ace and nine he now had a full house. Nines on aces. He looked at the five open cards carefully, thinking hard. There was virtually nothing that could beat him, from what was showing. The only possible higher full house was if someone had two aces as their hole cards. He looked at his fellow players, then raised the bet to ten pounds.
Bob Thornton, tongue flicking again, raised to thirty pounds. Everyone else folded.
Grace studied the old detective for some moments. He was bluffing, he was sure. He matched his bet and raised him by a further thirty pounds.
Thornton moved a further thirty pounds of chips forward. ‘See you,’ he said.
Grace flipped up his two hole cards triumphantly.
But his triumph was short-lived.
Thornton flipped his cards to reveal a pair of queens. ‘Full house,’ he said. ‘Queens on nines.’
Grace grimaced as Thornton scooped the pot over towards his already massive pile of chips.
Thornton grinned at him, then flicked his tongue mischievously.
Bastard! Grace thought, realizing he had been outsmarted. The canny sod had realized, somehow, that Roy had picked up on his little giveaway and had just now used it against him.
At that moment Cleo appeared. ‘Supper’s ready! How’s everyone doing?’
17
Thursday evening, 24 October
Red sat in front of her television with a glass of wine in her hand, mesmerized by the images of the blazing restaurant, Cuba Libre, on the edge of Brighton’s Lanes.
And deeply dismayed.
It was her favourite restaurant in the city, and it was where, in happier times, Bryce had taken her on their first date. It had a big, airy interior, with a great bar, comfortable sofas and a terrific menu. Karl, by coincidence, had also taken her there on their first solo date.
On the screen she watched a helicopter circling above the building. A reporter standing in the road, mike in her hand and surrounded by strobing blue lights, was shouting to the camera that the blaze, which had begun in the kitchen, was now out of control.
Red drained her glass, refilled it, and although she was making an effort to quit smoking to please Karl, she lit her third cigarette of the evening.
Then her doorbell rang.
Please God, be Karl!
She ran over to the intercom and stared at the tiny black-and-white video screen. And her heart sank. She saw two uniformed police officers.
She pressed the speak button. ‘Hello?’
‘Ms Red Westwood?’ The female officer spoke. ‘This is Sergeant Nelson and PC Spofford from Sussex Police. I’m sorry to trouble you so late. Is it possible to have a word?’
Red’s heart was pounding. Constable Spofford had been to see her on many of the occasions she’d called the police when Bryce was being violent to her, and she had met Sergeant Nelson before, too.
It was 10.30 p.m. Her nerves had been shot to hell after being with Bryce. Some months ago, at the suggestion of her friend, Raquel, who had read about the charity in the Argus , she had turned for guidance to the Sanctuary Scheme. On the day she had finally plucked up the courage to throw Bryce out, they had arranged the securing of the front door and windows, and the installation of a spyhole in the door. They had recommended she make a formal report to the police and press charges, but she hadn’t wanted to do that and risk angering Bryce further.
Despite these precautions, she had still been concerned, which was why she had moved to temporary accommodation in this flat, in the hope that he would not be able to find her.
She walked out into the hall, past her expensive Specialized road bike, which she kept inside her flat after having had the previous one stolen. She had a second bike for getting around town, which she referred to as her shit bike , padlocked down in the hallway. If that one got stolen, it wouldn’t matter too much.
‘Come on up.’ She pressed the buzzer, peered through the spyhole, because she could never be totally sure who might be out on the landing, then removed
Bob Thornton, tongue flicking again, raised to thirty pounds. Everyone else folded.
Grace studied the old detective for some moments. He was bluffing, he was sure. He matched his bet and raised him by a further thirty pounds.
Thornton moved a further thirty pounds of chips forward. ‘See you,’ he said.
Grace flipped up his two hole cards triumphantly.
But his triumph was short-lived.
Thornton flipped his cards to reveal a pair of queens. ‘Full house,’ he said. ‘Queens on nines.’
Grace grimaced as Thornton scooped the pot over towards his already massive pile of chips.
Thornton grinned at him, then flicked his tongue mischievously.
Bastard! Grace thought, realizing he had been outsmarted. The canny sod had realized, somehow, that Roy had picked up on his little giveaway and had just now used it against him.
At that moment Cleo appeared. ‘Supper’s ready! How’s everyone doing?’
17
Thursday evening, 24 October
Red sat in front of her television with a glass of wine in her hand, mesmerized by the images of the blazing restaurant, Cuba Libre, on the edge of Brighton’s Lanes.
And deeply dismayed.
It was her favourite restaurant in the city, and it was where, in happier times, Bryce had taken her on their first date. It had a big, airy interior, with a great bar, comfortable sofas and a terrific menu. Karl, by coincidence, had also taken her there on their first solo date.
On the screen she watched a helicopter circling above the building. A reporter standing in the road, mike in her hand and surrounded by strobing blue lights, was shouting to the camera that the blaze, which had begun in the kitchen, was now out of control.
Red drained her glass, refilled it, and although she was making an effort to quit smoking to please Karl, she lit her third cigarette of the evening.
Then her doorbell rang.
Please God, be Karl!
She ran over to the intercom and stared at the tiny black-and-white video screen. And her heart sank. She saw two uniformed police officers.
She pressed the speak button. ‘Hello?’
‘Ms Red Westwood?’ The female officer spoke. ‘This is Sergeant Nelson and PC Spofford from Sussex Police. I’m sorry to trouble you so late. Is it possible to have a word?’
Red’s heart was pounding. Constable Spofford had been to see her on many of the occasions she’d called the police when Bryce was being violent to her, and she had met Sergeant Nelson before, too.
It was 10.30 p.m. Her nerves had been shot to hell after being with Bryce. Some months ago, at the suggestion of her friend, Raquel, who had read about the charity in the Argus , she had turned for guidance to the Sanctuary Scheme. On the day she had finally plucked up the courage to throw Bryce out, they had arranged the securing of the front door and windows, and the installation of a spyhole in the door. They had recommended she make a formal report to the police and press charges, but she hadn’t wanted to do that and risk angering Bryce further.
Despite these precautions, she had still been concerned, which was why she had moved to temporary accommodation in this flat, in the hope that he would not be able to find her.
She walked out into the hall, past her expensive Specialized road bike, which she kept inside her flat after having had the previous one stolen. She had a second bike for getting around town, which she referred to as her shit bike , padlocked down in the hallway. If that one got stolen, it wouldn’t matter too much.
‘Come on up.’ She pressed the buzzer, peered through the spyhole, because she could never be totally sure who might be out on the landing, then removed
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