Dead Man's Grip Read Free

she made a left turn, pulling out in front of a white van, and accelerated.
    The van hooted and flashing its lights angrily, closed up right behind her and began tailgating her. She held up two fingers.
    There were to be many times, in the days and weeks ahead, when she bitterly regretted reading and deleting that text. If she hadn’t waited at that junction for those precious seconds, fiddling with her phone, if she had made that left turn just thirty seconds earlier, everything might have been very different.

5
    ‘Black,’ Glenn Branson said, holding the large golf umbrella over their heads.
    Detective Superintendent Roy Grace looked up at him.
    ‘It’s the only colour!’
    At five foot, ten inches, Roy Grace was a good four inches shorter than his junior colleague and friend, and considerably less sharply dressed. Approaching his fortieth birthday, Grace was not handsome in a conventional sense. He had a kind face with a slightly misshapen nose that gave him a rugged appearance. It had been broken three times – once in a fight and twice on the rugby pitch. His fair hair was cropped short and he had clear blue eyes that his long-missing wife, Sandy, used to tell him resembled those of the actor Paul Newman.
    Feeling like a child in a sweet shop, the Detective Superintendent, hands dug deeply into his anorak pockets, ran his eyes over the rows of vehicles on the Frosts’ used-car forecourt, all gleaming with polish and rainwater, and kept returning to the two-door Alfa Romeo. ‘I like silver, and dark red, and navy.’ His voice was almost drowned out by the sound of a lorry passing on the main road behind them, its air horns blaring.
    He was taking advantage of the quiet week, so far, to nip out of the office. A car he’d liked the look of on the
Autotrader
website was at this local dealer.
    Detective Sergeant Branson, wearing a cream Burberry mackintosh and shiny brown loafers, shook his head. ‘Black’s best. The most desirable colour. You’ll find that useful when you come to sell it – unless you’re planning to drive it over a cliff, like your last one.’
    ‘Very funny.’
    Roy Grace’s previous car, his beloved maroon Alfa Romeo 147 sports saloon, had been wrecked during a police pursuit the previous autumn, and he had been wrangling with the insurance company ever since. Finally they had agreed a miserly settlement figure.
    ‘You need to think about these things, old-timer. Getting near retirement, you need to look after the pennies.’
    ‘I’m thirty-nine.’
    ‘Forty’s looming.’
    ‘Thanks for reminding me.’
    ‘Yeah, well, the old brain starts going at your age.’
    ‘Sod off! Anyhow, black’s the wrong colour for an Italian sports car.’
    ‘It’s the best colour for everything.’ Branson tapped his chest. ‘Look at me.’
    Roy Grace stared at him. ‘Yes?’
    ‘What do you see?’
    ‘A tall, bald bloke with rubbish taste in ties.’
    ‘It’s Paul Smith,’ he said, looking hurt. ‘What about my colour?’
    ‘I’m not allowed to mention it under the Racial Equality Act.’
    Branson raised his eyes. ‘Black is the colour of the future.’
    ‘Yep, well, as I’m so old I won’t live long enough to see it – especially standing here in the pissing rain. I’m freezing. Look, I like that one,’ he said, pointing at a red two-seater convertible.
    ‘In your dreams. You’re about to become a father, remember? What you need is one of those.’ Glenn Branson pointed across at a Renault Espace.
    ‘Thanks, I’m not into people carriers.’
    ‘You might be if you have enough kids.’
    ‘Well, so far it’s just one on the way. Anyhow, I’m not choosing anything without Cleo’s approval.’
    ‘Got you under her thumb, has she?’
    Grace blushed coyly. ‘No.’
    He took a step towards a sleek silver two-door Alfa Brera and stared at it covetously.
    ‘Don’t go there,’ Branson said, stepping along with him, keeping him covered with the umbrella. ‘Unless you’re a