You Are Dead by Peter James

who could obtain recall from witnesses of things they had seen or heard that they were unaware they had remembered. He looked at his watch. Realistically it would be too late tonight by the time it could be set up. “We’ll arrange it for first thing in the morning—assuming Logan Somerville hasn’t turned up. Let me have the witness’s contact details, and the boyfriend—fiancé’s. I want them both interviewed.”
    Webbon gave them to him, and Grace noted them down. Then Grace said, “Have the whole underground car park sealed off—nothing to go in or out, which I believe has already been put in place. I want Somerville’s Fiat removed for forensic examination, but first get a Police Search Advisor and team down there as fast as possible to do a fingertip search. I’m treating this as a crime in action.”
    Trained members of the Specialist Search Unit would work on their hands and knees; if there was any evidence—such as a speck of blood or a discarded cigarette butt—they would find it.
    As soon as he had ended the call, Roy Grace phoned both the force Gold and the Critical Incident Manager, before he made another call to his new boss, and former adversary, Assistant Chief Constable Cassian Pewe. It was protocol to notify the chiefs of any impending major inquiry, so they didn’t hear it first from a journalist and find themselves in the embarrassing situation of sounding uninformed.
    Pewe answered almost immediately, his voice smarmily pleasant. “Roy, very good to hear from you. How are things?” Grace could hear heavy opera music playing loudly in the background. A deep sonorous dirge.
    A year and a half earlier, on a temporary posting from London’s Metropolitan Police, Pewe had made Roy Grace’s life hell for some weeks, when he had taken it upon himself to order the garden of the home Grace had shared with Sandy to be scanned and dug up in a search for her remains. It had started a bitter feud between the two senior detectives which had culminated first in Grace saving the man’s life—reluctantly—after a clifftop car chase, and then in Grace accusing him of tampering with evidence. Pewe, with his tail between his legs, had applied successfully for a transfer back to the Met.
    What Roy Grace hadn’t known then—and still did not know—was that many years back, Cassian Pewe had had a brief affair with Sandy.
    Now, to Grace’s utter horror and disgust, Pewe had returned to Sussex Police as the Assistant Chief Constable to whom he had to report. The soon-to-be retiring Chief Constable, Tom Martinson, had done his best to assure him that Pewe had no animosity toward him. And, to be fair, so far so good. But Grace felt that lurking behind the phoney bonhomie, Pewe was itching for revenge, and subtly biding his time. Grace had to make damned sure he did not screw up.
    He informed Pewe of the missing woman and what they knew so far, and the actions they were taking and, separately, told him about the body at the Lagoon.
    As he hung up, he heard Noah crying upstairs. Cleo signaled for him to carry on, and hurried across the room.
    He stood still, thinking for a moment. Two totally different cases slung his way in the space of a few hours. The skeletal remains at Hove Lagoon, and this potential abduction. He could not deal with them both, he needed to delegate one to another detective. The remains had been there since before the path had been laid, some twenty years ago, so there was less urgency. Right now the absolute priority was to find Logan Somerville.
    His next call was to DI Glenn Branson, updating him and appointing him Senior Investigating Officer for the remains at the Lagoon. The police computerized operations naming system, working through famous paintings, had allocated the case the name Operation Mona Lisa . Branson would ensure the remains were recovered by the forensic archaeologist to the mortuary