Free Not Dead Enough by Peter James Page B

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 after a week you’ve forgotten?’ She kissed him again. ‘What’s up with your friend Glenn? Looks like a sick puppy.’
    ‘He is. Domestic situation.’
    ‘So go and cheer him up.’
    ‘I’m trying.’
    Then his mobile phone rang. Irritated by the distraction, he answered it. ‘Roy Grace.’
    It was the family liaison officer, Linda Buckley. ‘Roy,’ she said, ‘I’m at the Hotel du Vin, where I checked Bishop into a room an hour ago. He’s disappeared.’
    15
    Sophie’s mother was Italian. She had always taught her daughter that food was the best cure for shock. And at this moment, standing at the counter of the Italian deli, unaware of the man in the hoodie and dark glasses watching her from behind the opaque window of the Private Shop across the road, Sophie was clutching her mobile phone to her ear, in deep shock.
    She was a creature of habit, but her habits changed with her mood. For several months, day after day, she had taken an Itsu box of sushi back to her office for lunch, but then she had read an article about people getting worms from raw fish. Since then she had been hooked on a mozzarella, tomato and Parma ham ciabatta from this deli. A lot less healthy than sushi, but yummy. She’d had one for lunch almost every day for the past month – maybe even longer. And today, more than ever, she needed the comfort of familiarity.
    ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘My darling, what’s happened? Please tell me?’
    He was babbling, incoherent. ‘Golf . . . Dead . . . Won’t let me into the house . . . Police. Dead. Oh, Jesus Christ, dead.’
    Suddenly the short, bald Italian behind the counter was thrusting the steaming sandwich, wrapped in paper, towards her.
    She took it and, still holding her phone to her ear, stepped out into the street.
    ‘They think I did it. I mean . . . Oh, God. Oh, God.’
    ‘Darling, can I do something? Do you want me to come down?’
    There was a long silence. ‘They were asking me – grilling me,’ Bishop blurted out. ‘They think I did it. They think I killed her. They kept asking me where I was last night.’
    ‘Well, that’s easy,’ she said. ‘You were with me.’
    ‘No. Thank you, but that’s not smart. We don’t need to lie.’
    ‘Lie?’