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say to her.
    And he was concerned about Sandy. About what she would think about him dating another woman. Absurd, he knew, to be thinking these thoughts after almost nine years, but he couldn’t help it. Just as he could not help wondering, almost every moment of his waking life,where she was, what had happened to her. Whether she was alive or dead.
    Clutching the plastic Evian bottle he took another long swig, then stared over the top of the piles of out-of-control paperwork on his desk at his computer screen, then down at a stack of this morning’s papers. The headlines of the top one, the local paper the Argus , screamed out at him: T wo D ead in S ussex P olice C hase .
    He dumped the newspapers on the floor and scanned the latest deluge of emails. He was still just getting the hang of the new Vantage software for the force’s system, which was a lot easier to use than the GreenScreen it replaced. Grace checked the incident reports log to see what had happened during the night, which normally he would have done first thing, but today he’d had to prepare for the press conference.
    There was nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual detritus of a Brighton midweek night and morning. A handful of muggings, break-ins, car thefts, a hold-up at an all-night grocery store, a pub fight, a domestic, a bunch of RTAs – no fatalities – a call-out to farmland near Peacehaven to investigate a suspicious object. No major incidents, no serious crimes, nothing to grab his interest.
    Good. He’d been out of the office most of the past week, apart from some hours he had had to spend in preparation and in court on the ongoing trial of a local villain, and needed a few days to catch up on his paperwork.
    He synced his Blackberry with the computer and checked his diary. It was still clear. His secretary, Eleanor Hodgson – or Management Support Assistant as the political correctness Politburo now dictated she be called – had wiped all his appointments to let him concentrate on his case and the trial. But his diary would fill up soon enough, he rued.
    Almost immediately there was a rap, then his door opened and Eleanor came in. Prim and nervy, fifty-something, she looked the kind of backbone-of-England woman Grace imagined one would meet at a vicar’s tea party – not that he had ever actually been to one. And after three years of working for him, Eleanor was still unfailingly polite and a tad formal, as if she was nervous of upsetting him, although he could not imagine why.
    She stood holding a wodge of newspapers at arm’s length as if concerned they might pollute her. ‘Oh, Roy,’ she said. ‘I, er . . . these arelater editions of some of the morning papers; I thought you might want to see them.’
    ‘Anything new?’
    ‘More of the same. The Guardian has a quote from Julia Drake at the Independent Police Complaints Commission.’
    ‘I didn’t think it would be long before they started. Self-righteous fucking cow.’
    Eleanor flinched at his swear word, then smiled nervously. ‘Everyone’s being a bit harsh on you, I think.’
    He glanced at his water, suddenly craving a cup of coffee. And a cigarette. And a drink. It was nearly lunchtime and he usually tried to avoid drinking until the evening, but he had a feeling he was going to break that rule today. The Independent Police Complaints Commission. Terrific. How many hours of his life was that going to consume over the coming months? He had known it was inevitable they would get involved, but having it confirmed seemed, suddenly, to make everything worse.
    His phone rang. He answered it as Eleanor stood there, and heard the Chief Superintendent’s crisp Mancunian accent.
    ‘Well done, Roy,’ Gary Weston said, sounding even more like his superior than ever. ‘You handled yourself well.’
    ‘Thanks. We’ve now got the IPCC to deal with.’
    ‘We’ll sort them. Are you free at three?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Come to my office – we’ll work on a report for