Free Dead Man's Grip by Peter James Page A

greeted them with a sleepy smile. Her shoulder-length dark hair was in need of some attention.
    ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found it!’ she said. ‘That would be amazing!’
    Both men courteously removed their caps. As they entered the narrow hallway of the flat, there was a smell of brewing coffee and a tinge of masculine cologne in the air.
    Tony Omotoso said, ‘Found what?’
    ‘My handbag?’ She squinted at them quizzically.
    ‘Handbag?’
    ‘Yes. The one some shit stole at Escape Two while we were dancing on Saturday night.’
    It was a nice flat, he clocked, walking into the open-plan living area, but untidy and sparsely furnished, in typical student fashion. It had polished bare oak flooring, a big flat-screen television, expensive-looking hi-fi and minimalistic but tatty dark brown leather furniture. A laptop on a desk near the window overlooking the street was switched on, showing a Facebook homepage. Strewn haphazardly around the floor were a pair of trainers, a screwed-up cardigan, female panties, a single white sock, piles of paperwork, a half-empty coffee mug, several DVDs, an iPod with earphones plugged in and the remains of a Chinese takeaway.
    It had been Ian Upperton who’d had to break the news last time they had done this, so they had agreed between them that today it was Omotoso’s turn. Every officer had their own way of doing it and Omotoso favoured the gentle but direct approach.
    ‘No, Susan, we haven’t come about your handbag – I don’t know about that, I’m afraid. We’re from the Road Policing Unit,’ he said, registering her sudden look of confusion. ‘According to the records from Brighton University, you are living with Tony Revere. Is that correct?’
    She nodded, eyeing each of them with sudden suspicion.
    ‘I’m afraid that Tony has been involved in a road traffic accident on his bicycle.’
    She stared at him, suddenly fixated.
    ‘I’m sorry to say, Susan, that following the injuries he received he didn’t survive.’
    He fell silent deliberately. It had long been his policy to let the recipient of the message come out with the words themselves. That way, he found, it sank in better and more immediately.
    ‘You mean Tony’s dead?’ she said.
    ‘I’m very sorry, yes.’
    She started reeling. PC Upperton caught her arm and guided her down, on to the large brown sofa opposite a glass coffee table. She sat there in silence for some moments, while the two officers stood awkwardly. There was never an easy way. Each time the reaction was different. Susan Caplan’s was to fall silent and then start to shake, little tremors rippling through her body.
    They remained standing. She was shaking her head from side to side now. ‘Oh shit!’ she said suddenly. ‘Oh shit.’ Then she seemed to collapse in on herself, burying her face in her hands. ‘Oh shit, please tell me it’s not true.’
    The two officers glanced at each other. Tony Omotoso said, ‘Do you have someone who could come round and be with you today? A girlfriend? Any member of your family you’d like us to call?’
    She closed her eyes tight. ‘What happened?’
    ‘He was in a collision with a lorry, but we don’t have all the details.’
    There was a long silence. She hugged herself and began sobbing.
    ‘Susan, do you have a neighbour who could come round?’ Omotoso asked.
    ‘No. I – I don’t – I – we – I – oh shit, shit, shit.’
    ‘Would you like a drink?’ Ian Upperton asked. ‘Can we make you a cup of tea or coffee?’
    ‘I don’t want a sodding drink, I want my Tony,’ she sobbed. ‘Please tell me what happened?’
    Omotoso’s radio crackled. He turned the volume right down. There was another long silence before eventually he said, ‘We’re going to need to make sure it is Tony Revere. Would you be willing to identify the body later today? Just in case there’s been a mistake?’
    ‘His mother’s a control freak,’ she blurted. ‘She’s the one you’re going to have to