Dead Like You

peaceful.
    And it was a rising tide. Nothing like it.
    Uh-huh.

122
    Friday 20 February
    Darren Spicer was feeling in a good mood. He stopped off at the pub, which had become his regular staging post on his way back home from work, for his now customary two pints with whisky chasers. He was becoming a creature of habit! You didn’t have to be in prison to have a routine; you could have one outside too.
    He was enjoying his new routine. Commuting to the Grand from the night shelter – always by foot, to save the pennies and to keep fit. There was a young lady who worked as a chambermaid at the hotel called Tia whom he was getting sweet on – and he reckoned she was getting sweet on him too. She was Filipina, pretty, in her early thirties, with a boyfriend she’d left because he beat her up. They were getting to know each other pretty well, although they hadn’t actually yet done it , so to speak. But that was just a matter of time now.
    They had a date tomorrow. It was difficult in the evenings, because of having to be back for lock-in, but tomorrow they would be spending all day together. She shared a room in a little flat up off the Lewes Road and, giggling, had told him her room-mate was going to be away for the weekend. Tomorrow, with luck, he reckoned, they’d be shagging all day.
    He had another whisky to celebrate, a quality one this time, a single malt, Glenlivet. Mustn’t drink too much, he knew, because arriving back at St Patrick’s drunk was a sure way to get thrown out. And now he was getting close to his coveted MiPod. So just the one Glenlivet. Not that money was no object – but the old cash situation was improving all the time.
    He’d managed to get himself on to room maintenance at the hotel, because they were short of staff. He had a plastic pass key to get him into every guest room in the building. And he had today’s takings from the room safes he’d opened up tucked in his pocket. He’d been cautious. He was going to keep his promise to himself to stay out of prison this time for good. All he took was a tiny fraction of any cash he found in the safes. Of course he had been tempted by some of the fancy watches and jewellery, but he’d stuck to his guns, and was proud of his self-discipline.
    In these past four and a half weeks, he’d stashed away nearly four grand in his chained suitcase in the locker at St Patrick’s. Property prices had come down, thanks to the recession. With what Tia earned, and with what he could put down as a cash deposit in, say, a year’s time, he should be able to buy a little flat somewhere in the Brighton area. Or even move right away to somewhere a lot cheaper. Perhaps warmer.
    Perhaps Spain.
    Maybe Tia would like to be in a warm country.
    Of course it was all a pipe dream. He hadn’t talked about any future with her yet. The thought of hopefully shagging her tomorrow was about as far as he had got. But he felt good about her. She gave off a warmth that made him feel happy every time he stood near her or talked to her. Sometimes you needed to go with your instincts.
    And his instincts, ten minutes later, as he turned right off Western Road into Cambridge Road told him that something was not good.
    It was the shiny silver Ford Focus estate double-parked almost outside the front door of the St Patrick’s night shelter, with someone sitting in the driving seat.
    When you spent your life trying not to get nicked, you developed a kind of second sense, your antennae always up for spotting plain-clothes police and their vehicles. His eyes locked on the four short antennae on the roof of the Ford.
    Shit.
    Fear crashed through him. For an instant, he debated whether to turn and run, then empty his pockets. But he’d left it too late. The burly, bald, black detective who was standing in the doorway had already clocked him. Spicer decided he’d have to try to bluff it out.
    Shit , he thought again, his dream fading away. And tomorrow’s shag with sweet Tia. The grim, green walls of Lewes Prison closing around his mind.
    ‘Hello, Darren,’ Detective Sergeant Branson greeted him, with a big cheery grin. ‘How’s it going?’
    Spicer looked at him warily. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Wonder if I could have a word with you.’ He pointed at the door. ‘They’re letting us use that interview room – OK with you?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Spicer shrugged. ‘What’s this about?’
    ‘Just a little chat. Got a bit of news I thought you might like to