He raised his eyes not in supplication but simply to focus his mind away from these distractions. His gaze met that of the little marble dog who was peering over the end of the tomb as if in hope that after so many centuries of immobility at last someone was going to cry, ‘Walkies!’
‘OK,’ said Dalziel. ‘We’re in the right place. Confession time!’
09.00-09.20
David Gidman the Third awoke.
It was Sunday. That was something being brought up in England did for you. Maybe it was some ancient race-memory, maybe all those church bells set up a vibration of the air even when you were well out of ear-shot; whatever it was, physical or metaphysical, it was strong enough to make itself felt no matter how many supermarkets were open, no matter how many football matches were being played.
You woke, you knew it was Sunday. And that was good.
He rolled over and came up against naked flesh.
He felt it cautiously. A woman.
That was even better.
She responded to his touch by saying sleepily, ‘Hi, Dave.’
He grunted, not risking more till he was certain who it was.
Like a blind man reading Braille, his fingers traced round her nipples and spelt out her name. He gave her a gentle tweak and breathed, ‘Hi, Sophie.’
She turned to him and they kissed.
This was better and better.
‘So how shall we spend today?’ she murmured.
The bedside phone rang before he could answer.
He rolled away and grabbed the receiver.
‘Hello,’ he said.
He knew who it was before he heard the voice. Like Sunday, his PA, Maggie Pinchbeck, created her own vibes.
‘Just checking you’re awake and functioning. I’ll be round in an hour.’
‘An hour?’
‘To go over the timetable. Then at half ten I’ll drive you to St Osith’s. OK?’