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years’ absence had recently been declared legally dead, allowing him and Cleo to marry. He’d carried the fish home in a water-filled plastic bag, and according to Sandy’s research, the life expectancy of fairground goldfish was less than a year.
    Now eleven years on, Marlon was still going strong. In the Guinness World Records , which Roy had recently consulted, the longest-lived goldfish in the world achieved forty-three years. Still some way to go, but for sure Marlon showed no signs of pegging out anytime soon. And secretly, Roy was glad about that. In a strange way—one he would never tell Cleo about—Marlon provided a link back to Sandy. He knew that he would be sad when he eventually died. And indeed, every morning when Roy came downstairs, the first thing he did was to look at the bowl, hoping that Marlon would not be floating lifelessly on the surface.
    â€œAs we’re moving, darling, I think Marlon should move too. I’ve just read, on the internet, that goldfish need a bigger tank than people realize.”
    â€œOh? How big? Like an Olympic-size pool?” Cleo said.
    He grinned. “No, but big enough to stretch their legs—or rather, fins.”
    â€œJust so long as it’s not bigger than our new house—or I would be getting extremely jealous. And in which case, sushi, my love?”
    He looked at her, quizzically. “Don’t even go there!”
    â€œLove me, love my fish, right?”
    He put his arms around her. “God, I adore you.”
    She stared into his eyes. “And I adore you. I love you more than anything I could ever have imagined, Detective Superintendent Grace.”
    She kissed him.
    Then his work phone rang.
    It was Andy Anakin, the Golf 99—the term for the divisional duty uniformed inspector at Brighton’s John Street police station—which had the somewhat unwelcome reputation as the second busiest police station in England. Unlike most of his colleagues, who had the ability to remain calm in any situation, this particular inspector had acquired the nickname of “Panicking Anakin.” He sounded like he was panicking now.
    â€œSir,” he said, seemingly out of breath. “The DI’s dealing with another urgent situation, and asked me to call you to give you the heads-up that we have a possible kidnap or abduction. A young woman has gone missing after screaming down the phone to her fiancé that there was an intruder in an underground car park in Kemp Town.”
    â€œWhat information do you have on it?” Roy asked, immediately concerned.
    â€œVery little, sir, you see, that’s the thing. Very little so far. I’ve units doing a house-to-house in the area, and a distraught boyfriend who believes his fiancée has been abducted. We’re doing all we can, but it’s not looking good, sir. Really it’s not. Ops-1 has alerted the duty Gold and Critical Incident Manager.”
    Grace’s heart sank. It didn’t sound or feel good. “What do you know about the couple?”
    â€œHer name’s Logan Somerville. Twenty-four, recently qualified as a chiropractor, works at a practice in Portland Road, Hove. His name’s Jamie Ball. He’s a marketing manager for the pet food division of the Condor Food Group—works at their offices near Croydon. We’re checking him out further.”
    With eighty percent of victims of violence harmed or killed by an immediate member of their family or someone close to them, Grace was well aware that loved ones were always people who deserved close investigation. He had been called, he knew, not solely because he was the on-call Senior Investigating Officer, but because he was also a trained kidnap and hostage negotiator. But if this did become an active investigation he wouldn’t be carrying out both roles.
    â€œI think we need to seal off the county, sir,” Anakin said. “Roadblocks on all major roads, sir. Put out