Free You Are Dead by Peter James

I’ll do. Thank you!”
    â€œLet me know if you need an agent,” Glenn replied. “My terms are very reasonable.”
    She turned back to Roy Grace. “Separately, is there any news on the misper from last night, Logan Somerville? Operation Haywain?”
    Grace stared at her, momentarily thrown by her knowledge. Her predecessor had been fired from the Argus for illegal phone tapping, after constantly coming up with information the police had not yet released. Was she doing the same now? Or did she have a source within the police? He had just come from the first briefing, and was due to head over to the car park where Logan Somerville had apparently disappeared, as soon as he had checked out the situation here. He was guarded in his reply.
    â€œWhat information do you have?” he asked her.
    â€œI heard she had broken off her engagement with her boyfriend recently. Does that make her disappearance suspicious? I understand there is a manhunt underway.”
    Grace clocked that piece of information about the engagement to his memory bank. “We are in the process of gathering information at this point,” he said. “The Press Office will be able to update you later this morning. But so you know, we have every available officer and PCSO out looking for Ms. Somerville, and they’ve been looking through the night.”
    â€œThank you, Detective Superintendent.”
    â€œI have your mobile number,” Glenn Branson said. “I’ll call you if there are any developments.”
    She thanked him and headed off across the Lagoon.
    As they ducked under the tape, they were greeted by Dave Green, also fully suited in protective clothing.
    â€œHow’s it going?” Grace asked.
    â€œWe’ve found a cigarette butt with the remains,” he said. “I’m sending it off for analysis. But that’s all I’m sending so far.”
    As they sat down inside the changing-room tent, and pulled on their protective oversuits, Grace said to Branson, “Are you a bit sweet on that Argus reporter?”
    â€œJust trying to cultivate the local press—like you always taught me.” He gave him a mischievous grin.
    â€œThere’s a big difference between cultivate and shag , mate, OK?”
    â€œYeah, there’s a lot more vowels in cultivate. ”
    â€œJust don’t go there,” Grace said. “I’m serious. If you’re ambitious, keep the press at arm’s length—not at dick’s length. Also think about your kids. It’s not that long since their mother died.”
    â€œYeah, but plenty long enough since she kicked me out and brought in a new bloke as their substitute dad,” Branson said grimly. The DI, struggling to pull his suit over his hips, gave his friend a sideways glance. “You’ve recently married one of the most beautiful women on the planet. I never put you down for someone with penis envy.”
    â€œSod you!”
    â€œYou’ve got to admit Siobhan’s well tasty.”
    â€œSo was the apple on the tree in Genesis.”

 
    19
    Friday 12 December
    Dr. Edward Crisp was a short, toned man, with a bald dome and neat, graying hair at his temples. He wore fashionably modern glasses that were too big for his face, giving him a quizzical expression, as if he were peering out at the world through goggles.
    A fastidious dresser, he was attired today in a handmade charcoal suit from Brighton society tailor Gresham Blake, a pale blue shirt and a pink silk tie, both from Jermyn Street, and shiny black Chelsea boots from Crockett and Jones in London’s Burlington Arcade. His scruffy black and white dog, Smut, which most of his patients were fond of, slept beside his desk on a cushion inside a wire-framed basket.
    Although the modern trend for family doctors was to work with a group in a medical center, he preferred to work alone, in the same office he had occupied for over twenty-five years. It