Not Dead Enough Read Free Page A

officers, an extremely bright young DC called Emma-Jane Boutwood, had been badly injured by a van she was trying to stop, and was still in hospital.
    One quotation from a philosopher he had come across recently had given him some solace, and had taken up permanent residence in his mind. It was from Sr Kierkegaard, who wrote, ‘Life must be lived forward, but it can only be understood backwards.’
    ‘Ari,’ Glenn said suddenly. ‘Jesus. I don’t get it.’
    Grace knew that his friend had been having marital problems. It went with the territory. Police officers worked insane, irregular hours. Unless you were married to someone also in the force, who would understand, you were likely to have problems. Virtually every copper did, at some point. Maybe Sandy did too, and she never discussed it. Maybe that was why she had vanished. Had she simply had enough one day, upped sticks and left? It was just one of the many possibilities of what had happened to her that July night. On his thirtieth birthday.
    Nine years ago, last Wednesday.
    The Detective Sergeant drank some more brandy and then coughed violently. When he had finished he looked at Grace with large, baleful eyes. ‘What am I going to do?’
    ‘Tell me what’s happened?’
    ‘Ari’s had enough, like, that’s what’s happened.’
    ‘Enough of what?’
    ‘Me. Our life. I don’t know. I just don’t know,’ he said, staring ahead. ‘She’s been doing all these self-improvement courses. I told you she keeps buying me these books, Men Are from Mars,Women Are from Venus, yeah? Why Women Can’t Read Maps and Men Can’t Find Stuff in Fridges, or some crap like that. Right? Well, she’s been getting angrier and angrier that I keep coming home late and she misses her courses cos she’s stuck with the kids. Right?’
    Grace got up and poured himself another whisky, then found himself, suddenly, craving a cigarette. ‘But I thought she’d encouraged you to join the police in the first place?’
    ‘Yeah. And that’s now one of the things pissing her off, the hours. You go figure a woman’s mind out.’
    ‘You’re smart, ambitious, making great progress. Does she understand that? Does she know what a high opinion your superiors have of you?’
    ‘I don’t think she gives a shit about any of that stuff.’
    ‘Get a grip, man! Glenn, you were working as a security guard in the daytime, and three nights a week as a bouncer. Where the hell were you heading? You told me that when your son was born you had some kind of an epiphany. That you didn’t want him having to tell his mates at school that his dad was a nightclub bouncer. That you wanted a career he would be proud of. Right?’
    Branson stared lamely into his glass, which was suddenly empty again. ‘Yeah.’
    ‘I don’t understand—’
    ‘Join the club.’
    Seeing that the drink was at least calming the man down, Grace took Branson’s glass, poured in a couple more fingers and returned it to his hands. He was thinking about his own experience as a beat copper, when he had done his share of domestics. All police hated getting called to domestic ‘situations’. It mostly meant turning up to a house where a couple were fighting hammer and tongs, usually one – or both – drunk, and the next thing you knew you were getting punched in the face or whacked with a chair for your troubles. But the training for these had given Grace some rudimentary knowledge of domestic law.
    ‘Have you ever been violent to Ari?’
    ‘You’re joking. Never. Never. No way,’ Glenn said emphatically.
    Grace believed him; he did not think it was in Branson’s nature to be violent to anyone he loved. Inside that hulk was the sweetest, kindest, most gentle man. ‘You have a mortgage?’
    ‘Yeah, me and Ari jointly.’
    Branson put down his glass and started crying again. After some minutes, faltering, he said, ‘Jesus. I’m wishing that bullet hadn’t missed everything. I wish it had taken my fucking heart