Fox held up his hand, interrupting him. ‘Yadda, yadda, yadda. I’m a solicitor, OK? Spare me the fucking pre-take-off crap. I know how to put on a life vest and blow the whistle.’

Ignoring him, the DI continued with the caution.

‘Which way exactly do the straps go around my chest?’ Fox asked, facetiously. ‘And you haven’t pointed out the emergency exits.’

111

Saturday 1 June

Roy Grace let himself and Humphrey into the garden after a morning walk, went over to the hen house and lifted the lid of the first of the three nesting boxes, trying to ignore the sour reek. Two eggs of different sizes, one brown and one blue, nestled in the straw.

‘Good girls! I’ll tell your keeper, Bruno!’ he called out to them, gently lifting each egg out and placing them in a bowl. He retrieved a further three from the next two boxes and headed back towards the house with the triumph of a crusader returning home laden with booty.

Strolling in shorts and flip-flops across the freshly mown lawn, he felt, suddenly, an almost intoxicating happiness. It was moments like this when he wished he could freeze time and hold them in his mind forever. He stopped and stood, looking at their cottage and the hill, dotted with sheep, that rose up behind. It was coming up to 9 a.m. and the clear, cobalt sky looked set to deliver the forecaster’s promise of a fine weekend. There was just one major cloud and it wasn’t in the sky.

Cassian Pewe.

Even when he’d given the ACC the news that poor Stuie Starr’s murder was pretty much cleared up, there was no thank you, simply an admonishment that two murders in Sussex within such a short period of time did not make good headlines. A litany of anger from him then followed, blaming Grace for failing his team by not anticipating Starr’s attack on Gready.

Maybe Pewe was right, he reflected, perhaps as the leader he should have done. But how? Police officers had been described by a former Met Commissioner as ‘ordinary people doing extraordinary things’. True sometimes, Grace thought. But we’re not superhuman.

He was at a loss how to deal with Pewe. The ACC had welcomed him back from his secondment to the Met with open arms, only to immediately stab him in the back and return to his former hostile attitude. A few years ago, when they’d been on equal rank, Grace had risked his life to save Pewe’s, when the front of his car had gone over the edge of a cliff and the vehicle hung precariously. There had been little more than grudging gratitude afterwards.

Was there something in psychology, he wondered, some innate pride perhaps, that could turn people against those who had saved their lives?