Not Dead Yet

  ‘You asked me to let you know if any four-door Alfas came in. Are you still in the market for one?’

  ‘Um, yes, I am.’

  ‘We’ve got a year-old Giulietta. High spec, it’s a beautiful car. Got a bit of mileage on the clock, but you said you didn’t mind that, didn’t you?’

  ‘How many miles?’

  ‘Forty-eight thousand. One owner. In Etna black. It’s a stunning looking vehicle, sir. We’ve already got enquiries on it. I’d recommend you come and take a look as soon as possible.’

  ‘Doesn’t black show the dirt badly?’

  ‘Black always looks best when clean, but it’s the most popular of all colours. And it suits this car very well. It looks stunning.’

  Grace did a quick mental calculation. ‘I could try and get over early afternoon. What time do you shut today?’

  ‘Four o’clock, sir. But I can’t guarantee the car will still be there. If someone puts a deposit on the vehicle, that will be it.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m up to my eyes. I’ll try to get over, but I’ll just have to risk it.’

  ‘I’ll be here until four. Terry Robinson’s the name.’

  ‘Terry Robinson, thank you. I’ll do my best.’

  He halted at traffic lights. One of his favourite buildings, the ornate, absurd but beautiful Brighton Pavilion, was over to his right, the city’s own faux Taj Mahal. Two yobs in a purple Astra pulled up alongside him, music pounding in deep bass through their open windows, shaking the air, shaking his brain. For an instant he wished he was back in uniform; he’d have leapt out of his car and had a go at them. Instead, as the lights turned green he watched them blast off into the distance, twin exhausts as big as drainpipes; probably the size of their arseholes.

  Keeping his cool, he turned left at the next junction and up the steep hill, and made a right into the lower car park of John Street Police Station, the five-storey modern slab of a building that was the second busiest police station in the UK, and the place that had been his home during the early years of his career. Much as he enjoyed his job, the CID HQ at Sussex House, where he worked, was a soulless building. He missed the downtown buzz of this place.

  Marked police cars were parked in long rows, as well as half a dozen police vans, but being a Sunday, many of the bays were empty, and he had a wide choice. He reversed into one, then phoned Cleo, who told him she was feeling a little better, and was loving his flowers.

  Relieved, he let himself into the rear door, then climbed up three flights of stairs, with their familiar battered walls and institutional smell, and walked down the corridor of the Command suite, passing several empty offices, and then a small canteen. On his right, sticking out from a closed door, was a sign reading SUPERINTENDENT and on the left, CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT, whose door was open.

  He went in. The office, which he knew well from many previous visits, was of a practical size befitting the rank of its occupant. To the right was a substantial desk and, directly in front of him, a large round table at which a group of people were seated, with three vacant chairs. All of them, except one, he noted, were formally dressed, like himself, as if this were a weekday.

  On the wall to his left was a large whiteboard, on the bottom of which were three messages, written in marker pen, from Barrington’s triplets. One said: My dad’s the world’s best copper!

  With a twinge, he wondered if the baby Cleo was carrying would one day write something similar about himself.

  Graham Barrington, in his mid-forties, was a tall, slim, athletic-looking man with short, fair hair. He was wearing a uniform short-sleeved white shirt with epaulettes, black trousers and shoes. Grace had known Barrington from when they were both in the CID together. The officer had told him then that the job he most coveted on which to finish his career was to be back in uniform as the Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove – or ‘the sheriff’ as he jokingly called it – the job he held now. Grace was pleased for him. It was good to know it was possible to have ambitions and dreams fulfilled.

  Next to Barrington was DI Jason Tingley, boyishly handsome, with brown hair brushed forward into a fringe, dressed in a navy suit; his only concession to the weekend was allowing his tie to be slack and his top shirt button open. Greeting him with a warm smile was the extremely competent press officer, thirty-two-year-old red-head Sue Fleet, wearing a dark suit and a blue blouse. Two other women he did not recognize, one in her late twenties in police uniform, the other in her late thirties wearing a white blouse, were also present, as was a solidly built, shaven-headed Sergeant from the Close Protection Team, Greg Worsley, dressed in a rumpled blue T-shirt, jeans and trainers. Completing the gathering was Chief Inspector Rob Hammond, a Tactical Firearms Commander.

  Graham Barrington stood up to greet him. ‘Roy, thank you so much for giving up your Sunday!’

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I actually had one!’ he replied, then smiled at each of the others. He was pleased to see Jason Tingley, with whom he had worked years back on a brutal rape case. Tingley was a very smart detective. He also went back a long way with Graham Barrington; like most of the force, he had a great deal of respect for the man who had been credited with very substantial crime reductions in many areas of the city.

  Barrington introduced him to the two women, then Grace sat down. All of them, he noticed, had Starbucks containers in front of them. He could have killed for a coffee right now – he cursed himself for not thinking ahead and getting one on the way here.

  They chatted informally for some moments before Barrington cut across them. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The situation is I’ve had telephone contact with the Threat Management Unit of the Los Angeles Police Department and with Gaia’s security chief, a former police officer called Andrew Gulli. The first issue I’ve had to deal with is explaining to Mr Gulli that his bodyguards are not permitted to carry guns in the UK.’

  DI Tingley cut in. ‘The threat is global, and we know our target is capable of using a firearm. Are we going to have any Armed Response Unit members active?’

  ‘We are, Jason,’ Barrington assured him. ‘Chief Inspector Hammond and Sergeant Worsley are here to give us their plan for protecting Gaia and her son Roan.’ He indicated to the two men to proceed.

  Sergeant Worsley went first. ‘Gaia Lafayette and her entourage are flying in to London Heathrow Terminal Five at 7 a.m. on Wednesday,’ he said. ‘We have suggested putting out a false trail that she is flying in to Gatwick via a private jet, but I understand she has had her press secretary inform the entire UK press of her actual plans. It looks like we have a case of the ego is about to land.’

  Grace suppressed a grin. This was so typical of major stars. They claimed to hate the paparazzi, yet always tipped them off where they would be. ‘Where is she staying? In Brighton, or outside?’

  ‘In Brighton, sir,’ Worsley replied. ‘In The Grand Hotel. Her entourage has booked the Presidential Suite and all the other rooms on that floor – so we can at least make that floor a sterile area.’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘One of our big issues is budget, sir. The Chief has told me to offer every resource I have to her, but she’s going to have to pay for anything beyond what we would consider a reasonable level – the kind of security we’d give to minor royalty.’

  ‘You’re aware of the attempt on her life last week?’ Grace asked.

  ‘That is very largely why were are here,’ Hammond said.

  ‘We’re also aware that she will probably make some kind of pilgrimage to her childhood home in Whitehawk,’ Worsley added.

  ‘Another problem is she likes to jog, Roy,’ Barrington said. ‘Apparently she has her minders jog with her, but that’s another area of security risk.’

  Worsley nodded. ‘We’re planning on putting a ring of steel around her, sir. No one’s going to get near her without us checking them first.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Good.’ But he knew that no matter how much security you laid on, it was impossible to protect anyone totally. He asked Barr
ington for the name of his contact in Los Angeles and wrote it down, intending to speak to him directly.

  They were all experienced officers in this room. And they all knew the reality. You could protect someone as much as you liked, but if they insisted on moving around freely, they were always going to be at risk from a lone nutcase.

  He could not stop the chill of unease that coiled inside him.

  32

  The gaunt, cadaverous-looking American was dressed in a weary checked jacket, tieless gingham shirt buttoned to the top, grey trousers, leather sandals and grey socks. He peered down through unfashionably large glasses, his Adams apple throbbing, reading her name badge. Becky Rivett. Worried that he was about to kick off at any moment, the receptionist at The Grand Hotel glanced up from her screen to give him a quick, reassuring smile, then moved the cursor up the page, searching desperately for his reservation.

  He had thinning hair the colour of ash, cut in a pageboy fringe – a style that looked slightly absurd on a grown man in his fifties, she thought. His fists rested on the counter, clenching and unclenching, and he was perspiring slightly.

  When Becky Rivett later tried to give the police a description of him, she told them he had reminded her of the actor Robin Williams, when he played that creepy role in One Hour Photo.

  ‘I have a confirmation,’ he insisted. ‘I have your email.’

  She smiled at him again, then frowned at her screen. He hated the way she smiled at him. It was a meaningless smile. She smiled at him not because she wanted to, but because she had to. He felt the anger rising; snakes uncoiling. He wanted to tell her she didn’t need to smile at him, and that if she smiled at him again, with those neat little white teeth, he—

  Calm down.

  Then he remembered. Stupid fool! It was the jet lag. Then doing his recce when he should have gone to bed and rested. You made mistakes when you were tired. ‘I – ah – you know – gave you the wrong name.’

  ‘You gave me Mr Drayton Wheeler?’

  ‘Yuh uh – you’ll find the reservation’s under Baxter. Jerry Baxter.’ He had decided using a fictional name might come in useful.

  She looked down her list, frowned, tapped her computer, then saw it almost instantly. ‘Ah yes, a single room for two weeks?’

  ‘Correct.’ He took several deep breaths.

  She handed him the check-in form and a pen, and he filled it out. ‘Do you need a parking space, Mr Wheeler – sorry – er, Baxter?’ she asked.

  ‘Why would I need a parking space?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you had a car.’ She smiled again and his anger rose further. ‘May I take a credit card imprint, please?’

  ‘I’ll be paying cash.’

  She frowned. Guests who paid cash were a rarity these days. Then she smiled again, breezily. ‘That’s fine, sir. But we will need you to pay for incidentals as you go, if that’s all right?’

  ‘I will pay incidentally.’ He grinned at her for some moments through stained teeth, then the smile slipped from his face as she failed to get his little joke.

  She tapped away at her keyboard then, after some moments, handed him his plastic key card in a small folder. ‘Room 608.’

  ‘Do you have anything a little lower? I’m rather nervous of heights.’

  She looked back at her screen, and tapped again on the keyboard. ‘I’m afraid not, sir, we are fully booked.’

  ‘Ah yes, you have that singer staying, Gaia?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot comment on other guests.’

  ‘I heard it on the news. It’s in the newspapers.’

  She feigned surprise. ‘Really? I wonder where they got that from.’

  ‘I wonder too,’ he said, a tad too petulantly, taking the card.

  ‘Do you need any help with your luggage.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I would if I had any. But thank you, British Airways, they’ve managed to lose it.’

  This time her smile was genuine. ‘Poor you.’

  ‘They tell me it will turn up later today.’

  ‘We’ll bring it up to you as soon as it arrives.’

  Really, he nearly said. I thought you might just put it in the middle of the lobby and have all your staff perform a rain dance around it. Instead he replied, stonily, ‘Yes, I would appreciate that.’

  Then he walked away towards the lifts, clutching the little plastic room key in its paper folder, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

  He was here. Checked in.

  He’d reached first base of his very sketchy plan. Following his anger, unsure where it would lead.

  The thing was, there was no point in suing those slimeball producers Brooker and Brody, for stealing his story. Lawsuits like that took years, he knew, he’d sued other pondlife in this goddamn viperous movie industry, and each time it was five years minimum and sometimes ten, with no certainty of winning. He didn’t have the luxury of time any more. Six months, tops, the oncologist had said. Maybe a little longer if he could control his anger, and stop that from eating him up. Pancreatic cancer, inoperable, secondaries spread too far around his body. He was riddled with the stuff.

  No point in suing with that time frame. But at least he could get even. Hurt a couple of total shysters big time, before the final cut. Before he himself got flushed out of this shithole toilet called earth.

  33

  ‘Unexpected item in bagging area. Remove item from the bagging area.’

  Glenn Branson stared, bleary-eyed, down at the self-service machine in the Tesco Express in Hove.

  ‘Please remove item from the bagging area,’ the imperious, robotic female voice commanded. Glenn looked at the display on the screen, wondering what he had done wrong. The people either side of him did not seem to have any problems at all.

  ‘Unexpected item in bagging area,’ she proclaimed again.

  He looked around for help, and yawned. It was 8 p.m., Sunday evening, and he felt exhausted. Since yesterday morning when Roy Grace had made him deputy SIO on Operation Icon, he had taken his duties seriously, staying up for most of the night working on his Policy Book, reading through the Murder Manual, and ensuring all the lines of enquiry that Grace had suggested he make were being covered.

  He looked down at the bagging area, trying to figure out what the offending item might be. The quart of skimmed milk? The low-calorie moussaka that he was planning for his supper along with the mixed leaf salad? The aerosol can of spray polish? The packet of absorbent cloths? The box of goldfish food? The six-pack of Grolsch lager?

  For months now he had been lodging in Grace’s house, thanks to his mate’s kindness. Roy Grace had effectively moved in to Cleo’s home, so he felt a sense of responsibility for looking after the place and keeping it neat and tidy, especially since it was now on the market. He knew that in his first few months of living there he had let the place become a tip; he was so cut up over his marriage breakdown, he had at times been finding it hard to focus. He was still cut up, but he was getting through it – largely thanks to Roy’s support. The least he could do to repay him was keep his house in good order.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  A young, Indian man in a blue Tesco top and black trousers was smiling at him.

  Yes, you can, you can tell me the identity of a headless, armless, legless corpse found at Stonery Farm yesterday, he would have liked to have said. Instead he replied, ‘Yeah, thanks. I can’t figure out why she keeps shouting at me.’

  The young man held a card on a chain over the barcode reader, then tapped several buttons. ‘Okay, sir, enter your credit card, please.’

  Two minutes later, Glenn left the store and walked across the expanse of tarmac towards his car. As he did so he passed a young couple unloading the contents of their trolley into the boot of their car. His heart tightened. A year ago – less – that would have been Ari and himself.

  Sunday evening. They would have put the kids to bed and settled in front of the television with a simple, healthy snack. Hummus and
pitta bread and olives was Ari’s favourite Sunday evening meal. And Top Gear, of course. He glanced at his watch.

  Shit.

  Top Gear was on tonight and he’d forgotten to record it.

  He broke into a run.

  34

  Anna only found out by chance, by a Google alert she had signed up to which picked up all online mentions of her idol, that Gaia was a guest on Top Gear tonight. Her Star in a Reasonably Priced Car, according to the alert, had been filmed earlier in the year, when she had last been over here.

  Cars were not Anna’s thing. She had watched the show once before to see what all the fuss was about, and had turned it off in a huff when Jeremy Clarkson had been rude about Nissan Micras. That was the car she owned and liked, in an attractive shade of orange. It was a good car, easy to park, perfect for driving around this city. She did not need a Ferrari, even if she could afford one. Nor an Aston Martin. Or a Bentley. Although she had to admit that Gaia’s sports Mercedes was a bit special. She could see herself in that.

  With Gaia, seated beside her, driving.

  Now, on Sunday night she was glued to the screen, and suddenly, there, on the horrible old pea-green car seat, sat Gaia! Tonight’s Star in a Reasonably Priced Car!

  Jeremy Clarkson, in blue jeans, an open-neck white shirt and a jacket that looked like he had borrowed it from someone much smaller, was interviewing her, or rather at this moment, in her soft Californian accent, she seemed to be interviewing him.

  Gaia was dressed all in black. Her signal! The one they had agreed in their last telepathic communication. Gaia’s special colour worn just for her.

  Black T-shirt. Black, figure-hugging leather jacket. Black leather skirt. Black tights. Long black suede boots.

  Gaia, you are so good to me. So good. We are old spirits, you and I. We’ve met before in past lives. We’ve been lovers before, we both know that. Now sit sideways, please, to show me that you love me!