and shut his mouth, flicking his tongue along his lips in a serpent-like manner. Grace, who reckoned he could read the man’s body language, knew immediately he didn’t have to worry about Bob’s hand – unless he got lucky on either of the next two cards, the turn and the river.
But to his surprise, Bob Thornton matched his two pounds and raised him three. Grace eyed the rest of his companions. Gary Bleasdale, wearing a sweatshirt over a T-shirt, was a thirty-four-year-old detective in Brighton CID; he had a serious, narrow face beneath short curly hair; he was peering at his cards impassively.
Next to Gary sat Chris Croke, a motorcycle cop in the Road Policing Unit. With lean and wiry good looks, short blond hair, blue eyes and a quick-fire charm, Croke was a consummate ladies’ man, who, thanks to having married a wealthy woman, seemed to live the lifestyle more of a playboy than that of a cop. He was a reckless and unpredictable gambler, and in seven years of playing with him, Grace found his body language hard to decipher. He never seemed to care whether he won or lost; it was much easier to read people who had something at stake. Croke now doubled the ante by raising a full five pounds.
Grace turned his focus on Frank Newton, a quiet, balding man who worked in IT at Brighton police station. He rarely bluffed, rarely raised, and as a result rarely finished any evening up. Newton’s giveaway was a nervous twitch of his right eye – the sure-fire signal that he had a strong hand. It was twitching now. But then, suddenly, he shook his head. ‘I’m out.’
It was back round to Grace. He either had to raise his bet or drop out. He had two pairs and there were two more cards to come. No other aces or nines were showing. He tossed in a further eight pounds.
Then his mind went back to the suicide note which he had photographed on his phone and now knew by heart. And could not stop thinking about. He’d dealt with his share of suicides over the years, as well as two homicides in the past that had been set up to look like suicides. The pattern for every suicide was different, and who the hell knew what truly went on in the mind of someone about to take that terrible step?
From the little he knew about the victim so far, he was a well-liked and respected family GP. Dr Karl Murphy had gone to play in a golf tournament, and had played well. His sister had collected his two small sons from school, and had been waiting for her brother to return. He had confided to her that he had a date that night and was excited – and had a babysitter arranged.
The mindset of someone on the verge of suicide?
Another card had appeared face up on the table. The three of clubs. No sodding use at all to him, he thought. He looked again at the four cards on the table. With his hidden ace and hidden nine he was still in reasonable shape. There was a total bag of nails in terms of numbers and suits on the table. So it was unlikely anyone was holding a run or a flush in their hand. He pushed a five-pound chip forward, then, as he sank back into his thoughts, his phone rang.
Looking at the display, he saw it was Glenn Branson.
Stepping away apologetically from the table, he answered it.
‘ Sorry to wake you up, old timer.’
‘Very witty!’
‘Our suicide victim at Haywards Heath, yeah?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Frazer Theobald can’t confirm it’s suicide, at this stage, but he’ll know more tomorrow after the post-mortem.’
‘Is he suspicious?’
‘No. But he needs to do a post-mortem before he can be certain.’
‘Okay. Where are you? Still on the golf course?’
‘I’ve been working on my handicap.’
‘Haha!’
‘Yeah, too fucking funny. It’s bloody brass monkeys out here.’
‘Roy!’ someone called out. ‘Are you in?’
Grace ended the call and returned to the table, and saw the final card, the river, was lying face up. It was the nine of hearts.
And suddenly his adrenaline was surging. With his concealed
But to his surprise, Bob Thornton matched his two pounds and raised him three. Grace eyed the rest of his companions. Gary Bleasdale, wearing a sweatshirt over a T-shirt, was a thirty-four-year-old detective in Brighton CID; he had a serious, narrow face beneath short curly hair; he was peering at his cards impassively.
Next to Gary sat Chris Croke, a motorcycle cop in the Road Policing Unit. With lean and wiry good looks, short blond hair, blue eyes and a quick-fire charm, Croke was a consummate ladies’ man, who, thanks to having married a wealthy woman, seemed to live the lifestyle more of a playboy than that of a cop. He was a reckless and unpredictable gambler, and in seven years of playing with him, Grace found his body language hard to decipher. He never seemed to care whether he won or lost; it was much easier to read people who had something at stake. Croke now doubled the ante by raising a full five pounds.
Grace turned his focus on Frank Newton, a quiet, balding man who worked in IT at Brighton police station. He rarely bluffed, rarely raised, and as a result rarely finished any evening up. Newton’s giveaway was a nervous twitch of his right eye – the sure-fire signal that he had a strong hand. It was twitching now. But then, suddenly, he shook his head. ‘I’m out.’
It was back round to Grace. He either had to raise his bet or drop out. He had two pairs and there were two more cards to come. No other aces or nines were showing. He tossed in a further eight pounds.
Then his mind went back to the suicide note which he had photographed on his phone and now knew by heart. And could not stop thinking about. He’d dealt with his share of suicides over the years, as well as two homicides in the past that had been set up to look like suicides. The pattern for every suicide was different, and who the hell knew what truly went on in the mind of someone about to take that terrible step?
From the little he knew about the victim so far, he was a well-liked and respected family GP. Dr Karl Murphy had gone to play in a golf tournament, and had played well. His sister had collected his two small sons from school, and had been waiting for her brother to return. He had confided to her that he had a date that night and was excited – and had a babysitter arranged.
The mindset of someone on the verge of suicide?
Another card had appeared face up on the table. The three of clubs. No sodding use at all to him, he thought. He looked again at the four cards on the table. With his hidden ace and hidden nine he was still in reasonable shape. There was a total bag of nails in terms of numbers and suits on the table. So it was unlikely anyone was holding a run or a flush in their hand. He pushed a five-pound chip forward, then, as he sank back into his thoughts, his phone rang.
Looking at the display, he saw it was Glenn Branson.
Stepping away apologetically from the table, he answered it.
‘ Sorry to wake you up, old timer.’
‘Very witty!’
‘Our suicide victim at Haywards Heath, yeah?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Frazer Theobald can’t confirm it’s suicide, at this stage, but he’ll know more tomorrow after the post-mortem.’
‘Is he suspicious?’
‘No. But he needs to do a post-mortem before he can be certain.’
‘Okay. Where are you? Still on the golf course?’
‘I’ve been working on my handicap.’
‘Haha!’
‘Yeah, too fucking funny. It’s bloody brass monkeys out here.’
‘Roy!’ someone called out. ‘Are you in?’
Grace ended the call and returned to the table, and saw the final card, the river, was lying face up. It was the nine of hearts.
And suddenly his adrenaline was surging. With his concealed
Similar Books
