Looking Good Dead

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yah, I have that.’

  Rye grinned to himself, realizing what the man’s problem probably was. ‘Is your wireless network encrypted?’

  Hesitantly, the man replied, ‘Encrypted? I don’t think so. I am staying in my son’s flat, you see – this is his computer I am using.’

  ‘You don’t have to enter a password to use the wireless broadband?’

  ‘No password, no.’

  Without a password, any passer-by with a wireless internet card in their laptop could log on to the internet using someone else’s wireless broadband. Rye had done it himself a couple of times, by accident, sitting in a patrol car with his laptop open. And, he thought a little guiltily, he had never bothered to password-protect his own wireless broadband connection at home. ‘Is the van still outside?’

  ‘Yes, that is right.’

  ‘Can you read the registration number?’

  The elderly Swiss engineer read it out to him. Rye wrote it down on his pad for no particular reason. ‘My best advice is for you to activate the encryption, and that will lock him out.’

  ‘I will speak to my son.’

  ‘Good idea, sir.’

  Rye finished the call and hung up. Then, because he was feeling fed up, he decided the rest of the force could know he was still in the office at twenty to seven on a bloody Sunday evening, and he decided to log the call as an official incident on the Vantage screen.

  He typed his own name and department, entered the registration and description of the van, vague as it was, and logged the incident as ‘War Driving. Sergeant Rye dealt with by phone.’

  Childish, he knew, but it put him in one hell of a better mood.

  55

  ‘I’ve found a lasagne in the freezer,’ the family liaison officer announced as Tom entered the kitchen, Jessica hanging on to one side of his trousers, Max the other, as if terrified that if they let go, he would disappear like their mother. ‘Would you like me to cook that for your supper?’

  Tom stared at WPC Buckley blankly; supper hadn’t even occurred to him. All he could think about at this moment was the expression on Detective Sergeant Branson’s face, when he had pointed out on the CCTV film the dickhead who had been on the train.

  The strangely clipped response when he’d asked him if he knew who the man was: Yes. We do.

  And then the detective’s refusal to say any more about him.

  Turning to the WPC, Tom said distractedly, ‘Yes, thank you, that would be fine.’

  ‘There are some bits in the fridge – tomatoes, lettuce, radishes. I could knock up a salad.’

  ‘Great,’ he said.

  Lady came bounding in through the dog flap, looked at Tom and barked once, then wagged her tail, right as rain again.

  ‘Are you hungry, Lady?’ Tom asked.

  She barked again, then looked at him expectantly.

  ‘I don’t like salad!’ Max protested.

  ‘I only like Mummy’s salad!’ Jessica said in a kind of solidarity.

  ‘This is Mummy’s salad,’ Tom retorted. ‘She bought it.’

  ‘But she’s not making it, is she?’ Max said.

  ‘This very nice lady is going to make it instead.’ Tom picked up the dog’s bowl and began to fill it with dried biscuits. Then he opened a can of her food. The vet had been unable to say what was wrong with the dog – probably just a bug, she thought. The detective had asked her whether she might have been drugged and the vet had responded it was possible. She would need to send a blood sample to the lab for analysis and it would take several days. Branson had asked her to do this.

  ‘I’ve found some very yummy lemon ice cream in the freezer,’ the WPC said breezily. ‘You could have ice cream afterwards!’

  ‘I want Mummy’s ice cream,’ Max said.

  ‘I want chocolate, or strawberry,’ Jessica demanded.

  Tom exchanged glances with the police officer. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with short blonde hair, a pleasant, open face and a warm but efficient nature. She seemed like someone who could cope with most situations. He gave her a whatever shrug, set the bowl down on the floor, then turned to Max.

  ‘It is Mummy’s ice cream. OK?’

  Max looked up at him with big round eyes but they seemed completely devoid of expression. Tom could not read them, could not figure out exactly how his son was feeling. Or his daughter.

  Or himself.

  He desperately wanted to quiz Jessica some more about the vodka she claimed Kellie drank. What the hell was that all about?

  ‘I don’t like lemon ice cream,’ Jessica said.

  Tom knelt and put his arms around her. ‘We don’t have any other flavours tonight. I’ll get you chocolate and strawberry for tomorrow – how’s that?’

  There was no reaction from his daughter.

  ‘Give Daddy a hug, darling. I need a hug.’

  ‘When will Mummy be home?’

  He hesitated for a moment, wondering what he should say. The truth, that he just didn’t know? Or a white lie? The lie was easier.

  ‘Soon.’ He scooped his daughter up in his arms. ‘Bath time?’

  ‘I want Mummy to bath me.’

  ‘She might not be back until quite late, so Daddy’s going to bath you tonight. OK?’

  She looked away sulkily. In the living room he heard the volume of the television rise: tinkly music, the sound of car tyres squealing, a high-pitched American voice protesting about something. Max was watching The Simpsons. Good. At least that would keep him occupied until supper – or should he give him a bath, too?

  He suddenly realized how little he knew about the kids’ routines, about anything to do with the house. Dark, cold mist and a terrible fear engulfed him from within. Tomorrow morning he had to make a major presentation to Land Rover. Their marketing director was talking about a massive contract. If Kellie did not come back tonight, he just didn’t know how he was going to cope with it.

  Oh God, my sweet, lovely Kellie, please be OK, please come back. I love you so much.

  At the top of the stairs, he carried Jessica into her bedroom then closed the door behind him and sat her down on the bed. He sat beside her.

  ‘Jessica, can Daddy ask you about something you said this morning about Mummy? I said we would ask Mummy what she would like to do today if she came back in time, and you said, “She’ll probably just want to drink vodka.” Remember?’

  Jessica stared silently ahead.

  ‘Do you remember saying that, darling?’

  Pouting grumpily she said, ‘You drink vodka, too.’

  ‘Yes, I do. But why did you say that?’

  Downstairs he suddenly heard Lady barking. Then the doorbell rang. He heard Max shout out, ‘MUMMY! MUMMY! MUMMEEEEEEE! MUMMY’S HOME!’

  Tom, his heart racing with sudden elation, tore down the stairs. Max was already opening the front door.

  Sergeant Jon Rye stood there, holding his leather laptop case.

  56

  Roy Grace, sitting at the workstation in MIR One alongside most of his team, was running his eye over the latest incident reports log on the Vantage screen in front of him. It was a quarter to eight on Sunday evening, and although he still wasn’t feeling hungry, he could feel himself getting shaky from lack of sugar or too much caffeine – or both, and was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on his tasks.

  Cleo Morey did not help either. Every few minutes his thoughts returned to her text of this morning.

  He was checking the latest updates on Reggie D’Eath when he felt a thump on his back.

  ‘Yo, old timer!’

  He looked up. Branson, who had popped out of the room a short while ago, and had returned with a massive carton of doughnuts from the supermarket across the road. He doled out one to each of the team members.

  Grace took his and stepped away from the desk, deciding he needed to stretch his legs. Branson joined him as he walked across the room and out into the hallway. ‘You OK, old
man? You look like shit.’

  Grace took a bite, licking the sugar off his lips. ‘Thanks.’

  Lowering his voice Branson said, ‘So, a little birdie told me that you and Cleo Morey were cosying up to each other in Latin in the Lanes last night.’

  Grace stared at him in surprise. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘She’s the one yanking your chain?’

  ‘God, this is a small town!’

  ‘It’s a small planet, man!’

  ‘How did you know who it was?’

  The DS tapped the side of his face with his finger. ‘Something you taught me – one of the first rules of being a good detective – build up your network of informants.’

  Grace shook his head, half amused, half annoyed. ‘That was before the regulations changed. Sterile corridors. All that crap.’

  ‘Ever see that movie Police? Gerard Depardieu was a cop who leaned on his informants to get a drugs bust. Great movie.’

  ‘I didn’t see it.’

  ‘It’s well good. He reminded me of you. Bigger nose, though.’

  ‘I look like Gerard Depardieu?’

  Branson gave him a pat. ‘Na, you’re more like Bruce Willis.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘You sort of look like Bruce Willis’s less fortunate brother. Or maybe his father.’

  ‘You really know how to make a man feel good about himself. You look like—’

  ‘Like who? Will Smith?’

  ‘In your fucking dreams.’

  ‘So tell me more about you and Ms Morey?’

  ‘Nothing to tell. We had dinner.’

  ‘Business, of course?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Even in the back of your cab?’ Branson pressed.

  ‘Jesus! Is every fucking taxi driver in Brighton and Hove informing for you?’

  ‘Nah, just a couple. I got lucky. Anyhow, they’re not informants. They just keep their eyes open for me.’

  Grace didn’t know whether to be proud of his protégé for becoming such a proficient detective, or angry at him.

  Interrupting his thoughts, Branson asked, ‘So did she like your new gear?’

  ‘She said I needed a new dresser and that you were total crap.’

  Branson looked so hurt, Grace felt sorry for him. ‘Don’t worry – actually she didn’t comment.’

  ‘Shit, that’s even worse!’

  ‘We have two homicides and a missing woman; can we change the subject?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject! Cleo Morey! She’s well gorgeous. Like, if I wasn’t happily married, know what I mean? Except like – how do you stop thinking about what she does, man?’

  ‘She didn’t bring any of her cadavers with her to the restaurant, so it was easy.’

  Branson shook his head, suppressing a grin. ‘So, come on. Chapter and verse. Don’t go all coy on me – tell me?’

  ‘I don’t have anything to be coy about. She has a boyfriend, OK? Actually, a fiancé. She somehow neglected to mention him.’

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  Grace pulled out his mobile phone and showed Branson the text he had received this morning.

  Can’t speak to u at moment. My fiancé just turned up. Will call later. CXXX

  After some moments Branson declared, ‘He’s history.’

  ‘That was midday. She still hasn’t called.’

  ‘Three kisses – trust me, he’s toast.’

  Grace crammed the rest of the doughnut into his mouth. Despite his lack of appetite, it was so good he could have eaten a second one. ‘This another of your hunches?’

  The Detective Sergeant gave him a sideways look. ‘They’re not all wrong.’

  Cleo had not been on duty today. If she had, Grace would have attended Reggie D’Eath’s post-mortem this afternoon, although it would not have been necessary as another detective had been appointed SIO of that case. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

  Grace remembered an expression his mother used to use: Time will tell. Fate. She had been a great believer in fate but he had never totally shared that belief. It had helped her through her days dying from cancer. If you believed that some greater power was at work who had it all mapped out for you, then in some ways you were lucky. People who had deep religious faith were fortunate; they could abdicate all their responsibilities to God. Despite his fascination with the supernatural, Grace had never been able to believe in a God who had a plan for him.

  He went back into the room and walked over to the workstation. On the large whiteboard was the photograph he had taken this morning of Reggie D’Eath in his bath, and a picture of Kellie Bryce – the photograph Branson had circulated to the press and to all UK police stations and ports.

  Tomorrow morning Cassian Pewe, the arrogant shit of a Detective Inspector from the Met, was starting work with him on his cold case workload. And sure as hell if he did not have a result of some kind for her soon on Janie Stretton, the Assistant Chief Constable would have Pewe treading on the backs of his shoes.

  Turning to Branson, Grace asked, ‘Glenn, just how confident are you that Tom Bryce hasn’t killed his wife?’

  Whenever a woman went missing under suspicious circumstances, it was always the husband or boyfriend who was the prime suspect, until eliminated.

  ‘Like I told you in the briefing an hour ago, I’m very confident. I interviewed him on tape in here – before we went through the CCTV footage – and I can get the tape profiled, but I don’t think we need to. He’d have to have left his kids on their own in the house in the middle of the night, kill his wife, take her body somewhere, then drive to Ditchling Beacon, torch the car and walk five miles home. I don’t think so.’

  ‘So where is she? Do you think she might have done a runner with a lover?’

  ‘I don’t think she’d have torched her car, and I think she would have taken her handbag, some clothes, you know?’

  ‘Could be good cover, torching the car.’

  Branson was adamant. ‘No. No way.’

  ‘I’d like to see this Mr Bryce. Let’s take a drive over.’

  ‘Now? Tonight? We could go over but he’s pretty distressed, trying to cope with his kids. I’ve got a rota of FLOs with him. I’d prefer to go back in the morning – if his missus hasn’t shown up.’

  ‘You’ve talked to the babysitter’s parents?’

  ‘Yeah. They were in bed when their daughter came home. She called out to them to say she was back, about 1.45 a.m. They heard a car drive off, that was all.’

  ‘Their neighbours?’

  ‘They don’t have many in that street – up on “Nob Hill”. I’ve been round them; no one saw or heard anything.’

  ‘You’ve checked all traffic CCTV cameras?’

  ‘I’m waiting – they’ve been looking through all the footage from one a.m. until the call-out came in. Nothing so far.’

  ‘Have you found out anything about them as a couple?’

  ‘Talked to their neighbours on one side – elderly couple. He’s about ten foot tall and she smokes so heavily I could hardly see her in the room. She seemed to have a bit of a friendship with Mrs Bryce – Kellie. Helps them out babysitting in emergencies, that sort of thing. What she said was that they have money troubles.’

  Grace raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘You’d never know it from their house. They got a fuck-off barbecue that looks like Mission Control at Houston – must have cost thousands. They got a swanky kitchen, plasma telly, all the kit.’

  ‘Probably why they’ve got money problems,’ Grace said. ‘Could she have torched the car for the insurance?’

  Branson frowned. ‘Hadn’t thought of that. Does anyone ever make money out of a car insurance claim?’

  ‘Worth finding out if they owned it or if it was on finance. Whether they’ve tried to sell it recently. The High Tech Crime Unit now have a copy of his laptop hard drive. Get them to check if he’s posted any ads for his car on a website anywhere – someone like Autotra
der. They could be in on this disappearance together.’

  The more he thought about it, the more excited Grace got. Money troubles, he thought. Might be a red herring, but it needed to be explored. Sometimes people got up to ingenious tricks to reduce their debts. He watched Bella Moy reach for a Malteser; there was a trail of icing sugar from her doughnut to the edge of her keyboard. Nick Nicholl was on the phone, concentrating intensely.

  Norman Potting was on the phone also, working his way through the client list of BCE-247, no doubt causing a few upsets, Grace thought a touch malevolently. Not that he took the moral high ground on prostitution – there had been a few occasions during the past nine years when he’d picked up the phone to call one of the numbers in the personal ads in the Argus himself. But on each occasion he had felt the shadow of Sandy over his shoulder.

  The same thing had happened to him during a brief holiday romance on the one, disastrous, occasion he had gone on a singles holiday – to the Greek island of Paxos.

  The door opened and the cheery face of Tony Case, the senior support officer for Sussex House, peered round. ‘Just thought I’d pop in to see if there was anything you needed, Roy,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, Tony, I think we’re fine. I appreciate your coming in.’

  Case raised a finger in acknowledgement. ‘All part of the service.’

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your weekend,’ Grace said.

  Tony Case looked at his watch. ‘All four hours of it? That’s almost funny, Roy.’

  As the support officer headed off down the corridor, Grace stared at the bright orange lettering on the Vantage screen, scanning down it for the latest activity logged on the D’Eath murder. It did not take him long to find something. The house-to-house enquiries had turned up a vigilant neighbour who had clocked a white van parked outside Reggie D’Eath’s house at around seven the previous evening. The neighbour had dutifully written down the van’s number.

  He double-clicked on the log to read the details. The PC who had interviewed the neighbour had requested a vehicle registration check, and it had come back as clean. The SIO appointed for Reggie D’Eath’s murder was Detective Superintendent Dave Gaylor, a considerably more experienced officer than himself. No doubt Gaylor’s team would be all over that van when they found it.