‘East Downs police were alerted by an emergency call made earlier this morning by a woman walking her dog. The dog found a human hand, which we have left in situ.’ The DI pointed. ‘I cordoned off the area, and a search by police dogs discovered these remains here, which I have left untouched, other than to further open up the bin liner.’
‘No head?’
‘Not yet,’ the DI said.
The pathologist knelt, set down his bag and, carefully folding back the bin liner, studied the remains in silence for some moments.
‘We need a fingerprint and DNA test right away to see if we can get an ident,’ Grace said. He stared downhill across the field to the streets of houses. And beyond them, a mile or so distant, he could see the grey water of the English Channel, barely distinguishable from the grey of the sky.
Addressing the DI, Grace continued, ‘We should also start a house-to-house enquiry in the area, ask for reports of anything suspicious in the past couple of days. See if there are any missing persons in the area – if not broaden that out to the whole of Brighton and then Sussex. Are there any CCTV cameras, Bill?’
‘Only in some of the local shops and some other businesses.’
‘Make sure they’re told to keep all tapes for the past seven days.’
‘Right away.’
Nodding down, Grace said, ‘Any idea how these remains might have got here? Any tyre marks?’
‘We have a trail of footprints. Heavy-duty boots of some kind, from the patterns. They look sunk in deep; I think she must have been carried,’ Bill Barley said, pointing along a narrow band of soil and rape between two strips of police tape stretching into the distance.
Theobald had his bag open now, and was carefully examining the bloody hand lying there.
Who is she? Grace wanted to know. Why was she killed? How did she get here? Anger boiled in him.
Anger and something else.
It was the awful knowledge, the one he refused ever to face, that this young woman’s fate could have been his own wife’s fate also. Nine years ago Sandy had disappeared off the face of the earth, and not a trace of her had appeared since. She could have been murdered and dumped somewhere. Killed and savagely butchered. If you wanted to get rid of a body and make sure it would never, ever be found it was easy – there were dozens of ways to do it.
And that was what bothered him now. Someone had gone to the trouble of butchering this girl and removing her head. But if they had really wanted to make it hard to identify her, they would have taken her hands as well. So why hadn’t they?
Why had they dumped her remains here in the middle of this field, where she was bound to be discovered quickly? Instead of putting her even in a shallow grave?
Could it be, he wondered, because whoever had done this had wanted her to be discovered?
9
Kellie, dressed in a purple jogging suit, squatted on the floor of the living room, keyboard on her lap, leaning against the sofa, munching her way through a tube of salt-and-vinegar flavoured Pringles. Not exactly the healthiest lunch, but they were low fat – wouldn’t do her figure any harm, she thought.
Logged on to the Web, she stared at the purple crystal Swarovski bracelet on the television screen, then double-clicked on the image to make it larger. Guiltily, she thought how well it would go with the outfit she had on. A bit bling, perhaps, a bit chav. But Swarovski costume jewellery was definitely classy; she loved their stuff. The RRP, it showed, was £152.00 and the highest bid showing so far was just £10.75. With only three hours, forty-two minutes of auction time remaining!
That was nothing! She entered a bid of twelve pounds. That wouldn’t make an appreciable dent in their finances – and if she could get it for close to that price then in a few weeks she could put it back on at a higher price and make a profit!
She watched the screen for several minutes more, and no further bids appeared. So far, so good. She reached out her arm, picked up the bottle of Smirnoff – the one from her secret stash that she kept hidden from Tom at the back of her underwear drawer in the bedroom – unscrewed the cap and took just a little nip. It was only her third drink of the morning, she rationalized, ignoring the fact it had been a new bottle and was now a third empty.
Outside, rain was pelting down. Lady trotted into the room, lead in her mouth, cocked her head and whined.
‘You want your walk, my darling, don’t you? Have to wait for the rain to ease off, OK?’
The dog whined again, louder.
She put the bottle down and raised her arm. Lady nuzzled up to her then rolled over, clumsily, onto her back.
‘Typical woman, aren’t you?’ Kellie slurred affectionately, the buzz from the vodka lifting her midday blues. ‘Just want your tits caressed.’
She stroked the dog’s belly for some moments, then crooked her arm around her neck and kissed her on the head, breathing in the animal’s strong, warm, furry smell. ‘Love you, Lady.’
Hearing some noise outside, Lady suddenly jumped back to her feet, growled, and prowled out into the hall. She barked, and moments later Kellie heard the thump of the dog flap in the kitchen as Lady ran off into the garden, no doubt to chase off some bird that had dared to land on the lawn.
Her bid on eBay still stood unchallenged.
One day she would get this online auction thing right. There had been an article in the Daily Mail a couple of weeks ago, which she had cut out and kept, about all the people who had made fortunes selling things on eBay. She had tried telling Tom – but he just didn’t seem to understand – that all she was doing was trying, in her own way, to make them some money. But she just wasn’t any good at it. She would be, though; she would get the hang of it.
Then she looked at the bottle. Maybe just one more small mouthful?
She closed her eyes, thinking. What the hell is wrong with me? With my life? Is it crap genes?
Kellie thought about her parents. Her father with all his dreams, whom she adored, was now housebound with advanced Parkinson’s at just fifty-eight years old. She remembered as a child all the different business ventures he had tried and failed at. He had driven a cab in Brighton and had started his own limousine hire service. That had gone under. He’d bought a franchise selling a health drink which was going to make his fortune. That had cost them their house.
Her mother had supplemented their income by working long, tough hours at Gatwick Airport, promoting perfumes in the duty-free section, until she had had to leave to look after her father. They now lived, in a state of permanent fear of vandals, burglars and muggers, in a council flat in Whitehawk, the roughest estate in Brighton. Two days ago, when she had gone to visit them, she had left her old Espace outside for just an hour. When she had come out, the hubcaps had been stolen.
She remembered when she had first met Tom, at the twenty-first party of a girlfriend from teacher training college in Brighton. She had been struck by how much he reminded her of her father – the father she wanted to remember, the young, handsomely boyish man with immense charm, passion for life and such enthusiasm. Tom had had such great vision, such amazing plans, and unlike her father’s, his had been carefully thought out. He wanted to get experience working for one of the most successful companies in his field and then start out on his own.
And she had believed in him. It had seemed impossible to her that Tom could fail. All her friends had liked him immediately. Her parents adored him. She had fallen in love with him that night. Two nights later she had slept with him, in his tiny basement flat just off Hove seafront, with a Scott Joplin CD playing on repeat for hours. They had barely spent a night apart since.
For the first few years of their marriage everything had been brilliant. Tom had started his own business and it had really taken off. They had moved to a larger flat, and then to this house. It had started to go wrong when she had left her job teaching in a primary school shortly before Max was born. She grew bored, then she’d suffered a long bout of post-natal depression. She had found it tough b
eing at home all day with a baby, while Tom left early to go to London and arrived home late, usually too tired to talk. It would not be for ever, he had promised her. He just needed to put in the hours now, investing in their future.
Then Jessica had been born. And the same lonely struggle had repeated itself. Only Tom’s business had got harder. He worked even longer hours and talked to her less. She had started taking Max to school, made a new bunch of friends. All the other women seemed to have successful husbands, great clothes, nice cars, swanky homes, wonderful holidays.
This whole business with eBay that Tom just did not seem to understand had started because she was trying to help him. OK, there were some things that she did buy for herself, but mostly it was bargains she bought with the intention of selling again at a profit.
But she never seemed to get bids anywhere close to the prices she had paid.
There was another reason for her spending, both on eBay and on the QVC Shopping Channel, which she could never tell Tom: it masked the forty pounds a week out of her housekeeping that her vodka habit was costing her.
It was just a phase, a way of getting through the stress. She wasn’t an alcoholic, she told herself. She was just coping with a small crisis she was going through, her own way. As if to convince herself, she picked up the Argus and turned to the jobs section. That would be the best solution – find something part time. Make a contribution to the housekeeping, at least. And have some cash to buy the occasional drink – not that she really needed it.
Her mobile phone rang. It was out in the kitchen, where she had left it.
Cursing, she scrambled to her feet and walked, a little unsteadily, out of the room, glanced at the caller display, saw it was her best friend Lynn Cottesloe, and answered it.
‘Hi,’ she said, ‘how’re you?’ conscious that her voice was a little slurred.
‘I’m sitting in Orsino’s restaurant. Where are you?’
‘Oh, shit,’ Kellie said. ‘I’m – sho shorry.’
‘Are you OK?’
Shit, Kellie thought. Shit, shit, shit! She had totally forgotten they were meant to be having lunch today. She looked at her watch. It was 1.15 p.m.
‘Kellie, are you OK?’
‘OK? Me? Absolutely,’ she said breezily.
10
In the narrow room that doubled as the London office and showroom of BryceRight Promotional Merchandise Limited, Tom Bryce sat gloomily at his desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie at half-mast. He was shivering and thinking about putting his jacket back on. Bloody English weather. Yesterday it had been almost unbearably hot, today it was freezing.
The place gave off the right image; it was a smart address, and although not big, the room was elegantly proportioned with large windows, and had the original stucco work on the ceiling. There was just enough space for desks for the five of them, a waiting area which was also the display area, and a tiny kitchenette behind a partition at the far end.
The company name had been Kellie’s idea. A tad corny he had thought at the time, but as she had pointed out it was a name people would easily remember. BryceRight supplied business gifts and promotional clothing to companies and clubs. Its product lines ranged from overprinted pens, calculators, mouse pads and executive desk toys, to T-shirts, baseball caps, sportswear and trophies.
After graduating from business school in Brighton, Tom had worked for one of the largest companies in the field, the Motivation Business, and then, a decade ago, supported by Kellie, had mortgaged himself up to the hilt and set up on his own. He had operated from his den and the two spare bedrooms in their home until shortly after Max was born, when he had accumulated enough capital to take on the lease at this prestigious, if cramped, address just off Bond Street, as well as a warehouse close to Brick Lane in east London.
For the first six years the business boomed. He was a natural salesman, his customers liked him, everything was rosy. Then 9/11 had happened and for two days the phone had not rung. And it never really seemed to have rung with any consistency since.
He employed four salesmen, two of whom were based here in London, one in the north of England and one in Scotland. Additionally his secretary, Olivia, was in this office, as well as his admin clerk, Maggie, who was in charge of customer liaison and product sourcing. He employed another four people at the warehouse, an order chaser, a quality control supervisor and two dispatch clerks. And that was where he had a lot of problems – probably from not being there enough himself.
BryceRight had a blue-chip customer base, with some of the largest household names as clients. They supplied Weetabix, Range Rover, Legal and General Insurance, Nestlé, Grants of St James’s, as well as many much smaller clients.
For the first few years he used to really enjoy coming into work, and he’d even relished the post-9/11 challenge for a time, but more recently with the latest economic downturn and ever-increasing competition his turnover had plunged to the point where he was no longer making enough money to cover his overheads. He was losing customers to the competition, existing customers were placing smaller orders, and just recently there had been a spate of fuck-ups which had lost him even more business.
The in-tray on his desk was stacked with bills, some more than ninety days old. Yet again at the end of this month it was going to be a tough balancing act between the receivables and the debts to ensure the wage cheques did not bounce. And there would be, as always, the Kellie spending factor in that equation, also.
She was smiling out from the silver frame on his desk, along with Max and Jessica, all three of them responding to something the photographer had said. It was a great photograph, in flattering soft focus, giving them a slightly dreamlike quality. Staring at her fondly, he hoped to God there were going to be no more unwelcome surprises from her for a while.
How could he break it to her if they had to sell the house and downsize. And to what? A flat? How could he tell Max and Jessica that they might not have a garden any more?
He stared out of his second-floor window through the pouring rain at the windows across the road. Conduit Street was narrow, and the tall buildings made it feel like a gully. Even on a sunny day his office was in permanent shade.
Glancing down he could see the lunchtime stream of people, the sea of umbrellas and the line of cars, taxis and vans waiting to cross the lights at the intersection with Bond Street. In particular he watched a new maroon Bentley Continental. Ever since they had first come out he had hankered after one, but at this moment the gulf separating him from something so expensive seemed as big as the gulf that separated a snail on his garden fence from Mars.
He disconsolately munched his sandwich of tuna and sweetcorn on rye bread. He wasn’t crazy about the combination of tuna and sweetcorn, and he disliked the sharp caraway seeds in rye, but this morning he had woken up more determined than he had been in a long while to eat more healthily – and this stuff was supposed to be low fat, low everything. He would have preferred his usual bacon and egg, or cheddar and pickle any day. It was Kellie, in bed last night playfully prodding his stomach and calling him ‘Tubs’, that had been the final straw.
He glanced at the first page of the trade magazine Promotions and Incentives and saw that one of his competitors, whose business was booming, was preparing for a stock market flotation. What was their secret? he wondered. What the hell had they done so right that he had done so wrong?
He took another bite, and watched the techie, Chris Webb, a tall, laconic forty-year-old with floppy hair and a solitary earring, who he called in for all his computer problems – and who treated him like a retarded child – prodding around with a screwdriver in the entrails of his Mac laptop. Every few moments Tom looked over at the blank screen, hoping against hope it would spring back to life.
And thinking about what he had seen last night.
He had not been able to get the image of the girl being stabbed out of his mind, and it had given him such a vivid nightmare he had woken screaming at three in
the morning. It must have been a movie or a movie trailer of some kind.
But it had seemed somehow so damned real.
‘Your data’s gone, mate, I’m afraid,’ Chris Webb said, irritatingly cheerily.
‘Yes, that’s what I told you,’ Tom said. ‘I need you to retrieve it.’
As the techie busied himself with the machine again, Tom, feeling lost without his computer and unable to concentrate on the magazine, stared at the displays of some of his company’s products, thinking they were all looking a bit tired, had been there too long, needed sharpening up.
He studied the Team Jaguar glass showcase, displaying an anorak, baseball cap, polo shirt, ballpoint pen, key fob, driving gloves, tie and headsquare, all in the Jaguar livery. There were some newer designs they had produced which should be in there, he thought. Then he turned his attention to another display – of mouse pads, pens, calculators and umbrellas all bearing the Weetabix logo. That needed bringing up to date also.
Olivia, his secretary, an attractive twenty-something who lurched from one man-crisis to the next, came into the room holding a Pret A Manger bag, mobile phone pressed to her ear in deep conversation. Behind her empty desk sat his best salesman, Peter Chard, in one of his trademark sharp suits, his hair slick, a doppelgänger for the actor Leonardo DiCaprio, engrossed in a motoring magazine and forking his way through a pot noodle. At the desk next to him sat Hong Kong-born Simon Wong, a quiet, ambitious thirty-year-old, busy filling out an order form. It was a new client and a decent-sized order; some small cheer, Tom thought.
A phone started ringing. Olivia, still engrossed on her mobile, seemed oblivious to it. Peter and Simon didn’t seem to hear it either. Maggie was out of the office at lunch.