Looking Good Dead (29 page)

Grace told the team he was expecting a call by 10.00 a.m. from someone from the Witness Protection Scheme with D’Eath’s address. He delegated Norman and Nick to come with him to interview the man; for some reason he couldn’t explain he had a bad feeling about this interview and thought that a show of strength might be needed.

Nick Nicholl reported he had continued the sweep of all the bars, pubs and clubs in Brighton late into the night with the photograph of Janie Stretton, but had still drawn a blank.

Norman reported on his trawl through the clients of the escort agency, BCE-247. So far, he told them, it had not yielded any client who admitted to knowing Janie and none who fitted the identity of the one called Anton. ‘But,’ he said, ‘I have discovered something from another escort agency – it would appear Ms Stretton was registered with both of them.’

He held up a different, even raunchier, photograph of Janie Stretton to the one Grace had seen in the BCE-247 office. It showed her stark naked apart from tassels on her nipples, thigh-high patent leather black boots and studded leather wrist-cuffs, one hand on her hip, the other brandishing a cat-o’-nine-tails.

Grace was surprised at this sudden efficiency. Maybe he had misjudged Potting. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘From the internet,’ Potting said. ‘I did a search of all the girls on offer in the local agencies and recognized her face.’

Grace had imagined the net might be too much for an old-school detective like Potting to get his head around as a research tool. ‘I’m impressed, Norman,’ he said, quietly wondering whether Potting’s trawl through the agency girls had purely been research for this case.

Blushing a little, the Detective Sergeant said, ‘Thank you, Roy. There’s life in the old dog yet, eh!’ He directed a lecherous wink at Emma-Jane, who responded by looking down at her paperwork.

‘Great pair on her,’ Potting said, passing the photograph on to DS Nicholl, seated next to him, who studiously ignored the comment.

Apart from their workstation, MIR One had been almost empty when Grace arrived, but more people were coming in every few minutes, filling up the other two stations. Crime was no respecter of weekends. It would be business as usual for all the Major Incident Teams.

Emma-Jane reported on the overnight task she had been given by Grace. She’d contacted every minicab firm in the Bromley area, in search of the driver of the cab who had picked up a box of scarab beetles from Erridge and Robinson. But so far she’d had no luck.

They were interrupted by a loud burst of rap music. It was the new ringtone on Branson’s mobile. Looking up apologetically he said, ‘Sorry, my kid did that.’ Then he answered with a curt ‘DS Branson’.

A moment later, holding the phone to his ear, Branson stepped away from the workstation. ‘Mr Bryce,’ Grace heard him say, ‘what can I do for you?’

Branson was quiet for some moments, listening, then he said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s not a good line . . . Your wife, did you say? She didn’t come home last night? Still hasn’t? Can you give me a description of the car she was driving?’

Branson came back to the workstation, sat down and began writing on his notepad. ‘All right, sir. I’ll check with Traffic. An Audi A4 estate, sport. I’ll call you back – on this number?’

As he hung up, Nick Nicholl said, ‘An Audi estate, did you say?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

Nicholl typed on his keyboard, then leaned forward, scrolling up through the crime log on the Vantage screen. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I thought so.’

Grace looked at him quizzically.

‘Half past four this morning,’ Nicholl said, still staring at the screen. ‘An Audi estate was found torched up on Ditchling Beacon. The plates were burned off.’

Branson looked at him, his face a picture of deep unease.

46

Jessica, in her pink dressing gown, squatted on the kitchen floor stroking an extremely drowsy Lady. Max, standing above his sister – in a Harry Potter T-shirt which he had on the wrong way round – said very seriously, as if he were a leading authority in such matters, ‘It’s Sunday. I think she is having a Sunday lie-in!’ Then for a few moments he turned his attention to a cartoon on the television.

‘She’s not going to die, is she, Daddy?’ Jessica asked.

Tom, who had not slept a wink – unshaven, his hair a mess, barefoot in a T-shirt and jeans – knelt and put his arm around his daughter. ‘No, darling,’ he said, his voice shaky. ‘She’s just a little bit sick. She’s got a bug or something. We’ll see how she is in an hour or two. If she doesn’t seem better we’ll call the vet.’

He had phoned Kellie’s parents, all her close friends and all his, just in case she had gone to one of them for the night. He had even phoned her sister Martha, who lived in Scotland. No one had seen her, or heard from her. He did not know who else to phone or what to do.

Jessica laid her face against Lady’s and kissed her. ‘I love you, Lady. We’re going to make you better.’

There was no response from the dog.

Max knelt down also and laid his face against the Alsatian’s midriff. ‘We all love you, Lady. You’ll have to get up soon otherwise you’ll miss breakfast!’

None of them had had any breakfast, Tom realized suddenly. It was half past nine.

‘When Mummy comes back she’ll know how to make her better,’ Jessica declared.

‘Yes, of course she will,’ Tom said flatly. ‘You guys must be hungry – what would you like? French toast?’

Kellie always made the kids French toast on Sundays.

‘You don’t make it very well,’ Max said. ‘You always burn it.’ He stood up, picked up the remote and began surfing the channels.

‘I could try not to burn it.’

‘Why can’t Mummy make it?’

‘She will do,’ he said, struggling. ‘I could make you some – to keep you going until she gets back?’

‘Not hungry,’ Max said grumpily.

‘You want some cereal?’

‘You always burn it, Daddy!’ Jessica said, echoing her brother.

‘Can we go to the beach today, Daddy?’ Max asked. ‘Mummy said we could if it was nice – and I think it is nice, don’t you?’

Tom stared leadenly through the window. It looked glorious: blue sky, all the promise of a fine early summer’s day. ‘We’ll see.’

Max’s face fell. ‘Awww. She promised!’

‘Did she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we’ll ask her when she comes home what she’d like to do today, shall we?’

‘She’ll probably just want to drink vodka,’ Jessica said without looking up.

Tom wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly. ‘What did you say, darling?’

Jessica continued stroking the dog.

‘Jessica, what was that you said?’

‘I saw her.’

‘You saw Mummy doing what?’

‘I said I wouldn’t tell.’

Tom frowned. ‘You wouldn’t tell what?’

‘Nothing,’ she said sweetly.

The doorbell rang.

Max ran out into the hallway, shouting excitedly, ‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy’s home!’

Jessica sprang to her feet and followed her brother. Tom was right behind them.

Max pulled the front door open, then stared up in glum surprise at the tall black man in the shiny leather jacket and blue chinos who was standing there. Jessica stopped in her tracks.

Tom did not like the expression on the detective’s face one bit.

Glenn Branson knelt down to bring his face to the same level as Jessica’s. ‘Hello!’ he said.

She fled back towards the kitchen. Max stood his ground, staring at the man.

‘Detective Sergeant Branson,’ Tom said, a little surprised to see him.

‘Could I have a word with you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Tom gestured for him to come in.

Branson looked at Max. ‘How you doing?’

‘Lady won’t wake up,’ the little boy said.

‘Lady?’

‘Our dog,’ Tom explained. ‘I think she has a bug.’

‘I see.’

Max lingered.

‘Why don’t you get some cereal for you and Jessica?’ Tom suggested.

Reluctantly Max turned and trotted back into the kitchen.

Tom closed the front door behind the detective. ‘Do you have some news?’ He was still puzzled by Jessica’s remark about the vodka. What did his daughter mean?

Talking quietly, Glenn Branson said, ‘We’ve found the Audi estate you said your wife was driving. It was burned out, torched, probably by vandals, up on Ditchling Beacon earlier this morning. We did a check on the chassis number – it’s registered in your name.’

Tom stared at him open-mouthed in shock. ‘Burned out?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

‘My wife?’ Tom started shaking uncontrollably.

‘There was no one in it. Happens all the time at weekends. Cars get nicked by joyriders, then they set light to them, either for fun or to get rid of their prints. Usually both.’

It took some moments for it to sink in properly. ‘She was driving the babysitter home,’ he said. ‘How the hell could it have been nicked by joyriders?’

The Detective Sergeant had no answer.

47

The City of Brighton and Hove had so many different faces, Grace thought, and so many diverse people. It seemed that some cities were divided into different ethnic communities, but here in Brighton and Hove it was more like different sociological communities.

There were the genteel elderly, in their mansion blocks or sheltered housing, who on summer days could be seen watching the cricket at the County Ground or playing bowls on the Hove lawns, or sitting in chairs on the promenade, and the beaches in summer, and, if they had the funds, wintering in Spain or the Canaries. And the poorer elderly, shivering out the winter – and half the summer – imprisoned in their damp, dank council flats.

There were the in-your-face wealthy middle classes with their smart detached houses in Hove 4, and the more discreet, in the handsome seafront mansion blocks. And the more modestly off, like Grace, in homes spread out to the west to the suburb of Southwick, directly behind the commercial port of Shoreham Harbour, and in pockets all over the city and stretching well out to the Downs

Much of the colour and vibrancy of Brighton and Hove came from the very visible, and often brash, gay community, and the wall-to-wall students, from Sussex and Brighton Universities and the plethora of other colleges, who had colonized whole areas of the city. There were the visible criminals – the drug dealers lurking on the scruffier street corners, who would melt into the shadows at the smell of a police car – and the less visible ones, the rich ones at the top of their game, who lived behind high walls in the swanky houses of Dyke Road Avenue and its tree-lined tributaries.

Council estates fringed the city; the two biggest, Moulscombe and Whitehawk, had long had reputations for crime and violence, but in Grace’s view these were not particularly deserved. There were crime and violence all over the city, and it made people feel comfortable to point a finger at these estates, as if there was an altogether different species of Homo sapiens living there instead of mostly decent folk who didn’t have enough money to buy themselves smugness.

And there was the sad underclass. Despite regular attempts to remove them from the streets, the moment the weather warmed up, the winos and the homeless drifted back to the shopfronts, porches, pavements and bus shelters. This was bad for tourism and even worse for the city’s conscience.

From the start of the festival in May and the arrival of spring, tables and chairs appeared outside every cafe, bar and restaurant, and the streets of the city came alive. Some of those days, Grace thought, you could almost imagine you were on the Mediterranean. Then a weather front would move in off the Channel, a howling south-westerly accompanied by punishing rain that would drum on the empty tables and lash the windows of boutiques filled with mannequins in beachwear, as if mocking anyone who dared to pretend that England ever actually had a summer.

The beating downtown heart of the city, through which they were travelling now, was concentrated in a square mile or so either side of the Palace Pier. There were the tightly packed Regency terraces of Kemp Town, in one of which Janie Stretton had lived; the Lanes, where the antique dealers were centred; and the North Laines district filled with small, trendy shops and tiny town houses, among which was the converted factory building where Cleo Morey had her flat.

Nick Nicholl drove the unmarked Ford Mondeo. Grace sat in the front passenger seat, busily making notes on his Blackberry. Norman Potting was in the back. They were driving down the London Road in the centre of Brighton. At most times of the day or night they would have been crawling along in dense traffic, but early on this Sunday morning, apart from a couple of buses, they virtually had the road to themselves.

Grace checked his watch. Hopefully this interview with Reggie D’Eath would not take long, and he could squeeze a couple of hours out of the day for his god-daughter. Enough to take her to lunch, if not to the giraffes today.

They were passing the Royal Pavilion, the city’s most distinctive landmark, on their right. None of the three men looked at it – it was one of those places that was so familiar it had become all but invisible to them.

The turreted and minareted building in the style of an Indian palace was commissioned by George IV when Prince of Wales, as a seaside shag-palace for his mistress, Maria Fitzherbert, in the late eighteenth century. And as seaside shag-palaces go, nothing quite so grand had probably been built anywhere in the world, ever since.

They stopped at the roundabout at the intersection with the seafront, with the Palace Pier, garish even early on a Sunday morning, opposite them. A leggy blonde in a skirt that barely covered her buttocks crossed in front of them unhurriedly, throwing them a flirty glance and jauntily swinging a bag.

Potting, who had been quiet for some minutes, murmured, ‘Come on, doll. Bend over; show us your growler!’

There was a gap in the traffic, and Nick Nicholl turned left.

‘She’s all right, she is!’ Potting said, turning to watch her out of the rear window.

‘Except she is a he,’ Nick Nicholl corrected him.

‘Bollocks!’ Potting said.

‘Yes, exactly!’ the DS retorted.