatives held a conversation in a hotel washroom, where they ran a tap to muffle the sound and prevent any eavesdropping. ‘Want to go and paddle in the surf?’ she said.
Alison looked surprised. ‘OK, sure.’
‘We can take our glasses!’
Alison topped them both up. They walked across to the edge of the pebbles, kicked off their shoes and headed out towards the water, Meg enjoying the cooling sensation of the moist muddy sand. Making the pace, she led them knee-high into the icy surf then stopped and clinked glasses with her friend again. ‘Thanks for coming, Ali.’
They stood in silence for some moments. Meg watched the tall structures of the wind farm some way out to sea, then turned back, looking at the shore.
‘So, Megs, what is it, what’s going on?’
‘This may sound crazy, but I’m scared to tell you.’
Alison frowned. ‘What do you mean? Scared to tell me what?’
Meg desperately wanted to check across the beach and beyond, to see if she could spot the glint of binocular lenses. But that would be a giveaway, she thought. ‘I don’t want to put you in danger,’ she said, quietly, barely above a whisper.
‘Danger?’
‘Oh God, Ali, I’m living a nightmare. I went to hell and back after Nick and Will died and now I’m back in hell again.’
‘What do you mean? What is it, what on earth has happened?’
‘I’m scared to tell you. They — he — said they would kill anyone I told.’
‘I can look after myself, and anyhow, I’ve got Archie to protect me too, Megs. He’s been a bouncer and a bodyguard and in his teens he was once a bare-knuckle cage fighter — if you need someone sorting out, he’ll do it!’
Meg smiled and shook her head. ‘Thanks, but these people — I just have a feeling they are seriously dangerous. I don’t think their threats are idle.’
‘What people? Who are you talking about? Please tell me.’
‘Alison, listen to me carefully.’ Meg made and held eye contact with her, speaking quietly. ‘I’m being watched.’
‘What?’
‘Ssshhhh, I’m serious, don’t react. Mine and Laura’s lives depend on this. When I tell you what I’m about to, act as if we are just chatting normally, try not to give anything away with your body language, and don’t look around. It’s really, really important, OK?’