Free Dead Simple by Peter James

beautiful girl raped and strangled and left in a churchyard fifteen years back. Pamela Chisholm, a rich widow found dead in her wrecked car — but with the wrong kind of injuries for a car accident. The skeletal remains of Pratap Gokhale, a nine-year-old Indian boy found under floorboards at the flat of a suspected paedophile — long vanished. These were just a few of the many cases Grace remembered.
    Although they were interred, or their ashes had been scattered a long time ago, circumstances changed for them too. Technology had brought in DNA testing, which threw up new evidence and new suspects. The internet had brought new means of communication. Loyalties had changed. New witnesses had emerged from the woodwork. People had divorced. Fallen out with their friends. Someone who wouldn’t testify against a mate twenty years ago now hated him. Murder files never closed.
Slow time
, they called it.
    The phone rang. It was the management support assistant he shared with his immediate boss, the Assistant Chief Constable, asking if he wanted to take a call from a detective. The whole political correctness thing irritated him more and more, and it was particularly strong in the Police Force. It hadn’t been so long ago when they called them
secretaries
, not bloody
management support assistants
.
    He told her to put him through, and moments later heard a familiar voice. Glenn Branson, a bright Detective Sergeant he’d worked with several times in the past, fiercely ambitious and razor sharp — as well as being a walking encyclopedia on movies. He liked Glenn Branson a lot. He was probably the closest friend he had.
    ‘Roy? How you doing? Seen you in the papers today.’
    ‘Yup, well you can fuck off. What do you want?’
    ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘No, I’m not OK.’
    ‘Are you busy right now?’
    ‘How do you define busy.’
    ‘Ever given an answer in your life that isn’t a question?’
    Grace smiled. ‘Have you?’
    ‘Listen, I’m being pestered by a woman — about her fiancé. Seems like some stag-night prank has gone seriously wrong, and he’s been missing since Tuesday night.’
    Grace had to do a mental check on the date. It was Thursday afternoon now. ‘Tell me?’
    ‘Thought you’d be in court today. Tried your mobile, but it’s off.’
    ‘I’m having lunch. Got a break from court — Judge Driscoll’s having a day in chambers dealing with submissions from the defence.’
    One of the major drawbacks of bringing a prosecution to trial was the time it consumed. Grace, as the senior officer, had to be either in court or in close touch during the whole trial. This one was likely to last a good three months — and much of that time was just hanging around.
    ‘I don’t feel this is a normal missing persons enquiry — I’d like to pick your brains. You free this afternoon by any chance?’ Glenn Branson asked.
    To anyone else, Grace would have said no, but he knew Glenn Branson wasn’t a time waster — and hell, right now he was pleased to have an excuse to get out of the office, even into this shitty weather. ‘Sure, I can make some time.’
    ‘Cool.’ There was a moment’s pause, then Glenn Branson said, ‘Look, could we meet at this guy’s flat — I think it would be helpful if you saw it for yourself — I can get the key and meet you there.’ Branson gave him the address.
    Grace glanced at his watch, then at the diary on his Blackberry. ‘How about meeting there at half five? We could go on for a drink.’
    ‘It won’t take you three hours to get — oh — I guess a man of your age has to start taking it slowly. See you later.’
    Grace winced. He didn’t like reminders of his looming big four-O birthday. He didn’t like the idea of being forty — it was an age when people took stock of their lives. He’d read somewhere that when you reached forty you’d reached the shape your life was going to be for good. Somehow, being thirty-eight was OK. But thirty-nine meant you were very