by Peter James
He entered a large foyer, and saw a sign, INFORMATION, above two smartly dressed women at a modern reception desk, backlit in orange. He gave his name, and was directed to a row of chairs to wait. He looked around, in vain, for a water dispenser or a hot drinks machine, then sat down, his nerves shot to hell and back.
After a few minutes, a plump, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length fair hair and glasses, dressed in a black trouser suit and trainers, greeted him very formally. She gave him her name but he didn’t catch it.
‘Please come with me.’
He followed her down a long corridor, passing beneath an illuminated gantry of signs and direction arrows, then on past a glassed-in café, and stopped at an elevator.
‘I understand this lady – she might be your missing wife?’
His stomach was so tied up in knots he found it hard to speak. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe. She has not spoken?’
‘Sometimes she has mumbled, but that is all. Mostly she is silent. In her own world. Like she is locked in.’
They rode up a couple of floors, in silence, then emerged in front of a glass door, with the sign on it reading, ANÄSTHESIOLOGISCHE INTENSIVSTATION 16G.
They went through into an orange-painted corridor, with a row of hard chairs on either side, a snacks vending machine, and several picture frames on the wall with portraits of staff doctors and nurses.
A man hurried past them in blue scrubs, with yellow Crocs on his feet, and went into an alcove where Grace saw there was a drinks vending machine.
The woman suggested he sat while she checked it would be all right for him to go in now. As she went through some double doors he walked over to the alcove, poured himself a cup of water, and managed to get himself a black coffee. Then he sat down to wait, wondering whether he should ask Marcel to take him to meet the boy, but decided to delay for now.
He was too nervous to sit, and stood up again, pacing up and down. Wondering. Wondering. Wondering. He was shaking. Had he made a terrible mistake coming here? Was his whole life about to unravel?
Five minutes later the woman returned and said, ‘All is fine, it is fine for you to see her now. It is good with comatose patients to touch them. Talk to them. They can recognize smell – perhaps she will recognize your smells, if it is your wife. Also if you have any of her favourite music on your phone, it would be good to play it.’
He followed her in through the doors to the Intensive Care Unit. They passed rows of beds, each with an intubated patient connected to a bank of monitors, and screened off on either side by pale green curtains. A number was fixed to the walls above their heads. They turned a corner and he was ushered into a small room, marked ‘7’, its door already open.
Inside lay a woman with short brown hair, in a blue and white spotted gown, amid a forest of drip lines, surrounded by more banks of monitors, in a bed with its sides up like the bars of a cage.
The woman who had led him there discreetly disappeared, and he was all alone.
He stepped forward, slowly, until he was beside the bed, looking straight down at her face. It was still swollen, and covered in scabs and scars, and partially masked with bandages. One drip line fed into a cannula on her right wrist and another, held in place by a plaster, at the base of her throat. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing rhythmically.
He felt a lump in his throat.
Could this be her?
God.
Was this the woman he had once loved so much?
The truth was he did not know. He really did not. A plaster lay across the bridge of her nose, masking most of it. It was Sandy’s mouth.
‘Sandy?’ he whispered, tentatively. ‘Sandy? It’s me, Roy.’
There was no reaction.
He held her puffy, bandaged free hand, squeezing it very gently. ‘Sandy? My darling? Is this you?’
From what he could remember, her hand felt similar to the way it always had – small, a perfect fit into his. His heart was heaving. One instant he was sure it was her, and the next, he was convinced he was looking at a stranger.
‘Sandy?’
She continued her steady breathing.
What the hell was he going to do if she opened her eyes and stared at him in recognition? How could he deal with it? He had been massively devious coming here. How could he begin to explain it to Cleo?
He stared down at her again. Was this the woman he had once loved? Could he ever love her again, if it was her? He felt nothing. Empty of emotion.
She had a son. Was it possible it could be his son? How could he deal with that? This wasn’t his life any more. He was looking at a stranger. Even if it was – her.
He felt numb.
Suddenly, he made his decision. He turned and walked back out of the room. The woman who had brought him in was standing just outside, talking to a nurse in a blue tunic and Crocs. She stepped towards him, quizzically.
‘Is she your wife?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
109
Sunday 4 January
Three hours later, Roy Grace settled into his seat on the British Airways plane that would take him back to London. His mind was in overdrive. Why the hell had he come here, what had he hoped to achieve? Why hadn’t he had the courage to tell Cleo?
If the purpose of this trip had been to lay a ghost to rest, precisely the opposite had happened. He had re-opened the nightmare of the past.
Apart from his injury, which was now healing well, the last year had ended on a high. He had been lauded by his chiefs for saving Logan Somerville, and despite the tragedy of the lost lives, Operation Haywain had succeeded in halting the reign of terror of the Brighton Brander. He’d had several other successes this past year, too, and even with the arrival of Cassian Pewe he had been feeling more positive about the future. During this past year, he felt, more than ever, he had really proved his abilities as a homicide detective.
They had moved into their beautiful new home, and Cleo, despite her exhaustion with Noah and the move, was feeling so happy and positive about the future. She would shortly be going back to work, and they would have to make a decision on a nanny.
They had always been honest and open with each other. Should he tell her the truth when he got home, and lay her mind to rest once and for all? Even if that would mean admitting he had lied to her about this trip?
The past had been a dark place for far too long. He needed to put it back in its box. It had taken him ten long years to finally move forward and find happiness again. He could not let the past destroy him – them.
And yet.
He couldn’t shake the image of the woman from his mind.
In room 7, the comatose woman’s eyes suddenly opened. Her attending nurse had stepped away for a comfort break and she was, briefly, alone.
‘Roy was here,’ she said.
Then her eyes closed again.
110
Sunday 4 January
The moment the plane had taxied to a halt at Heathrow Airport, Roy Grace switched his phone from flight mode. It took some moments before it found a signal. As soon as it did, he texted Cleo to say he was back safe.
Then his phone buzzed, indicating he had voicemail.
He checked it. There were two messages from Cassian Pewe, the second sounding more impatient than the first. ‘Roy, call me urgently, will you, please.’
A loud bing-bong sounded, and people all around him began standing up and removing their belongings from the overhead lockers. Grace joined them, shuffling along and out of the plane. Pewe could wait a few minutes, he decided, and anyway, he was officially on leave.
A little while later, he entered the short-term car park. Then, just as he reached Cleo’s Audi, his phone rang again. He looked at the display but the number was withheld.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ said the whiny voice of Cassian Pewe.
‘In Germany, sir.’
‘Germany?’
‘I’
ve just flown back to London.’
‘I’ve been trying desperately to get hold of you. What have you been doing in Germany?’
‘Family business, sir,’ he said, barely masking his irritation at Pewe’s tone.
‘Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?’
‘I’m still on sick leave, sir.’
‘I need you back on Operation Haywain right away. We have a very big problem.’
His heart sinking, Grace said, ‘What’s happened, sir?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s happened. Dr Edward Crisp has happened. The excavation of the collapsed tunnel where you last saw Crisp has been completed. He isn’t there.’
‘That’s not possible, sir. He was buried.’
‘Did you see him being buried?’
Grace was silent for a moment. ‘No, not actually buried.’
‘Down in his lair, where he had a cosy little set-up, there was a hatch which dropped down into the main sewer for the area. He must have gone down it. I’ve spoken to Southern Water who are responsible for the entire Brighton and Hove sewerage network and they say it’s very unlikely he could have survived. Apparently after all the rain of the past two months, the sewers have been in flood. He could have been carried several miles along the tunnel but then he would have hit a series of filters designed to stop and break down large objects, before they are carried on to the plant at Peacehaven, and ultimately out to sea.’
Puzzled and dismayed, Grace asked, ‘So are you saying Crisp escaped into the sewer system, but would then have drowned, or been ripped to shreds?’
‘What I’m saying, Roy,’ Pewe’s voice sounded on the cusp of a snarl, ‘is that we need a damned body, or at least some body parts. Our Specialist Search Unit know how to search sewers. They need to find something urgently. Do you understand?’
‘I do, sir, and a Happy New Year to you.’
‘Huh.’
111
Sunday 4 January
Instead of heading home from the airport, as he had been intending, Roy Grace carried on down the A23, past the turn-off to Henfield, and then joined the A27 which took him up towards Hollingbury.
A few minutes later he turned off, drove down a steep hill, with the Asda superstore to his right, and entered the front car park of Sussex House, the CID HQ. It was 4.15 p.m.
The Christmas decorations were still up, but there was a subdued atmosphere. A cloud had hung over the future of this entire building ever since the merger of Sussex and Surrey CID departments.
In his casual clothes, he strode along the corridors towards MIR-1, then entered, greeting several members of his team who had remained, until now at any rate, to tidy up all the outstanding elements of Operation Haywain.
Norman Potting stood up from behind his workstation. ‘Chief!’ he said. ‘How are you? You’re limping.’
‘I’m on the mend, thanks, Norman. Or, at least, I was. Happy New Year! How are you?’
‘Happy New Year to you, too. Chief, I think you ought to take a look at this – it just came in.’ Potting was pointing at his computer screen.
Grace walked over, behind the row of people seated beside Potting, then leaned over his shoulder and stared at the screen.
On it was an email, sent from a Hotmail account. The sender’s name was just a meaningless row of letters and numbers.
‘Read the email,’ Potting said.
Grace read it.
Dear Detective Sergeant Potting, it was very remiss of me not to get back to you on your prostate problems that you mentioned when you last came to see me, but I’ve been busy on an exciting new project. There is an excellent organization that has all the latest information on this vile disease. You can contact them on www.prostatehelp.me.uk.
Good luck, it was nice meeting you.
Bye for now!
Dr Edward Crisp
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As ever with my Roy Grace novels I owe an incalculable debt to so many people in different fields, who have generously given their sanction, advice or time to my research.
Starting with officers, former officers and support staff of Sussex Police, Surrey Police, and other law-enforcement agencies both in the UK and overseas: Chief Constable Giles York, QPM; Police and Crime Commissioner Katy Bourne; Chief Superintendent Nev Kemp; former Chief Superintendent Graham Bartlett; Superintendent Paula Light; Detective Superintendent Paul Furnell; Detective Superintendent Nick May; Chief Inspector Jason Tingley; Detective Inspector Bill Warner; Former Detective Chief Inspector Trevor Bowles; Inspector Andy Kille; Sergeant Phil Taylor; Sergeant Lorna Dennison-Wilkins, PC Martin Light; PC Paul Quinn, PC Scott Kendal and all the team of the Specialist Search Unit. Suzanne Heard; Katie Perkin; Jill Pederson; Ray Packham formerly of the High Tech Crime Unit; Crime Scene Investigators James Gartrell and Chris Gee; Tony Case, Senior Support Officer; Juliet Smith JP, High Sherriff of East Sussex. And last, but also first, my close friend and Roy Grace alter-ego, former Detective Chief Superintendent David Gaylor, the career role model for Roy Grace.
Thank you to those who gave me invaluable medical, scientific or technical help: Dr Wilfrid Assin; Dr Neil Haughton; Iain Maclean; Dr Haydn Kelly; Dr David Veale; Michael Beard; Andrew Davey; Janet Blainey; Martin Pile; Nigel Ostime; Brian Price; Derek Middlehurst; Dr Mark Howard; Dr Nigel Kirkham; Father Martin; Hans Jürgen Stockerl; Wolfgang Barth at the Drogennotdienst, Frankfurt; Anette Lippert; and a particularly special mention to Sigrid Daus and Klinikum Munich, Krankenhaus Schwabing, for their enormous help with this book.
Although writing is a solitary task, there are numerous people in the background working on the editing, sales and marketing, without whom there would, quite simply, be no book. Starting with my computer guru, Chris Webb of MacService; my agent, Carole Blake and her team. My editor, Wayne Brookes; Geoff Duffield, Anna Bond. Sara Lloyd and all at Pan Macmillan. My US team – Andy Martin; Marc Resnick; Hector DeJean; Paul Hochman; Elena Stokes; Tanya Farrell and all the rest at Team James USA. My copy-editor Susan Opie; my publicists, Sophie Ransom, Becky Short and Tony Mulliken.
I’m fortunate to have a brilliant support team who help me to hone the manuscript long before it reaches my agent and publishers, and to help with the management of Team James UK; My incredibly hardworking and brilliant PA, Linda Buckley, who is an absolute treasure – as well as a stickler for detail(!) – and my book-keeper Sarah Middle; Helen Shenston; Anna Hancock; Martin and Jane Diplock; Susan Ansell.
A hugely special mention to my beloved Lara, who has put such huge hard work and energy into so many aspects of the research, writing and editing of this book.
And of course no acknowledgements would be complete without a mention of our dogs – who are the first to let me know if they think I’ve spent too long with my nose in front of my screen, and that I need a walk! – Oscar, and our recent puppy arrival, delightful Labradoodle, Spook.
Finally some sad farewells this year. RIP: Elsie Sweetman, the former Chief Mortician at Brighton and Hove Mortuary and the role model for Cleo Morey. A fantastic and wonderful character. Dr Dennis Friedmann, eminent psychiatrist who gave me so much help on shaping characters – particularly villains – over many books. Phoebe, our beloved German Shepherd who died at 13 – a great age, but she will always be missed with deep affection.
Above all, thank you, my readers! Your emails, Tweets, Facebook and Blog posts give me such constant encouragement. Keep them coming. I love to hear from you!
Bye for now!
Peter James
Sussex, England
[email protected]
www.peterjames.com
www.facebook.com/peterjames.roygrace
www.twitter.com/peterjamesuk
By Peter James
DEAD LETTER DROP
ATOM BOMB ANGEL
BILLIONAIRE
POSSESSION
DREAMER
SWEET HEART
TWILIGHT
PROPHECY
ALCHEMIST
HOST
THE TRUTH
DENIAL
FAITH
PERFECT PEOPLE
Children’s Novel
GETTING WIRED!
Novella
THE PERFECT MURDER
Short Stories Collection
A TWIST OF THE KNIFE
The Roy Grace Series
DEAD SIMPLE
LOOKING GOOD DEAD
NOT DEAD ENOUGH
DEAD MAN’S FOOTSTEPS
DEAD TOMORROW
DEAD LIKE YOU
DEAD MAN’S GRIP
NOT DEAD YET
DEAD MAN’S TIME
WANT YOU DEAD
YOU ARE DEAD
First published 2015 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2015 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-5575-8
Copyright © Really Scary Books / Peter James 2015
Jacket photograph © Neil Lang
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