You Are Dead

  “Bella Moy died doing just that. What makes her death even more poignant—and heroic—is that she was off duty. There was a burning building, and she could have driven right by. But she didn’t, she stopped. And when she learned that there was a small child trapped inside, she went straight in—and saved that child. The fire services had not arrived at this point and it is likely that if Bella had not gone in, that young child would have died. It was an act of bravery that cost her her life. She knew she was taking a very big risk entering that blazing building but she didn’t actually have time to make much of a risk assessment. She knew there was a chance of saving a child, whatever the risks to herself.” He paused to take a breath, then went on.

  “I think the words of this American author, Jack London, could have been written about Bella Moy:

  “I would rather be ashes than dust!

  I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

  I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

  The function of a human being is to live, not to exist.

  I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.

  I shall use my time.”

  His voice just held out. “Bella used her time, and it ran out on her. We are all the poorer for that. But the richer for having known her.”

  He stepped down and, blinded by tears, made his way back to his pew.

  Ten minutes later, after the words of the last hymn, “Jerusalem,” faded, everyone kneeled again. The vicar gave his final blessing. And suddenly, very different music started. Feargal Sharkey’s “A Good Heart.”

  The pallbearers and Norman Potting shouldered the coffin and carried it back out, followed by Bella’s family.

  Slowly, Roy Grace climbed to his feet and held out his arm for Cleo. Then he picked up his umbrella and followed them along the aisle, struggling to keep his composure.

  Outside, among the throngs of people standing in the bitter cold, a young woman in black, with a small pillbox hat over a tangle of fair hair, and accompanied by a small, rather sullen child, suddenly came up to Norman Potting. “Excuse me—Mr—Detective Potting?”

  “Yes?” Potting nodded.

  “My name’s Maggie Durrant. Your fiancée, Bella, I—I just wanted to let you know that she saved Megan, my daughter—and she saved our dog, Rocky, too. I—I don’t know what to say—I just—I just wanted you to know how grateful I am and how sorry I am.” She sniffed, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  “Thank you,” Norman Potting said, his voice choked with emotion. “Thank you.” He looked down at the little girl and gave her a tearful smile, and she gave him the faintest trace of a smile back.

  55

  Monday 15 December

  Logan heard a scraping sound, the lid above her being opened. She saw in the faint green glow a head appear, the features entirely obscured by a black gimp mask, with goggles. An instant later a searing white flashlight beam blinded her.

  “Everything’s a bit shit at the moment,” he said, in a clear, educated voice. “But look on the bright side—there always is a bright side—you’re still alive. But I thought you should know that you are on borrowed time. But then, aren’t we all, eh? No one gets out of life alive!”

  Hyperventilating with terror, she heard him chuckle. It was a hideous cackle, like a witch.

  “I’m thirsty,” she gasped. “I need more sugar. Please—please tell me why I’m here. What do you want? I’ll give you anything you want. If you want to have sex with me, I won’t resist. I’ll do anything.”

  “Yes, you will. You will do anything I want!” He cackled again. Then his voice suddenly softened. “You want water?”

  “Please.”

  Suddenly, without giving her any opportunity to draw breath, a stream of icy water began pouring onto her face. She gulped some of it down, but it kept on coming, covering her whole face, pouring down the sides of her face and her neck. She shook her head, swallowing more down but it kept on coming. It shot up her nostrils, agonizingly. She tried to breathe, but choked on the stuff now. She turned her head sideways, trying desperately to break free of it. But it kept on pouring. She began shaking. Suffocating. Drowning.

  She tried to scream but only a gurgle came out. She was thrashing, twisting and turning against her bonds. But the water kept on coming, jetting down on her as hard as a fire hose.

  Her whole inside was tight. Her lungs bursting.

  The water kept on coming.

  Then as suddenly as it had started, it ceased.

  Spluttering, coughing, choking, gulping air, she closed her eyes against the searing white light again.

  “You talk when I tell you to talk. Slut.”

  The lid slid shut above her.

  She lay, whimpering in terror, closed her eyes and prayed, silently. Oh please, God, help me, please help me.

  When she opened her eyes again she realized the lid was open once more. The man in the mask and goggles was staring down at her.

  “God doesn’t like sluts who break off their engagement,” he said.

  The lid slid shut again.

  Who was it? Was Jamie behind this, she kept wondering? Had he set this up? Where, oh where the hell was she?

  She listened constantly for any sounds to give her a clue where she might be. She’d not yet heard the dawn chorus again. No sirens. No aircraft noise. Just the constant unremitting silence, except when her captor came to visit.

  She called out. But only silence came back at her.

  56

  Monday 15 December

  Roy drove in silence, in the slow traffic behind the cortège, with Cleo at his side. The rain was falling harder, the sky as dark as their mood.

  “I’ve never been to a sadder funeral,” she said, suddenly.

  He nodded, too choked to speak at the moment.

  “Normally,” she said, “you know—there’s something uplifting. Most of the funerals I’ve been to have been of elderly relatives. Lives lived. I went to one, a couple of years ago, of an old school friend who’d died at twenty-seven of cancer, but even that one, although desperately sad, didn’t affect me in the way this one has.”

  “I guess in the police we all know the dangers. Glenn was shot during that raid to try to free a kidnapped couple. Had the bullet gone a couple of inches either way, he’d have been killed or paralyzed. And then EJ was inches from being crushed to death by a van she was trying to stop.”

  “And you, my darling? Honestly, how many risks have you taken, my love?”

  “A few,” he said. “I suppose one of the closest was at Beachy Head last year, when I had to go over the edge of the cliff to save Pewe’s life. And I hated the bastard.”

  “With good reason. I’ll never forgive him for what he did.”

  Grace thought back to Pewe’s humiliating attempt to prove he had murdered Sandy by having the garden at the home they’d shared scanned and excavated.

  “He was determined to prove I had killed her. Then I put my life on the bloody line to save his. Now he’s my sodding boss. How great is that?”

  “Well, maybe he’ll now show his gratitude.”

  Grace touched her thigh, gently. “You know, that’s one of the ten thousand things I love about you. You’re always looking for the good in people.”

  “And you’re always looking for the bad?”

  “That’s what twenty years of being a copper does for you.”

  “Don’t ever stop looking for the good, Roy. There is good in everyone. Sometimes you just have to drill down deep.”

  “I’d like to believe you. Especially when you look at someone like Bella, who was devoted to her job and equally devoted to looking after her elderly, sick mother, then you have a truly good person. I’ve encountered too many people who were totally dedicated to doing evil.”

  “How many of those ever had a chance in life? How many got warped in childhood by abusive par
ents, lack of education and no role models?”

  “Most of them. But does that excuse them? Hey, I’m awfully sorry, I just beat an old lady to death so I could burgle her house, but it’s all right because my mum used to get drunk and hit me.” He drove in silence for some moments, then he said, “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t want to sound cynical. I don’t ever want to be a cynic. But Bella died a hero. A true hero. I’m not sure how many of the scrotes we have to deal with every day in this city would ever be capable of heroism. Or of even doing anything good.”

  Finally they entered the hilltop cemetery, and saw the cortège a short distance ahead. They wound past the rows of flat tombstones—the only ones permitted here now because of the long history of vandalism—and halted. A short distance away was the freshly opened family grave, where Bella’s father had been buried some years earlier. Green AstroTurf covered the mound of earth on one side, as if peeled from inside the grave. Two planks of wood lay across.

  Oblivious now to the wind and driving rain, they hurried over to the limousine that had halted behind the horse-drawn hearse, just as Norman Potting, looking utterly lost and bewildered, tears streaming down his face, and clutching a plastic bag, climbed out.

  Grace put a supportive arm around the Detective Sergeant, who was crying inconsolably. “Be strong for her, Norman,” he said quietly to him. “Just be strong for the next short while.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to go on living without her.”

  “You’re going to have to go on sodding living, because I need you.” He led him toward the chubby, white-haired figure of Father Martin, who stood by the grave, oblivious to the weather in his black cassock and purple stole, as Bella’s family and friends gathered around.

  The coffin was carried to the grave and tapes threaded through the handles. For some moments there was total silence, just the sound of the wind and the falling rain, and the deep, intermittent sobs from Norman.

  “I am the resurrection and the light, says the Lord,” intoned Father Martin. “He who believes in me, though he dies, yet shall he live and shall not die eternally.

  “Friends, welcome here, to these few moments in the cemetery as we come and bring Bella to this final resting place. We are reminded in the scriptures that we brought nothing into this world and we can take nothing out. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Let’s bow our heads for this first prayer.”

  Grace listened to the words of the prayer and remembered Father Martin’s reading earlier, blinded now by his own tears. He continued to support Norman Potting, who was shaking. He heard the priest’s words intermittently.

  “But someone may ask, how are the dead raised? With what kind of body do they come?” he heard. “The body that is sown is perishable. It is raised imperishable … Where, oh death, is your sting?”

  Potting’s sobbing became louder. Grace tried to comfort him.

  “We are going to commend Bella to God’s keeping,” Father Martin said.

  The pallbearers bowed their heads. Slowly they lowered the coffin, until it was out of sight.

  “The Lord is full of compassion and mercy, slow to anger … He remembers that we are but dust, our days are like the grass, we flourish like a flower of the field. When the wind goes over it is gone and its place will know it no more, but the merciful goodness of the Lord endures forever and ever … We have entrusted our sister Bella Kathleen Moy to God’s mercy, and we now commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Then, after the final amen, Bella’s mother stepped forward shakily, holding on to the arm of a family member, and threw a handful of earth into the grave.

  Moments later, suddenly silent, Norman Potting broke free from Grace’s grip, stumbled up to the grave, and knelt. Then from the plastic bag he was holding he pulled a small red box.

  Looking around wildly, almost insane with grief, he said, “Bella will need these. She’ll need them. She will.”

  He leaned forward, headlong into the grave, and dropped the box of Maltesers on top of the coffin.

  Then he staggered back to his feet, helped by Roy who ran forward to support him.

  “She will,” Potting said. “She’ll be giving them out in Heaven, to everyone she meets.”

  57

  Tuesday 16 December

  “Good morning, boys, it’s make-your-mind-up time! Make-your-mind-up time, chum!” he said with a giggle. “Who remembers that line, eh? Felix? Harrison? Marcus?”

  “Cilla Black in the TV dating show Blind Date?” ventured Felix, always the one to lead.

  “No, it was Hughie Green in Opportunity Knocks who used it first,” said Marcus.

  “What do you think, Harrison?”

  “I’m not so sure. But it rings a bell.”

  “Ding, ding!” He giggled again.

  “It was definitely Blind Date,” Felix said.

  “I never saw Blind Date,” Marcus said.

  “Tut tut, what a sheltered life you’ve led, eh?”

  “A better one than this,” Marcus retorted, sullen.

  “Tut, tut, tut, what kind of gratitude is that, Marcus?”

  “What exactly do any of us have to be grateful about?” he retorted.

  “Ooooohhhh, feisty! I like it when you get all feisty, Marcus. It sets all my pheromones racing! You never saw Blind Date? Did you spend the 1990s living under a rock? The whole planet saw that show. Except, of course, for you.”

  “Myself as well as the one quarter of the earth’s population who’ve not yet made a telephone call, let alone enjoyed the luxury of watching television,” Marcus replied.

  “Oh very good, I love your social conscience, Marcus. I like a person with principles. But I suspect that figure you are quoting is lower these days. You’re out of date, really you are. I don’t know what you spend your time doing, honestly. We’ll have to help your cultural enlightenment. I’ll see if I can find some recordings of Blind Date for you!”

  “I think Felix is right,” said Harrison. “It was Cilla Black in Blind Date.”

  “Yessss,” he squealed with delight. “Yesssss, yessssssss, yessssssssss! So Felix wins today’s prize! Let’s all hear it for Felix! Let’s congratulate him! Felix, you get a Mars bar! I know it’s a bit early in the morning, but hey, as my mum used to say, What’s time to the Irish? Eh?”

  He pulled a Mars bar from his pocket, ripped the wrapper off and let it flutter down onto the floor. “Oh dear, what a litter lout I am!” He held out the chocolate bar. “Here it is, Felix, enjoy, let the losers salivate over your success! But before you take the first bite, because you’re not quite there yet, I want you to tell me what Cilla Black’s name was before she changed it. Can you tell me?” He held out the chocolate bar, tantalizing him.

  “I don’t know,” Felix said. “I so totally do not know!”

  “It was Priscilla White!” he said, triumphantly. “Oh dear, you lose!” He held the bar up. “All right, while I decide if one of you gets the whole thing, or we all share it, I’d like to know everyone’s opinion about my latest project, Freya Northrop. Are we all still agreed?” He held up her photograph. “She ticks all the boxes, yes?”

  “She does,” Felix said.

  “Harrison, what do you think?”

  “Felix is only saying yes because he wants the Mars bar,” Harrison replied.

  “She’s definitely your type,” Marcus said.

  “Oh, you are being nice to me now, Marcus. Could it be that you are angling for the chocolate? You are right though, she is my type, isn’t she! Oh yes, she’s exactly my type all right. She’s home early every night to prepare dinner, while her boyfriend—Zak—stays at the restaurant, working away. When he comes home one night this week, big surprise—there’ll be no dinner and no Freya!”

  “Do you have a thing about couples shacking up together?” Harrison asked.
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  “Are you going moralistic on me, Harrison?”

  “I’m only mentioning it.”

  “Purely coincidental, old chap.” He shook his head. “I’m sensing a lot of attitude this morning.” He put the picture down and looked at his watch. “Six fifteen. Tut, tut! I’ve not had my brekkie yet!” He took a large bite out of the Mars bar, and chewed. Through his sticky mouthful of chocolate and toffee, he said, “Mmmn, not had one of these for a while. It tastes good, really good. Too good to share! And I’ve got a busy day ahead—need to keep my strength up, sorry everyone!” He pushed the rest of the bar into his mouth.

  “Bastard!” Marcus said.

  He nodded. “Yep, I am, you’re right about that, Marcus; but then you always have been!”

  58

  Tuesday 16 December

  Shortly after 7 a.m. Roy Grace carried a mug of steaming coffee into his office and sat at his desk, reflecting on the events of yesterday, and in particular the first Gold group meeting that had followed the grim funeral and the equally grim wake, before the press conference and the evening briefing. It was dark beyond his rain-spattered window, the Asda superstore complex and the skyline of Brighton barely visible apart from the hazy, misty glow of street lighting.

  In between two of the piles of paperwork he needed to tackle sat a foil package containing the egg and tomato sandwich Cleo had made him last night for his breakfast, and six red grapes—she had read in some health column that six red grapes a day were the new big anti-aging elixir. And the tomato was apparently good for warding off many cancers in later years. Since Noah had been born, he had noticed that she had become more preoccupied than ever with both of them eating healthily. And never ordinarily a nervous person, she had become a tad anxious. No doubt something do with a mother’s protective instincts, he thought.