Two press conferences in the past twenty-four hours; a referral to the Independent Police Complaints Authority, because he had been directly involved in the serious injury of a suspect; an enquiry by Professional Standards as to why he hadn’t brought up the issue of the information Kevin Spinella kept obtaining, much sooner than he had. Plus he had all the paperwork dealing with Operation Icon to go through. And as a bit of icing on the cake, there were major issues with the playing fields that the police rugby team, which he managed, would be using when the season started.
On top of everything else, he’d had to travel up to London today, as he’d been called as a witness earlier than he’d expected in the Carl Venner trial. Except, having got all the way to the Old Bailey, he was told he now would not be needed until next Tuesday.
A shower, followed by a blast out into the countryside in Cleo’s Audi TT with the roof down, a cold beer and a few glasses of wine and he would feel a lot better. He might even treat himself to a cigarette. One big advantage of Cleo’s pregnancy was there were no drink-driving issues, no arguments about who would drive home.
‘It’s not a question of training, my darling,’ he replied. ‘There was a scandalous hoo-hah a few years back when two PCSOs in another county didn’t jump into a lake to try to save a drowning boy, because their training forbade them. That’s pretty rare – I don’t think I’ve met a single police officer in Sussex who would have held back from jumping in. It’s not about training, it’s something any human being would do. You can’t just stand by and watch someone die.’
She kissed him. ‘You know, I’ve never been a worrier.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘Not until I met you.’
‘Are you sure it’s not part of the package? All the stuff we’ve read, we both know that pregnancy messes with the mother’s hormones. Worry is one aspect of the protective mothering instinct. You don’t have to worry about me.’
‘It’s not the baby, Roy. It’s you. Every time you walk out the front door, I wonder if you’ll be coming back. Or whether it will be two of your colleagues knocking on the door instead.’
‘Cleo, darling!’
‘Did Sandy have to put up with all this? The same fears?’
The reminder of Sandy stung. The mention of her name invariably set off a small pang of sadness and loss, despite the good mental place that he was in, and all he now had. He shrugged. ‘She never said anything – not about danger. Her gripe was always my unpredictable hours.’
‘I’m sorry that I worry, I can’t help it, I love you. But just look at all the crazy stuff you’ve done in the past year. You’ve been in a burning building. Over a cliff in a car.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘The car went over a cliff, Roy.’
‘Yes, okay, but I wasn’t in it.’
‘You were in it ten seconds before it went over.’
He smiled. ‘True.’ He stood up and pulled his boxer shorts down.
‘You dived into Shoreham Harbour in front of a ship.’
It was strange, he thought. He felt perfectly comfortable standing naked in front of Cleo. But Sandy had an almost Victorian prudery about nudity. Except in bed where she could be wild, she always had something wrapped around her, and would insist that he put something on, even if it was just to walk from the bedroom to the bathroom. And she had a thing about the toilet, as well, an obsessive privacy. He once, way back, had joked to a friend that in all the years he and Sandy had lived together as man and wife, so far as he knew, she had not yet been to the toilet.
‘I didn’t have any choice with Gaia,’ he said. ‘If I hadn’t done what I did, she would be dead or maimed. My career would have been over. But that was not the reason I did it.’
‘The police force isn’t the only job in the world, Roy. If you ever got demoted or got the sack, I wouldn’t love you any the less. Okay?’
‘And if someone died because I had been a coward?’
The question hung in the air.
‘History is full of dead heroes, Roy. I’m not ready for you to be history.’
He blew her a kiss and stepped into the bathroom, then checked his face in the mirror. The gash on his left cheek had required three stitches, but it looked to be healing all right. As he turned on the taps, his mobile phone, lying on the bed, pinged twice with text messages.
‘Could you see if there’s anything urgent!’ he called out.
She picked up the phone. The first message was from Jason Tingley.
Do you need me 2morrow or can I play golf?
The second was from a number that meant nothing to her. She opened it.
Hey Mr Paul Newman Eyes! I want to thank you properly sometime for saving my life. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Roy Grace adjusted the shower temperature then, before stepping into it, called, ‘Anything important?’
‘Jason Tingley wants to play golf tomorrow. And Gaia wants to have sex with you.’
He grinned and closed the shower door behind him.
Five minutes later as he came back into the bedroom, with a towel wrapped around him, Cleo paraded the loose, turquoise dress she had chosen. She looked stunning.
‘What do you think? This or my black one? Or the beige one you like?’
He could not remember either the black or the beige ones. ‘This looks great.’
‘Which shoes?’
‘Which ones were you thinking of?’
‘Well, I can’t wear anything with heels. So I’m not going to be able to compete with Gaia, am I?’ Her tone was unusually sarcastic.
‘Hey, come on!’ He picked up the phone and looked at the text, then smiled, proudly. Not every cop got a text from one of the world’s greatest stars. And a row of kisses.
‘So would you?’ she said.
‘Would I what?’
‘Go to bed with her, if you had the chance?’ She was staring at him strangely.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, absolutely not! Hey, come on, let’s not go there.’
He picked up the Alfa Romeo brochure that was lying on his bedside table, and flicked through it for distraction, to avoid having to look back at her. He stopped on the Giulietta page, and stared at the car with longing.
Cleo looked over his shoulder. ‘Go with your heart!’ she said. ‘You love that car, right?’
He shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘So, you’ve nearly died I don’t know how many times in your career, and you’ve still got a third of it to go. You’re probably not going to make old bones, so go on, treat yourself while you can. Enjoy!’
‘I’m tempted,’ he said.
‘It’ll suit you. And, hey, Mr Paul Newman Eyes, Gaia will think you are so cool.’
121
Over the course of the following week, to Roy Grace’s relief, press coverage about his rescue of Gaia began to move from the front page and dwindled, although the jibes from his friends and colleagues continued. He gradually reduced the Operation Icon team numbers, until by the following Friday’s morning meeting there was just himself, Glenn Branson, Norman Potting, Bella Moy, Nick Nicholl and a handful of others.
They had a lot work to do still, collecting statements, preparing for the inquests into the deaths of Drayton Wheeler and Myles Royce. Meanwhile they awaited the daily medical bulletins on Eric Whiteley, who remained on life support in the ICU at the Royal Sussex County Hospital, under police guard.
He hadn’t been able to resist showing the text from Gaia around to his colleagues and he was now the butt of a number of saucy but good-humoured jokes about her.
‘So how’s your new lovebird today, chief?’ Norman Potting asked.
‘She’s been back on set all week, I gather, thank you, Norman. She’s tough.’
‘I’ll bet she is,’ he said with a dirty chuckle.