Why hadn’t he thought to ask whether she was in a relationship?

That long kiss in the taxi – all the way back to her apartment – that wasn’t the behaviour of a woman in love with her fiancé, was it? Even with the alcohol talking?

With the sun sinking but still well above the horizon, Grace watched his lengthening shadow skim the planks ahead of him, Nicholl’s considerably taller one bobbing along beside it. The DC, hands in his pockets with an envelope containing Janie Stretton’s photographs tucked under his arm, loped along, slightly stooped as if he was embarrassed about his six foot six inches. He had been quiet as usual on the way here – which Grace was grateful for tonight as he wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

They passed the cooler-than-thou Seattle Hotel, then reached the Karma Bar, with its roped-off outdoor seating area fronting the boardwalk, every table and just about every chair occupied.

Grace followed Nicholl inside. He had been dragged here on a few occasions during the past couple of years, by well-meaning friends who had insisted it was the place in Brighton for a man of his age to meet women. The exotic interior was different to anything else in the city: spacious, with a warm glow from oriental lanterns, inviting cushions strewn around recessed banquettes, a long bar, and decor influenced – to his eye at least – by India, Morocco and the Far East.

Nick Nicholl went up to a pretty girl behind the bar. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Ricky.’

She looked around, then said pleasantly, ‘I think he’s in the office. Is he expecting you?’

‘Yes. Could you tell him it’s Detective Constable Nicholl and Detective Superintendent Grace to see him – we spoke about half an hour ago.’

She went off to find him.

‘Your guy from the Met, this DI Dickinson, the SIO of the case in Wimbledon with the murdered girl wearing the scarab bracelet. It’s tomorrow midday we’re seeing him now, right?’ Grace checked with Nick.

‘Yes.’

‘Probably just as well he didn’t want to do it today – I don’t think we’d have fitted him in.’

They both leaned on the bar. A Joss Stone song was playing. ‘I like her,’ Grace said.

Nicholl shrugged. ‘Country and western’s my thing, really.’

‘Who do you like?’

He shrugged again. ‘Johnny Cash is the man. Rachel and I were going to line-dancing classes – had to stop with the little one on its way.’

‘They change your life, kids, so I’m told,’ Grace said, staring down at a pile of Absolute Brighton magazines next to an ashtray.

‘Prenatal classes aren’t as much fun,’ the DC admitted, with a glum nod.

A couple of minutes later the barmaid returned, and ushered them up some stairs into a comfortable office containing bland, functional furniture, in stark contrast to the bar. There was a desk behind which a young man with spiky hair dressed in a T-shirt and jeans was sitting, a sofa and a couple of armchairs, an elaborate sound system, and a bank of black and white monitors on which there were closed-circuit television images of the interior and exterior of the bar.

The young man stood up with a cheery smile and came round to the front of the desk. ‘Hi, nice to meet you, Mr Nicholl,’ he said, and shook their hands. Looking at Grace, he added, ‘I’m Ricky, the manager. Read about you in the Argus – was it yesterday?’

‘Could have been.’

‘Thought they were a bit brutal, like. Can I offer you guys a drink?’

‘I’d love a mineral water – still if possible.’

‘A Diet Coke?’ Nick Nicholl said.

The manager picked up his phone and ordered the drinks, then gestured to them to sit down. They sat on the sofa and Ricky pulled up a chair. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, directing his remarks at the Detective Constable and tapping the side of his head. ‘I got a good memory for faces – need to here, to remember the troublemakers. As I said on the phone, I’m sure that girl you was looking for came in here just over a week ago. Friday night, with a bloke. It was lucky – the tapes normally get wiped after a week – but we’ve had a bit of bother. You won’t bust us or anything?’

Grace grinned. ‘I’m not interested in busting you; I just want to find Janie Stretton’s killer.’

‘OK, we’re cool.’ Then Ricky frowned. ‘What was that stuff I read about a beetle – a scarab?’

‘It’s not important,’ Grace replied, a little more curtly than he had intended.

‘Just interested, cos we got one in here on a shelf in the VIP room – a little bronze, part of the decor. Pushing a ball of bronze shit. Yuk!’

‘Where did you get it from?’ Grace asked.

‘Dunno, the interior decorator was responsible for all that stuff.’ Ricky picked up a remote control and pressed a button. ‘Watch the monitor in the centre,’ he said.

There was a flicker that momentarily turned into a blur, then a series of images dropped down as if the horizontal hold was on the blink. The image stabilized, showing a wide-angle sweep of the very crowded bar, with the date and time running in the bottom right-hand corner.

‘Watch the door, the one that goes out the front, now!’ Ricky said, sounding excited.

Grace saw a muscular man in his thirties with a lean, hard face and a mean, king-of-the-jungle expression, walk in towing a girl with long hair, dressed in a tight-fitting miniskirt. It was Janie Stretton. No question.

He studied her companion carefully, watching his strutting gait which reminded him of the way Paras walked, as if ready to take on all-comers. The man had gelled spikes of short hair, sported a thick chain around his neck, and was dressed in a singlet and slacks. Holding Janie Stretton’s hand all the way, he cut a swathe through the crowd and went straight up to the bar, at which point the camera, moving in a steady arc, lost them.

A few minutes later the camera picked them up again. The man was holding a pint glass of beer and she had a cocktail of some sort. The man clinked his glass against hers, then, in a curious movement, slid his free hand around her neck, appeared to grab a clump of her hair, pulled her head back and coarsely kissed her neck.

Nick Nicholl had the photographs of Janie Stretton on his lap and was alternately looking down at them then up at the screen. ‘It’s her,’ he said.

‘No question,’ Grace confirmed. ‘Absolutely.’ Looking at the manager, he asked, ‘Who’s her squeeze?’

‘Dunno, never seen him before.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Not one hundred per cent, no – we get an awful lot of people in here. But I don’t think so.’

Grace’s mobile phone rang. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced down at the display.

It was Cleo Morey.

Excusing himself, he hit the button to answer and stepped out of the office.

She sounded very sweet and very humble. ‘I just wondered if you were up for a drink tonight – if you’d like to come over here?’

He melted at the sound of her voice. ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘But I have a good two hours work to do.’

‘So, come over after that – for a nightcap?’

‘Umm…’ he said, totally thrown. This was not the time or place for this sort of conversation.

‘I’ve got wine, beer, vodka.’

‘Any whisky?’ he teased.

‘Now that’s a strange coincidence. I have a whole bottle of Glenfiddich I bought this afternoon.’

‘Obviously synchronicity,’ Grace said, trying to sound cooler than he felt – and not succeeding.

‘Obviously.’