The Hawk Is Dead by Peter James

Author:Peter James [James, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2025-08-19T17:00:00+00:00

54

Saturday 25 November 2023

The drive from his home, near Henfield, across to Ringmer took Roy Grace along the foot of the South Downs, past Lewes where the Police HQ was, and through beautiful countryside, with the hills of the Downs to his right. Views he never tired of.

He had considered swinging by HQ to pick up Branson and bring him along, too, but decided he could do without the chiding his colleague would give him for not heeding his instructions to at least take the morning off.

Cleo understood, although he could see the disappointment on her face and the even bigger disappointment on Noah’s and Molly’s. He felt terrible. The same guilt that always enveloped him like a cloud whenever he had to let his family down. And to make it even worse, right now, at 10.30 a.m., it was promising to be chilly but perfect sunny weather.

Following the satnav he turned off the main road that ran through the village of Ringmer and briefly headed back towards the Downs, before then making a right turn into a pleasant, modern close of identical, three-bedroom detached houses, each with a small front garden, a car port and a garage. A minute or so later he pulled his Alfa Romeo saloon to a halt outside No. 31, which had definitely the most immaculate garden in the entire close. The front lawn looked like it had been trimmed with nail scissors and the two vehicles in front of the garage, a Ford Explorer and a Nissan Micra, gleamed as if they were on a showroom forecourt.

Denton Scroope greeted him at the front door, in a baggy sweater, even baggier jeans and horrible slippers. ‘Good morning, Roy, it is very good to see you again. I trust it is all right to call you Roy, rather than sir, now I’m retired?’

‘Of course, Roy is absolutely fine.’

‘I just like to establish the protocol.’ Scroope spoke as slowly and pedantically as ever, and looking even more like a bespectacled aardvark than Grace remembered. ‘Please, come in, but if you wouldn’t mind removing your shoes – the boss . . .’ He gave a small shrug.

Grace, casually dressed, complied, stooping to remove his trainers, then went inside, stepping onto a pristine mustard-coloured carpet, and was immediately hit by the clammy, airless warmth and a rank, sour reek. Pets of some kind, he guessed, wrinkling his nose. Hamsters? Snakes? Guinea pigs?

The centrepiece of the tiny hallway was a bust of an arrogantlooking man with long, flowing hair and a pointy beard, set into a niche.

‘Charles I,’ Scroope said, as Grace stared at it.

‘Ah.’

‘Did I ever tell you, Roy, that it was one of my ancestors who signed his death warrant?’

‘Yes, yes you did, Denton.’ Politely, he didn’t add, quite a number of times.

‘Not really a close relative – more a distant cousin, many times removed – I’m not so much a branch of his family tree, more a twig, haha!’

‘I think you told me that, too,’ he said.

‘Ah yes.

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