Looking Good Dead

  Nicholl came over and stooped beside him. ‘Roy, I’ve just had a call from a bar manager I saw yesterday, at a place called the Karma Bar, down at the Marina. They’ve just been watching some CCTV tapes going back a couple of weeks – they’re trying to stop a problem they have with a couple of drug dealers operating in the place – and he reckons he’s got some footage of Janie Stretton.’

  Grace felt a sudden bolt of excitement. ‘How quickly can we get it here?’

  ‘He’d rather I went there – he needs the tapes. He said I could watch them right away.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Grace thought for a moment. Nick Nicholl had not been in the CID long, and still had a lot to learn. The young DC was bright but he might miss something – and this promised to be the first lead they had in the case. If this was so, then it was crucial to get every possible piece of information from it.

  ‘Bring her photographs,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll come with you.’ Turning to Branson, he said, ‘We’ll see Mr Bryce as soon as I’m back.’

  ‘That’s going to make it well late for him.’ Glenn Branson was thinking, unprofessionally, he knew, but he couldn’t help it, about the remnants of his own Sunday night. He longed to see his kids, even if it was just for five minutes before they went to sleep.

  ‘Glenn, if Mr Bryce hasn’t murdered his wife, or pulled off some scam with her, he’s going to be wide awake all night long, trust me.’

  Branson gave a reluctant nod, knowing Grace was right, and glanced at his watch. Grace would be an hour at the very least and probably much longer. By the time he was back and they’d gone to the Bryces’ house it would be eleven at the earliest. He wasn’t afraid of facing half a dozen knife-wielding thugs in a dark alley in Brighton, but at times he was bloody terrified of his wife, and at this moment he was terrified of picking up the phone to Ari and telling her he was unlikely to be home this side of midnight.

  Grace was so fired up by the possible sighting in the Karma Bar that, running his eye down the rest of the incident reports log, he skipped over the report Sergeant Jon Rye had logged an hour earlier, headed War Driving, without even noticing it.

  57

  Tom read a few pages of The Gruffalo to Jessica. His heart wasn’t in it, and she was not really listening. He didn’t fare any better with Max.

  All he could think was, miserably, that he must be a crap father. The children wanted their mother, which was completely understandable, but he was starting to feel beyond inadequate as a stand-in. They now even seemed to prefer the company of Linda Buckley to himself. The WPC was sitting downstairs, waiting for the replacement family liaison officer to arrive and take over from her for the night.

  He put the book down, kissed his wide-awake son goodnight and closed the door, then went into his den and made another round of phone calls – to Kellie’s parents, who had been ringing just about every hour, to all her friends, and again to her very worried sister in Scotland. No one had heard from her.

  Then he went into their bedroom and opened the top drawer in the Victorian chest where Kellie kept her clothes. He rummaged through her sweaters, smelling her scent rising from them. But found nothing. Next he opened the drawer beneath, which was crammed with underwear. And his hand struck something hard and round. He pulled it out.

  It was a bottle of Tesco vodka – sealed, unopened.

  He found a second bottle, also unopened. Then a third.

  This one was half empty.

  He sat down on the bed and stared at it. Three vodka bottles in her underwear drawer?

  She’ll probably just want to drink vodka. I saw her. I said I wouldn’t tell.

  Oh Jesus.

  He stared at the bottle again. Should he phone Detective Sergeant Branson and tell him?

  He tried to think it through. If he did tell him, then what? The detective might lose interest, thinking she was flaky and just might have gone off on a bender.

  But he knew her better. Or did, until about a minute ago.

  He rummaged through the rest of her drawers but found nothing further. He replaced the bottles, closed the drawer, then went downstairs.

  Linda Buckley was sitting in the living room, watching television, a police series set in the 1960s. The station Sergeant had a box of cigarettes on his desk, which he offered to a harassed-looking woman with her hair in a bun.

  ‘You like watching cop shows?’ he said lamely, trying to make conversation.

  ‘Only the ones set in the past,’ she said. ‘Don’t like the modern ones. They get so many things wrong, it drives me nuts. I just sit there groaning, saying to myself, They don’t do it like that, for God’s sake!’

  He sat down, wondering if it was wise to confide in her.

  ‘You must eat something, Mr Bryce. Shall I pop your lasagne in the microwave for you?’ she asked, before he had a chance to say anything.

  He thanked her; she was right. Although all he felt like was a stiff drink. She got up and went out to the kitchen. He stared blankly at the screen, thinking about the vodka bottles, wondering why Kellie had the secret stash. How long had she been drinking? And, more importantly, why?

  Did this explain her disappearance?

  He didn’t think so. Or at least did not want to think so.

  The police series ended and the Nine O’Clock News came on. There was a smell of cooking meat, which churned his stomach. He had no appetite at all. Tony Blair was shaking hands with George Bush. Tom mistrusted both men, but tonight he barely noticed them. He watched jerky news footage of Iraq, then a photograph of a pretty teenage girl who had been found raped and strangled near Newcastle, followed by a plea from a clumsy-looking, inarticulate Chief Inspector with a haircut like a hedgehog, who had clearly never had any media training.

  ‘It’s on the table!’ the family liaison officer called out bossily.

  Meek as a lamb he went into the kitchen and sat down. The television in there was on, showing the same news.

  He ate a couple of mouthfuls of the lasagne, then stopped, finding it hard to swallow. ‘I think we should put a note on the front door,’ he said, ‘so your colleague doesn’t ring the bell. I don’t want the kids disturbed, thinking it’s their mother arriving home.’

  ‘Good plan,’ she said, taking a scrap of paper from her briefcase and walking to the doorway. ‘But I want to see that plate clean by the time I come back!’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ he said, forcing a grin, then forcing another mouthful down while she stood over him.

  Then, moments after she had gone out of the room, a fresh news item was announced by the newscaster. ‘Sussex Police are tonight investigating the murder of convicted paedophile Reginald D’Eath, who was found dead early today at his home in the village of Rottingdean in East Sussex.’

  A photograph of D’Eath appeared on the screen. Tom dropped his fork in shock.

  It was the dickhead from the train.

  58

  They had been building Brighton Marina for as long as Roy Grace could remember, far back into his childhood. They were still building it now, and maybe they always would be, he speculated. A large dusty area was closed off on which sat two cranes, a JCB digger and a caterpillar-tracked earth mover, amid towers of building materials beneath tarpaulins flapping in the strong breeze.

  He’d never really worked out whether he liked the whole development or not. It was strangely positioned at the foot of tall, sheer white cliffs to the east of the city, and comprised inner and outer yacht basins around which the Marina Village, as it had been named, had grown – and was still growing. There were clusters of ersatz Regency town houses and apartment blocks, dozens of restaurants, cafes, pubs and bars, a couple of yacht chandleries, numerous clothing boutiques, a massive supermarket, a bowling alley, a multiplex cinema, a hotel and a casino.

  But it always felt a little like Toytown to him. Like a grown-up version of something a child had assembled with Lego. Even after thirty years everything still looked new and fel
t a little soulless. The only part he really liked was where he and Nick Nicholl were walking now – the wooden boardwalk, built just a few years back, that ran along the entire waterfront.

  On a warm evening like tonight the place had a great buzz, with people of all ages sitting out at its wall-to-wall cafes and restaurants, watching a few late yachts returning to their berths among the pontoons, talking, canoodling, listening to the pounding of music and the cries of gulls.

  Grace, feeling more human after the sugar hit of the doughnut, experienced a deep pang in his heart as he passed a young couple seated at an outdoor table, staring into each other’s eyes, clearly in love. Why hadn’t Cleo mentioned that she was engaged?

  Why hadn’t he thought to ask whether she was in a relationship?

  That long kiss in the taxi – all the way back to her apartment – that wasn’t the behaviour of a woman in love with her fiancé, was it? Even with the alcohol talking?

  With the sun sinking but still well above the horizon, Grace watched his lengthening shadow skim the planks ahead of him, Nicholl’s considerably taller one bobbing along beside it. The DC, hands in his pockets with an envelope containing Janie Stretton’s photographs tucked under his arm, loped along, slightly stooped as if he was embarrassed about his six foot six inches. He had been quiet as usual on the way here – which Grace was grateful for tonight as he wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

  They passed the cooler-than-thou Seattle Hotel, then reached the Karma Bar, with its roped-off outdoor seating area fronting the boardwalk, every table and just about every chair occupied.

  Grace followed Nicholl inside. He had been dragged here on a few occasions during the past couple of years, by well-meaning friends who had insisted it was the place in Brighton for a man of his age to meet women. The exotic interior was different to anything else in the city: spacious, with a warm glow from oriental lanterns, inviting cushions strewn around recessed banquettes, a long bar, and decor influenced – to his eye at least – by India, Morocco and the Far East.

  Nick Nicholl went up to a pretty girl behind the bar. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Ricky.’

  She looked around, then said pleasantly, ‘I think he’s in the office. Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Yes. Could you tell him it’s Detective Constable Nicholl and Detective Superintendent Grace to see him – we spoke about half an hour ago.’

  She went off to find him.

  ‘Your guy from the Met, this DI Dickinson, the SIO of the case in Wimbledon with the murdered girl wearing the scarab bracelet. It’s tomorrow midday we’re seeing him now, right?’ Grace checked with Nick.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Probably just as well he didn’t want to do it today – I don’t think we’d have fitted him in.’

  They both leaned on the bar. A Joss Stone song was playing. ‘I like her,’ Grace said.

  Nicholl shrugged. ‘Country and western’s my thing, really.’

  ‘Who do you like?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Johnny Cash is the man. Rachel and I were going to line-dancing classes – had to stop with the little one on its way.’

  ‘They change your life, kids, so I’m told,’ Grace said, staring down at a pile of Absolute Brighton magazines next to an ashtray.

  ‘Prenatal classes aren’t as much fun,’ the DC admitted, with a glum nod.

  A couple of minutes later the barmaid returned, and ushered them up some stairs into a comfortable office containing bland, functional furniture, in stark contrast to the bar. There was a desk behind which a young man with spiky hair dressed in a T-shirt and jeans was sitting, a sofa and a couple of armchairs, an elaborate sound system, and a bank of black and white monitors on which there were closed-circuit television images of the interior and exterior of the bar.

  The young man stood up with a cheery smile and came round to the front of the desk. ‘Hi, nice to meet you, Mr Nicholl,’ he said, and shook their hands. Looking at Grace, he added, ‘I’m Ricky, the manager. Read about you in the Argus – was it yesterday?’

  ‘Could have been.’

  ‘Thought they were a bit brutal, like. Can I offer you guys a drink?’

  ‘I’d love a mineral water – still if possible.’

  ‘A Diet Coke?’ Nick Nicholl said.

  The manager picked up his phone and ordered the drinks, then gestured to them to sit down. They sat on the sofa and Ricky pulled up a chair. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, directing his remarks at the Detective Constable and tapping the side of his head. ‘I got a good memory for faces – need to here, to remember the troublemakers. As I said on the phone, I’m sure that girl you was looking for came in here just over a week ago. Friday night, with a bloke. It was lucky – the tapes normally get wiped after a week – but we’ve had a bit of bother. You won’t bust us or anything?’

  Grace grinned. ‘I’m not interested in busting you; I just want to find Janie Stretton’s killer.’

  ‘OK, we’re cool.’ Then Ricky frowned. ‘What was that stuff I read about a beetle – a scarab?’

  ‘It’s not important,’ Grace replied, a little more curtly than he had intended.

  ‘Just interested, cos we got one in here on a shelf in the VIP room – a little bronze, part of the decor. Pushing a ball of bronze shit. Yuk!’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Dunno, the interior decorator was responsible for all that stuff.’ Ricky picked up a remote control and pressed a button. ‘Watch the monitor in the centre,’ he said.

  There was a flicker that momentarily turned into a blur, then a series of images dropped down as if the horizontal hold was on the blink. The image stabilized, showing a wide-angle sweep of the very crowded bar, with the date and time running in the bottom right-hand corner.

  ‘Watch the door, the one that goes out the front, now!’ Ricky said, sounding excited.

  Grace saw a muscular man in his thirties with a lean, hard face and a mean, king-of-the-jungle expression, walk in towing a girl with long hair, dressed in a tight-fitting miniskirt. It was Janie Stretton. No question.

  He studied her companion carefully, watching his strutting gait which reminded him of the way Paras walked, as if ready to take on all-comers. The man had gelled spikes of short hair, sported a thick chain around his neck, and was dressed in a singlet and slacks. Holding Janie Stretton’s hand all the way, he cut a swathe through the crowd and went straight up to the bar, at which point the camera, moving in a steady arc, lost them.

  A few minutes later the camera picked them up again. The man was holding a pint glass of beer and she had a cocktail of some sort. The man clinked his glass against hers, then, in a curious movement, slid his free hand around her neck, appeared to grab a clump of her hair, pulled her head back and coarsely kissed her neck.

  Nick Nicholl had the photographs of Janie Stretton on his lap and was alternately looking down at them then up at the screen. ‘It’s her,’ he said.

  ‘No question,’ Grace confirmed. ‘Absolutely.’ Looking at the manager, he asked, ‘Who’s her squeeze?’

  ‘Dunno, never seen him before.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Not one hundred per cent, no – we get an awful lot of people in here. But I don’t think so.’

  Grace’s mobile phone rang. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced down at the display.

  It was Cleo Morey.

  Excusing himself, he hit the button to answer and stepped out of the office.

  She sounded very sweet and very humble. ‘I just wondered if you were up for a drink tonight – if you’d like to come over here?’

  He melted at the sound of her voice. ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘But I have a good two hours work to do.’

  ‘So, come over after that – for a nightcap?’

  ‘Umm . . .’ he said, totally thrown. This was not the time or place for this sort of conversation.

  ‘I’ve got wine, beer, vodka.’
/>
  ‘Any whisky?’ he teased.

  ‘Now that’s a strange coincidence. I have a whole bottle of Glenfiddich I bought this afternoon.’

  ‘Obviously synchronicity,’ Grace said, trying to sound cooler than he felt – and not succeeding.

  ‘Obviously.’

  59

  The family liaison officer who took over from Linda Buckley was a thin, overly-polite young PC in his mid-twenties, called Chris Willingham. He carried a small suitcase in which he claimed to have everything he needed for his night’s vigil, and within minutes was happily installed in the living room with an iPod headset plugged into his ears and a copy of the Rough Guide to Croatia open on his lap.

  Glenn Branson had rung to say he was coming over again in an hour, making Tom wonder if he had any information. He was also determined to ask the detective why, when he had obviously recognized Reginald D’Eath as the dickhead on the train, he had not revealed this to him this afternoon at the CID headquarters.

  Tom left Chris Willingham with a black coffee and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits and retreated to the sanctuary of his den with the Sunday Times, which he had not yet opened. Normally, on a Sunday evening, he and Kellie would flop out on the sofa in the living room with all the sections of the Sunday Times and Mail on Sunday strewn around the carpet. He always started with the business pages, looking for high-profile companies to target as potential customers. Kellie began with the Mail’s You magazine.

  But it was a waste of time even looking at a paper tonight; all he saw was a blur of newsprint. He felt so alone, so afraid. So totally lost and scared.

  Scared witless for Kellie.

  Reginald D’Eath, the dickhead on the train, the man who had left behind the CD, had been found murdered in his home. Strangled in his bath.

  By?

  By the same people who had threatened to kill his own family? Tom wondered.