Looking Good Dead

  ‘Do you know what they say, Detective Superintendent?’ She squeezed gently.

  Gasping with pleasure – and just a tiny bit of pain – he said, ‘What do they say?’

  ‘When you have a man’s balls in your hands, his heart and mind will follow.’

  He exhaled sharply, deliciously, as she released the pressure a tiny bit. ‘So talk me through your plans for the rest of the night?’ he whispered.

  She increased the pressure, then kissed him again. ‘You’re not in a very good position to negotiate, whatever my plans are!’

  ‘Who’s negotiating?’

  ‘You think you are!’ She removed her hands, rolled out of the bed and padded across the room. He watched her slender, naked body, her long legs, her firm, round, pale and gorgeous bum disappear through the doorway. Then he put his arms behind his head and lay back against a soft, deep, down pillow. ‘Plenty of ice!’ he called out.

  She returned a few minutes later with two rattling glass tumblers, and handed one to him. Climbing back into bed beside him she raised her glass and clinked it against his. With a toss of her head she said, ‘Cheers, big ears. Here goes, nose. Up your bum, chum!’ Then she downed half her glass.

  He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, big ears!’ he responded, then took a deep swig. Tomorrow was a million miles away. Her eyes, fixed on his, were sparkling.

  ‘So you came over just because you wanted to know about my fiancé. Was that the only reason, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace?’

  ‘Stop calling me that!’

  ‘What do you want me to call you? The bonk at the end of the universe?’

  Grinning, he said, ‘That would be fine. Otherwise, just Roy would be fine too.’

  She tilted her glass to her mouth, then leaned across, kissed him sensuously on his mouth, and pushed a whisky-flavoured ice cube in through his lips. ‘Roy! It’s a great name. Why did your parents call you Roy?’

  ‘I never asked.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged. ‘It never occurred to me.’

  ‘And you’re a detective? I thought you queried everything.’

  ‘Why did your parents call you Cleo?’

  ‘Because . . .’ She gave a little giggle. ‘Actually, I’m embarrassed to say, it was because my mother’s favourite novels were The Alexandria Quartet. I was named after one of the characters – Clea – except my father spelled it wrong in the church register. He put an “o” on the end instead of an “a” – and it stuck.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of The Alexandria Quartet.’

  ‘Come on, you must have read them!’

  ‘I must have had a deprived childhood.’

  ‘Or a missspent one?’

  ‘Could you play poker when you were twelve?’

  ‘That’s what I mean! God, you need educating! The Alexandria Quartet were four novels written by Lawrence Durrell – beautiful stories, all interlinked. Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive and Clea.’

  ‘They must be if . . .’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘If they resulted in you.’

  Then his phone rang again. And this time he answered it – very reluctantly.

  Two minutes later, even more reluctantly, he was standing by the bed hurriedly and clumsily pulling his socks on.

  66

  ‘You scare easily, don’t you, Kellie?’

  Dazzled by the light in her eyes, Kellie squirmed against the bonds holding her, trying to move back in her chair, trying to move away from the wriggling legs of the hideous black beetle the fat, squat American was holding up to her face.

  ‘Nooooo! Please nooooooooo!’

  ‘Just one of my pets.’ He leered.

  ‘What do you want from me? What do you want?’

  Suddenly he removed the beetle, and was holding out the neck of a vodka bottle. ‘Drinkies?’

  She turned her head away. Shaking. From terror. From hunger. From withdrawal. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘I know you want a drink, Kellie. Have some, it’ll make you feel so much better.’

  She desperately craved that bottle, wanted to take the neck in her mouth and gulp it down. But she was determined not to give him the satisfaction. Out of the corner of her eye, in the glare of the light, she could still see the wriggling legs.

  ‘Have one little sip.’

  ‘I want my children,’ she said.

  ‘I think you want the vodka more.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  She saw a shadow, then felt a fierce slap on her cheek. She cried out in pain.

  ‘I’m not taking any shit from a little bitch – do you understand me?’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  The next blow was so hard it knocked Kellie and the chair over sideways. She crashed with an agonizing jar onto the rock-hard floor; pain shot through her arm, her shoulder, right along her body. She burst into tears. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she sobbed. ‘What do you want from me? WHAT DO YOU WANT?’

  ‘How about a little obedience?’ He held the beetle up to her face, so close she could smell its sour odour. She felt its feet scratch her skin.

  ‘Noooooooooo!’ She writhed, rolling across the floor with the chair, crashing, banging, every bone in her body hurting. ‘Nooo, nooo, nooo!’ her breathing getting faster, gulping down air, hysterical. She felt a sudden wave of anger against Tom. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come to find her, rescue her?

  Then she lay still – spent, staring up into dazzling light, and darkness. ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t know who you are. I just want my children. My husband. Please let me go.’

  This must be something to do with the email Tom had seen, that he had gone to the police with, she was certain. ‘Why am I here?’ she asked, as if for confirmation.

  Silence.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ she whimpered.

  His voice was gentle suddenly. ‘Only because you are misbehaving, Kellie. I’d just like you to cooperate.’

  ‘Then un-fucking-tie me!’

  ‘I don’t think that’s really possible at the moment.’

  She closed her eyes, trying desperately to think clearly, to fight the terrible craving for alcohol. For just one tiny sip of that Stoli. But she was not going to give this fat American the satisfaction. Never, no way in hell, no way, never, never, never.

  Then the craving took over her brain.

  ‘Please can I have a drink now?’ she asked.

  Moments later the bottle was inside her lips and she was greedily gulping the liquid down. Its effect on her was almost instant. God, it felt good. Maybe she was wrong about this man – maybe he was kind after all.

  ‘That’s good, Kellie! Keep drinking. That’s really good, isn’t it?’

  She nodded in gratitude.

  ‘See! All I want to do is be nice to you. You be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you. Any part of that you don’t understand?’

  She shook her head. Then felt bereft, suddenly, as he abruptly pulled the bottle away.

  And suddenly she was thinking clearly again. And every scary movie she had ever seen started playing in her mind simultaneously. Who the hell was this man? A serial killer? What was he going to do to her? Fear squirmed like some wild creature loose inside her. Was she going to be raped? Tortured?

  I’m going to die, here, in the darkness, without ever seeing Jessica or Max or Tom again.

  How did you deal with a person like this? In films she had seen prisoners trying to establish a relationship, a bond, with their captors. It made it much harder for them to harm you if they got to know you a little.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that, Kellie.’

  ‘I’d like to know.’

  ‘I’m going to leave you now for a little while. With a bit of luck, your husband will be joining you soon.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘You got it!’

  ‘Tom’s coming?’

  ‘Tom??
?s coming. You don’t want him to see you lying on the floor like that, do you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’ll get you sat upright. Want you to look good for the camera!’

  ‘Camera?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Feeling a little drunk, she asked, her voice slurring, ‘Sshwhy camera?’

  ‘You’re going to be a star!’

  67

  At 1.25 a.m. there was a sudden burst of Jay-Z as Glenn Branson’s mobile phone rang in his bedroom. Hurriedly shooting his arm out, to answer it and silence the bloody thing before it woke Ari, he knocked over the glass of water on his bedside table, and sent the phone and his alarm clock thudding to the floor.

  He sprang out of bed in the darkness, his brain a little scrambled, and scrabbled under the chair beside the table where the phone had fallen, the music getting louder. He finally grabbed hold of it and thumbed the answer button. ‘DS Branson,’ he said, as hushed as he could, crouching as if somehow that would make his voice even quieter.

  It was Tom Bryce, and he sounded terrible. ‘Detective Sergeant Branson, I’m sorry to call you so late.’

  ‘No, no worries, Tom – just hold—’

  ‘For Chrissake!’ Ari said. ‘You arrive home after midnight and wake me up, and now you’re waking me up again. I think we should consider separate bedrooms.’ Then she pointedly turned over away from him.

  Great way to start the week, Branson thought gloomily, heading out of the room. He carried the phone into their bright orange bathroom and closed the door.

  ‘Sorry about that. I’m with you now,’ he said, perching naked on the lavatory seat for want of anywhere else. ‘So tell me?’ The room smelled of grout. He looked at the shiny new glass shower door, fitted only last week, and the crazy tiger-striped tiles Ari had chosen and which the fitter had only finished putting up on Friday. They’d moved into the house three months ago. It was in a nice position, a short distance from both sea and open countryside, in Saltdean, although at the moment, Ari had told him, the whole neighbourhood was on edge because it was less than a mile away that Janie Stretton’s body had been discovered.

  ‘I need to know this line is secure,’ Tom Bryce said, sounding close to hysterics. There was a roaring sound, as if he was driving.

  Branson looked at the caller display; the man was calling on his mobile phone. Trying to help keep Bryce calm, he said, ‘You’ve phoned my police mobile – all its signals are encrypted. It’s totally secure.’ He decided not to mention that Tom’s mobile, presumably a normal one, was open to anyone out there who tuned into its frequency. ‘Where are you, Tom?’

  ‘I don’t want to tell you.’

  ‘OK. You’re not at home?’

  ‘No, it’s not safe to talk in my house – it’s bugged.’

  ‘Do you want to meet me somewhere?’

  ‘Yes. No. Yes – I mean – I need you to help me.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to do.’

  ‘How do I know I can trust you? That it will be confidential?’

  Branson frowned at the question. ‘What assurance would make you feel comfortable?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Hello? Mr Bryce, Tom, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice sounded faint.

  ‘Did you hear my question?’

  ‘I don’t know if I – if I should. I don’t think I can take the risk.’

  The phone went dead.

  Glenn Branson dialled the number on the display, and it went straight to voicemail. He left a message saying he had called back, then waited a couple of minutes, wide awake, his brain racing, wishing Ari would be more understanding. Yeah, it was tough, but it would just be nice if she showed a little more sympathy. He shrugged. What the hell. Maybe he should read that book she’d bought him for Christmas, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. She’d told him it might help him understand how a woman felt. But he doubted he ever truly would understand what women wanted. Men and women didn’t come from different planets; they came from different universes.

  He dialled Bryce’s mobile number again. It still went straight to voicemail. Next he dialled the man’s home number, feeling a sudden deep dread that he could not define.

  ‘Gone?’ Roy Grace said, standing next to Branson in the hallway of Tom Bryce’s house at ten past two in the morning, staring in bemused fury at the young family liaison officer. ‘What do you mean, he’s fucking gone ?’

  ‘I went up to see if he was all right, and he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Tom Bryce, his four-year-old daughter and his seven-year-old son leave the house and you didn’t bloody notice?’

  ‘I, uh . . .’ Chris Willingham said helplessly.

  ‘You fucking fell asleep on the job, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  Grace, chewing gum to mask the alcohol on his breath, glared at the young officer. ‘You were meant to be looking after them. And keeping an eye on him as the prime fucking suspect. You let them walk out on you?’

  The FLO talked both detectives through all that had happened in the past few hours, in particular the email Tom Bryce claimed to have received and which had vanished from his computer.

  Grace had come straight from the Royal Sussex County Hospital, where the young Detective Constable he had such high hopes for, Emma-Jane Boutwood, was on life support and about to be taken into theatre. He’d had the grim job of phoning her parents and breaking the news to them that their daughter was not expected to live.

  He had dragged himself away from Cleo reluctantly and on a high, but after finding out the full scale of E-J’s injuries, all memories of his time tonight with Cleo had been erased – at least temporarily – and he was now feeling very low, and desperately concerned for Emma-Jane.

  The driver of the van, as yet unidentified, was still unconscious and in the intensive care unit at the same hospital. Grace had ordered a twenty-four-hour police guard on his bed, and left instructions with the constable who had turned up that, the moment the man regained consciousness, he was to be arrested for the attempted murder of a police officer. Grace could only hope they wouldn’t have to upgrade the charge to murder.

  Meanwhile DC Nick Nicholl was waiting for him back at the Incident Room with a laptop computer he wanted Grace to see, and dodgy Mr Tom Bryce had done a moonlight flit with his two kids – just what was that all about?

  And the week was just over two hours old.

  Turning to Branson he said, ‘This phone call Bryce made to you – you said he sounded strange. Scared?’

  ‘Well scared,’ Branson confirmed.

  Grace thought for a moment. ‘Did you get him to fill out a missing persons report form for his wife yesterday?’

  Branson nodded.

  ‘You filed it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Phone Nick – he’s at the Incident Room now. Ask him to look it up. It’ll have the addresses of Mrs Bryce’s close relatives and friends. A frightened man is not going to drive far with two small children in the middle of the night. Have you put out a description of the car?’

  Both Chris Willingham and Glenn Branson stared at him blankly. It clearly had not occurred to either of them.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  Glenn Branson, trying to calm him down, said, ‘Roy, I didn’t know how far we were supposed to go keeping tabs on him. Chris was just here to help him cope and to offer protection.’

  ‘Yes, and if we circulate a description of the bloody vehicle he’s in, we can get him even more protection – from every damned patrol car that’s out there.’ Which wasn’t very many at this time of night, he knew.

  ‘Shall I tell Nick to call out the rest of the team?’

  Grace thought for a moment. The temptation to haul Norman Potting out of his bed was almost irresistible, but he had a feeling it was going to a very long day today. He would let as many of them as possible have a night’s sleep, so at least he would have some fresh, alert peo
ple at the eight thirty briefing.

  He needed to organize a replacement for Emma-Jane, he realized. And how was Alison Vosper going to react to yet another road traffic accident caused by a police pursuit? The taxi driver was in hospital with various minor injuries, his passenger, who hadn’t been wearing a seat belt, had a broken leg. An Argus reporter was already down at the hospital, and they would be all over this story like a rash.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  ‘One problem – I don’t know the registration of the vehicle he’s in,’ Glenn Branson said.

  ‘Well that shouldn’t be too hard to find – there is probably the logbook somewhere in the house.’

  Leaving Branson to make the call and the FLO to search downstairs for information on the car, Grace went upstairs, found the children’s bedrooms then the master bedroom with its unmade bed. Nothing. Tom Bryce’s den looked a lot more promising. He glanced at the man’s desk, piled high with work files, and a webcam on a stalk. Crinkling his nose against the stench of vomit, he rummaged around in the drawers but found nothing of interest, then turned to a tall black metal filing cabinet.

  All the information was in a file marked cars.

  Not all police work required a degree in rocket science, he thought.

  Fifteen minutes later, Grace and Branson were in a grim elevator, with obscene spraypainted graffiti on every wall and a puddle of urine in one corner, in a tower block on the Whitehawk council estate.

  They emerged at the seventh floor, walked down the corridor and rang the bell of Flat 72.

  After a few moments a woman’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police!’ Grace said.

  A tired, harried-looking woman in her early fifties, wearing a dressing gown and pompom slippers, opened the door. She looked as if she had been attractive in her youth, but her face was now leathery and criss-crossed with lines, and her wavy hair, cut shapelessly, was blonde, fading into grey. Her teeth were badly stained – from nicotine, Grace judged by the reek of tobacco. Somewhere behind her in the flat a child was screaming. There was a faintly rancid smell of fried fat in the air.