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around. Women think coppers are dead sexy until they marry ’em. Then they realize we’re not what they thought. You’re lucky if yours is different.’
    Grace nodded but said nothing. Potting’s words were uncomfortably close to the truth. He had never been interested in opera of any kind. But recently Sandy had dragged him to an amateur operatic society performance of The Pirates of Penzance. She had nudged him continually during the song ‘A Policeman’s Lot is not a Happy One’.
    Afterwards she had asked him, teasing, if he thought those words were wrong.
    He’d replied that yes, they were wrong. He was very happy with his lot.
    Later, in bed, she’d whispered to him that perhaps the lyrics needed to be changed. That they should have sung, ‘A policeman’s wife’s lot is not a happy one.’

NOW

11
    Thursday 1 January
    Several of the houses in the residential street outside the hospital had Christmas lights in the windows and wreaths on the front door. They’d be coming down soon for another year, Grace thought a little sadly, slowing as they approached the entrance to the squat slab of stained concrete and garishly curtained windows of Crawley Hospital. He liked the magical spell that the Christmas break cast on the world, even when he had to work through it.
    The building had no doubt looked a lot more impressive under the sunny blue sky of the architect’s original impression than it did on a wet January morning. Grace thought that the architect had probably failed to take into account the blinds blocking half of its windows, the dozens of cars parked higgledy-piggledy outside, the plethora of signs and the weather stains on the walls.
    Glenn Branson normally liked to terrify him by showing off his driving skills, but today he had allowed his colleague to drive here, freeing him to concentrate on giving Roy the full download on his lousy Christmas week. Glenn’s marriage, which had hit new lows in the weeks building up to Christmas, had deteriorated even further on Christmas Day itself.
    Already livid that his wife, Ari, had changed the locks on their house, his temper had boiled over on Christmas morning when he’d arrived laden with gifts for his two young children and she’d refused to let him in. A massively powerful former nightclub bouncer, Glenn kicked open the front door, to find, as he suspected, her new lover ensconced in his house, playing with his children, in front of his Christmas tree, for God’s sake!
    She had dialled the nines and he had narrowly escaped being arrested by the Response Team patrol car that had turned up from East Brighton Division – which would have put paid to his career.
    ‘So what would you have done?’ Glenn said.
    ‘Probably the same. But that doesn’t make it OK.’
    ‘Yeah.’ He was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘You’re right. But when I saw that dickhead personal trainer playing the X-Box with my kids, I could have fucking ripped his head off and played basketball with it.’
    ‘You’re going to have to keep a lid on it somehow, matey. I don’t want you screwing your career up over this.’
    Branson just stared through the windscreen at the rain outside. Then he said bleakly, ‘What does it matter? Nothing matters any more.’
    Roy Grace loved this guy, this big, well-meaning, kind-hearted man-mountain. He’d first encountered him some years back, when Glenn was a freshly promoted detective constable. He had recognized in him so many aspects of himself – drive, ambition. And Glenn had that key element it took to make a good policeman – high emotional intelligence. Since then, Grace had mentored him. But now, with his disintegrating marriage and his failing control of his temper, Glenn was dangerously close to losing the plot.
    He was also dangerously close to damaging their deep friendship. For the past few months Branson had been his lodger, at his home just off the Hove seafront. Grace did not mind about that, as he was now effectively