Free Not Dead Enough by Peter James Page A

place, he followed her into the familiar small office that doubled as the reception room. It was an utterly impersonal room, yet he liked it because it was her space.
    There was a fan humming on the floor, pink Artexed walls, a pink carpet, an L-shaped row of visitor chairs and a small metal desk on which sat three telephones, a stack of small brown envelopes printed with the words P ERSONAL E FFECTS and a large green and red ledger bearing the legend M ORTUARY R EGISTER in gold block lettering.
    A light box was fixed to one wall, as well as a row of framed P UBLIC H EALTH AND H YGIENE certificates, and a larger one from the B RITISH I NSTITUTE OF E MBALMERS , with Cleo Morey’s name inscribed beneath. On another wall was a CCTV, which showed, in a continuous jerky sequence, views of the front, the back, then each side of the building, followed by a close-up on the entrance.
    ‘Cup of tea, gentlemen, or do you want to go straight in?’
    ‘Is Nadiuska ready to start?’
    Cleo’s clear, bright eyes engaged with his for just a fraction longer than was necessary for the question. Smiling eyes. Incredibly warm eyes. ‘She’s just nipped out for a sandwich. Be starting in about ten minutes.’
    Grace felt a dull ache in his stomach, remembering they hadn’t had anything to eat all morning. It was twenty past two. ‘I’d love a cup of tea. Do you have any biscuits?’
    Pulling a tin out from under her desk, she prised off the lid. ‘Digestives. Kit-Kats. Marshmallows? Dark or plain chocolate Leibniz? Fig rolls?’ She offered the tin to him and Branson, who shook his head. ‘What kind of tea? English breakfast, Earl Grey, Darjeeling, China, camomile, peppermint, green leaf?’
    He grinned. ‘I always forget. It’s a proper little Starbucks you run here.’
    But it elicited no hint of a smile from Glenn Branson, who was sitting with his face buried in his hands, sunk back into depression suddenly. Cleo blew Grace a silent kiss. He took out a Kit-Kat and tore off the wrapper.
    Finally, to Grace’s relief, Branson said suddenly, ‘I’ll go and get suited.’
    He went out of the room and they were alone together. Cleo shut the door, threw her arms around Roy Grace and kissed him deeply. For a long time.
    When their lips parted, still holding him tightly, she asked, ‘So how are you?’
    ‘I missed you,’ he said.
    ‘Did you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How much?’
    He held out his hands, about two feet apart.
    Feigning indignation, she said, ‘Is that all?’
    ‘Did you miss me?’
    ‘I missed you, a lot. A lot, a lot.’
    ‘Good! How was the course?’
    ‘You don’t want to know.’
    ‘Try me?’ He kissed her again.
    ‘Tell you over dinner tonight.’
    He loved that. Loved the way she took the initiative. Loved the impression she gave that she needed him.
    He had never felt that with a woman before. Ever. He’d been married to Sandy for so many years, and they had loved each other deeply, but he’d never felt that she needed him. Not like this.
    There was just one problem. He’d planned to create dinner at home tonight. Well, to buy stuff in from a deli, at any rate – he was useless at cooking. But Glenn Branson had put the kibosh on that. He could hardly have a romantic evening at home with Glenn moping around, blubbing his eyes out every ten seconds. But there was no way he could tell his friend to get lost for the night.
    ‘Where would you like to go?’ he said.
    ‘Bed. With a Chinese takeaway. Sound like a plan?’
    ‘A very good plan. But it will have to be at your place.’
    ‘So? You have a problem with that?’
    ‘No. Just a problem with my place. Tell you later.’
    She kissed him again. ‘Don’t go away.’ She went out of the room and came back moments later, holding a green gown, blue overshoes, a face mask and white latex gloves, which she handed to him. ‘These are all the rage.’
    ‘I thought we’d save the dressing up for later,’ he said.
    ‘No, we undress later – or maybe