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Chapters (130)
  1. Cover
  2. FIND THEM DEAD
  3. Dedication page
  4. Maps
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. FOUR MONTHS LATER
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. 80
  86. 81
  87. 82
  88. 83
  89. 84
  90. 85
  91. 86
  92. 87
  93. 88
  94. 89
  95. 90
  96. 91
  97. 92
  98. 93
  99. 94
  100. 95
  101. 96
  102. 97
  103. 98
  104. 99
  105. 100
  106. 101
  107. 102
  108. 103
  109. 104
  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. 111
  117. GLOSSARY
  118. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  119. NOW A MAJOR ITV SERIES
  120. I FOLLOW YOU
  121. 1
  122. 2
  123. 3
  124. 4
  125. 5
  126. 6
  127. DISCOVER THE ROY GRACE BOOKS
  128. FIND THEM DEAD
  129. The Detective Superintendent Roy Grace books in order
  130. Also by Peter James

It was just gone 11 p.m. on Friday. Roy Grace sat beside Cleo’s bed in the tiny, stark single room adjacent to the maternity ward at the hospital. He was holding her clammy right hand, even though she was now asleep, her face an unnatural chalk white.

Hail thudded against the pitch-black windowpane; a steady, icy draught from the relentless wind outside blew in through the thin glass, onto his face. He should have been up in London tonight, out in the area car supervising the operation he was running from Croydon to Newham, but he’d delegated the task to his second-in-command, so he could be with Cleo.

A sudden light pressure on his hand. She was squeezing it. He looked down, tenderly, and moments later she opened her eyes. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said, her voice weak and raspy from the breathing tube that had been removed only a few hours earlier. ‘I can’t help thinking I could have stopped this happening.’

He bent down and hugged her gently; both had tears rolling down their cheeks. ‘It wasn’t your fault, you’ve been doing everything right.’

‘No, I was stupid – we had a whopper brought into the mortuary on Wednesday – a woman weighing thirty-four stone. I helped Darren lift her – and immediately didn’t feel right afterwards.’

He shook his head. ‘We’ve already discussed that.’

She looked puzzled. ‘We have?’

‘Yesterday, with the consultant. He said lifting something is extremely unlikely to cause a miscarriage – unless there was some underlying problem with the pregnancy.’

She looked puzzled. ‘I – don’t – remember.’

He stroked her cheek, gently. ‘I’m not surprised, you’ve been through a lot in the past day and a half – a blood transfusion and a general anaesthetic. I had a long chat with the consultant earlier. He explained miscarriages are very common – something like one in five. And he said that fifty per cent of miscarriages are because of a genetic problem.’

The door opened and Craig Comber, the consultant gynaecologist, peered in, then entered. A tall, smiley man in scrubs and a blue mop hat, surgical mask hanging below his chin, he said, ‘Good evening, just thought I’d check on how Cleo is doing before I head home.’ He looked down at her. ‘Good to see you’re awake – how are you feeling?’

‘A little tender.’