You Are Dead by Peter James Page B

screen a man’s face above a turned-up collar.
    â€œHello?” he said.
    â€œMr. Ball?”
    â€œYes,” he blurted, anxiously.
    â€œDetective Superintendent Grace. May I have a word with you?”
    â€œPlease come up. Ninth floor.”
    Two minutes later Jamie opened the front door to see a pleasant-looking man of about forty, with a rugged face beneath short, gelled fair hair, a nose that looked like it had been busted, possibly more than once, and sharp, alert, blue eyes. He held up a police warrant card.
    â€œDetective Superintendent Roy Grace, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. Have you heard from your fiancée?”
    â€œNo—not—not anything, not a word. Please come in—thank you for coming. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”
    â€œNo, thank you, I’m fine.” Grace could smell alcohol on the man’s breath and he looked a little unsteady. He was a burly, bearded man with a rugby player’s build, and with a stacked-up modern hairstyle, dressed in jeans and a V-neck cardigan over a white T-shirt, shoeless in red socks.
    He led the detective through into a living room, with a kitchen area partitioned off by a bar, on which stood a beer glass and several empty cans of lager. He ushered him to one of two small sofas either side of a glass coffee table, where copies of Sussex Life and Latest magazine lay.
    Susi Holliday, on the other sofa, stood up and greeted Grace with a respectful, “Good evening, sir.”
    Roy Grace removed his coat, folded it and laid it beside him. Then he studied the man carefully. “Can you give me your full name, Mr. Ball?”
    â€œYes, Jamie Gordon Ball.”
    Still watching the man intently, he asked, “When did you last see Logan?”
    â€œThis morning, about seven o’clock. She tripped getting out of bed and gashed her toe open on the bathroom door. I would have driven her to the hospital on any other day, but I had a very important early meeting at work.”
    Grace noted his reply but made no comment. “She gave you no indication that she was going anywhere tonight?”
    â€œNo, none. We’d made plans to have a Chinese tonight—there’s a place nearby that delivers—we have it regularly—and we were going to watch a couple of episodes of Breaking Bad —we’re working our way through it.”
    â€œGreat show,” Grace said.
    â€œIt is, we’re totally hooked.”
    â€œWhere does Logan work?”
    â€œIn Hove, she’s a chiropractor—she works in a clinic on Portland Road.”
    So far, the man’s body language indicated he was telling the truth. “How would you describe your relationship?”
    Ball was quiet for a moment, then he said, “We love each other.”
    For the first time the man’s demeanor indicated that he might be lying.
    â€œHave you set a date for your wedding?” Grace pressed.
    He looked even more uncomfortable now. “Yes—well, not exactly.”
    â€œNot exactly?”
    â€œWe’re sort of—discussing it.”
    â€œSort of?”
    â€œYes.” He shrugged, awkwardly.
    Grace looked at him even more intently. “Has Logan ever done this before—not come home?”
    â€œNever. Look—I heard her scream. I don’t know if you’ve been down there, but the car park here is really creepy. There’s been a raft of car break-ins and thefts. The management of this place don’t give a toss. She phoned me to say she had seen someone as she drove in. Then she screamed. Then I—”
    He covered his face with his hands.
    Grace watched him. His distress seemed genuine. Yet at the same time, he was uncomfortable about the way Ball was describing his relationship with his fiancée—something was not ringing true.
    â€œSomething’s happened to her, Detective—Superintendent—something’s happened to her. This is just not like her.