Not Dead Yet

  The white man in the sharp suit strode up to him. He had slick, jet-black hair and spoke out of the side of his mouth with a whiney accent. He reminded Bourner of one of his favourite old Hollywood movie stars, James Cagney. ‘We’re the advance security team for Gaia. Can you take care of the baggage?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  A bunch of bank notes was pressed into his palm. It was only later, when he checked them, that he realized they totalled £1,000. Gaia had a policy of tip big and tip early. There was no point in tipping on your last day, in her view. Tip on your first, to make sure you get good service.

  Instead of entering the hotel, the eight bodyguards lined up, four either side of the revolving doors.

  Moments later there was a cheer from the crowd across the road and another eruption of flashes. A black Bentley saloon swept into the driveway and, clearly pre-rehearsed, pulled into the space between the first and second Range Rover, right in front of the doors.

  Colin Bourner leapt forward but was outflanked by four of the bodyguards who got there before him, blocking his view, and opened the rear door of the car. They were joined by another two. The star and her six-year-old son stepped out to a barrage of flashlights and shouts from the paparazzi: ‘Gaia!’ ‘Gaia, over here!’ ‘Gaia, this way!’ ‘Gaia! Hi!’ ‘This way, Gaia!’ ‘Gaia, darling, over here!’

  She was dressed in an elegant camel two-piece, and smiling; the little boy in baggy jeans and a grey Los Angeles Dodgers T-shirt was scowling. Her flaxen hair glinted in the sun as she turned and gave a sunny wave to the photographers and the crowd across the road. Moments later she vanished from view as the security guards closed around her, cocooning her and the boy and sweeping them through into the hotel lobby, past more hopefuls clutching record sleeves and CD booklets, and straight to the lift.

  None of the entourage paid much attention to the gaunt, cadaverous-looking man in a drab, grey sports jacket over a plain cream shirt, who was reading a newspaper and apparently waiting for a friend or a taxi.

  But he was paying a lot of attention to them.

  46

  ‘Did you fall off your bicycle?’ Angela McNeill asked, clutching a file folder in her hand.

  Eric Whiteley, seated in his tomb-like back office, was in flustered mood. Things weren’t going right today, at all. He had meant to come in even earlier than usual, so that he could leave the office early, but instead, for the first time in all the years he had worked for this accountancy firm, he had arrived late.

  And now he was being interrupted while eating his lunch – which was something he hated. He considered eating a private function.

  His tuna mayo sandwich, with sliced tomato on wholegrain, and one bite taken from it, lay in its opened wrapper on his desk. The Twix bar, apple and bottle of sparkling water lay beside it. In front of him was the front page of the Argus, with its headline: Gaia fever hits Brighton!

  ‘No, I did not fall off my bicycle; I’ve never fallen off my bicycle, actually, well not for a very long time.’ He eyed his meal, anxious to return to it.

  This woman was new to the firm. A professional book-keeper, widowed two years ago, she had been trying for some time to strike up a friendship with Eric, the only single man in the firm. She didn’t find him attractive, but she sensed he was lonely, like herself, and that perhaps they could be occasional companions, go to plays or concerts. But she could not figure him out. From the brief conversations they’d had, she knew he wasn’t married, and he didn’t appear to have a girlfriend. But she didn’t think he was gay, either. With her finger she traced a line down her cheek, mirroring the mark on his face. ‘What happened?’

  ‘My cat,’ he said, defensively.

  Her face brightened. ‘You have a cat? So do I!’

  He glanced down at his sandwich again, hungry because he had missed breakfast, and wished she would leave. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of cat?’

  ‘One that scratches.’

  She grinned. ‘You’re funny!’ She squeezed her way through the narrow gap between the filing cabinets and his desk and put the folder down. ‘Mr Feline asked if you could do the monthly management accounts on Rawson Technology as soon as possible. Any chance of looking at them today?’

  Anything for peace, he thought. ‘Yes.’ He nodded.

  But she didn’t leave. Instead she said, ‘Do you like chamber music? There’s a concert on at The Dome on Sunday and a friend gave me some tickets. I just wondered – you know – if you weren’t doing anything?’

  ‘Not my thing,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’

  She glanced down at the newspaper. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a Gaia fan?’

  He was silent for some moments, thinking about a reply that would get rid of her. ‘Actually, I love her, I am a huge fan.’

  ‘Seriously? So am I!’

  Inwardly he groaned. ‘Well, there we go, who would have believed it?’ he responded.

  She looked at him through fresh eyes. ‘Well, well, you’re a dark horse, Eric Whiteley!’

  Inside, he was tightening with irritation. How could he get rid of this bloody woman? He gave her a thin smile. ‘We all have our guilty secrets, don’t we?’

  ‘We do,’ she said. ‘That’s so true. So true. We do, don’t we?’

  He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t tell anyone!’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I promise. Our secret!’

  She left the room and he returned, relieved, to his sandwich. He flicked through the pages of the paper. On the fifth page the headline caught his eye. Sussex murder mystery on Crimewatch.

  He read the article slowly and intently while he finished his lunch. Then he returned to the front page story. Guilty secrets!

  He smiled.

  47

  ‘I think I may be in love!’

  Roy Grace looked up as Glenn Branson entered his office, swung around one of the chairs in front of his desk, and sat astride it like he was riding a horse.

  ‘So do I!’ Grace held up a printout of a Frosts Garage fact sheet and photograph of a shiny black Alfa Romeo Giulietta. ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘Awesome!’

  ‘A year old, high mileage, but she’s in my price range!’

  Branson took the details out of courtesy and glanced through them. ‘It’s only got two doors!’

  ‘Nope, four – the rear door handles are hidden.’

  ‘So you could put the baby in the rear seat, right?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Go for it. Treat yourself, you deserve it. And hey, at your age, it could be the last fun vehicle you buy before your mobility scooter.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Grace retorted with a grin. ‘So what or who are you in love with?’

  ‘Well, you’re probably not going to believe it but – um –’ He looked uncharacteristically coy, suddenly. ‘You know – Bella is actually a very attractive lady when she puts her mind to it!’

  ‘I thought she was looking quite foxy on Crimewatch, actually. Only saw her in the background, but she looked better than I’ve ever seen her. So did you pull?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I’m working on it.’

  ‘Good man, I’m pleased. It’s about time you started getting a life again.’

  ‘She’s a sweet lady.’

  ‘She’s smart, I’ve a lot of time for her. And well done you on your television debut – you were brilliant!’

  Branson looked genuinely thrilled. ‘You think so, really?’

  ‘Really!’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ Grace called out.

  Ray Packham entered, holding Grace’s BlackBerry. He looked at both detectives, then hesitated. ‘Sorry to interrupt, chief. Just bringing this back.’

  ‘Any joy?’

  ‘I’ve cloned it – I’ll study it as soon as I have a moment.’ He handed over the phone.

  Grace thanked him, and saw the red message light winking furiously. He began a perfunc
tory scroll through the messages of the past hour. Then, moments after Packham had shut the door, the BlackBerry rang.

  It was Chief Superintendent Graham Barrington, the Divisional Commander for Brighton and Hove. ‘Roy, just to let you know Gaia has arrived at The Grand. I’ve arranged with her security chap, a fellow by the name of Andrew Gulli, for a meeting to discuss her security in Brighton in an hour’s time, in the Presidential Suite at the hotel. Are you able to make that?’

  Grace told him he was. Just as he ended the call his internal phone rang. He answered, and heard the excited voice of one of his new team members, DC Emma Reeves.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I’ve just taken an interesting call from someone who saw Crimewatch last night!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was from a member of an angling club near Henfield. He’s just seen a piece of cloth that matches the one DS Branson showed on television.’ Henfield was a village ten miles north-west of Brighton.

  ‘How sure is he?’

  ‘He’s sent me a picture from his mobile phone. It certainly looks like a match. He says he was there yesterday and he’s certain the fabric wasn’t there then.’

  ‘You’re in the Incident Room?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be straight down.’

  He ended the call then stood up. ‘Want to go fishing?’ he asked Branson.

  ‘Never been fishing in my life.’

  ‘Now’s the time to start, before you get too old.’

  ‘You can sod off, too!’

  ‘Remember the actor Michael Hordern?’

  ‘Sir Michael to you! Passport To Pimlico. Sink The Bismark. El Cid. The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. Where Eagles Dare. Shogun. Gandhi. He was well brilliant!’

  ‘Know what he said?’

  ‘I’ve a feeling you’re about to tell me,’ Branson said with a grin.

  ‘Of our allocated lifespan of three score years and ten, time taken out for fishing does not count.’

  ‘That’s how you stay young, old timer?’

  ‘Haven’t fished in years,’ said Grace. ‘I just have the gift of natural youth.’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  ‘No, in my dreams I’m even younger, and pushing you around in a wheelchair.’

  48

  Ten minutes later, Roy Grace stared at the blow-up of the photograph that had been texted through to Emma Reeves’s phone. It was a jagged piece of fabric, snagged on what appeared to be a branch of gorse.

  ‘Looks a pretty close match,’ Glenn Branson said, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘It’s the same pattern,’ Grace agreed.

  ‘This chap is absolutely certain it wasn’t there yesterday.’

  Grace nodded, thinking hard. ‘Significant it appears the morning after you show it on Crimewatch? Could be that the perpetrator still had most of the suit – and possibly our missing body parts, and was panicked into disposing of them.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Okay, send one of our detectives down to the fishing club with the Crime Scene Manager, taking the piece of cloth we have, and see if the fabric matches. If it does, get the whole area sealed off as a crime scene and get a forensic strategy in place right away. We’ll need a land and water search. It sounds like a potential deposition site.’

  Leaving Grace in his office to finish off some urgent paperwork on the Venner case, before heading to the security meeting on Gaia, Glenn hurried back to MIR-1. He despatched DC Emma Reeves, together with David Green, the Crime Scene Manager, to the angling club.

  Then he sat at his workstation and began checking through the large number of other calls that had come in following his Crimewatch appearance. But there was nothing else of interest. A handful of the usual crank calls, and a couple from people who had called the Crimestoppers line anonymously to report suspicious neighbours. He delegated various members of his team to follow up each call, but at this moment, none seemed as positive as the one from a man called William Pitcher.

  An hour later Emma Reeves phoned Glenn Branson in great excitement to tell him that the fabric did appear to be an exact match. Also she said there were fresh-looking tyre tracks that had not been made by the vehicle belonging to the angler who had made the call. Feeling a thrill of excitement, he appointed her as the temporary scene guard. Then he asked her for the directions, and told her he would be on his way in a few minutes.

  He ended the call and looked around the Incident Room, wondering who else to take. He saw Bella Moy finishing a call and walked over to her. ‘Fancy a drive out into the countryside?’

  She shrugged, and gave him a strange look, followed by a hesitant ‘Okay, yes.’ She grabbed a handful of Maltesers from the box on her desk and stood up.

  She had been quiet during the early morning train journey back from Cardiff, and Glenn wondered whether he’d said something to upset her the previous night. She had appeared for breakfast wearing a top he had never seen before: although conservative it was far more modern than her usual style, and he wondered if it had been for his benefit.

  Disappointingly, she seemed strangely subdued in the car now, updating him as he drove with the latest bulletin on her mother, who was not doing well in hospital. Every few minutes the TomTom, clipped to the top of the dashboard, interrupted their conversation, barking out the route.

  For the final mile, Bella took over, reading aloud from the directions Emma Reeves had given them, then lapsing into her own thoughts. They headed down a narrow country lane, then turned left at a sign which read WEST SUSSEX PISCATORIAL SOCIETY, crossed a cattle grid, and drove down a steep, single-track road with tall hedgerows on either side.

  ‘Ever lived in the country?’ Glenn asked, trying to break the rather awkward silence that persisted between them. He wondered again, had he upset Bella in some way last night? He didn’t see how.

  ‘Doesn’t appeal,’ she said.

  ‘Nah, nor me. I’m a born townie. Too many inbred weirdos in the country, if you ask me.’

  ‘I grew up in the country,’ she said. ‘My parents were tenant farmers. They moved to Brighton when they retired.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, trying to think of a way to recover from that. ‘Of course, I don’t mean everyone.’

  She said nothing.

  There was another sign to the angling club, pointing left, through an unfinished building development in a farmyard that looked as if it had been abandoned. There was a large, derelict-looking farmhouse, a half-finished barn conversion with a sign outside that read, DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, a grey breeze-block structure with no glass in the windows or doors, and a row of ancient, windowless flint cottages with a half-filled skip outside. Bags of sand and ballast lay around the area, along with a length of drainpipe and a large wooden reel of electrical cabling.

  Ploughing through a muddy puddle just beyond, they saw a white Scientific Support Unit van. It was parked on concrete hard-standing alongside a large, navy-blue off-roader. A strip of blue and white crime scene tape was secured across a narrow entrance which had a sign fixed to a post, NO VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT.

  Emma Reeves, a stern, good-looking blonde-haired DC, sensibly gowned up in a white oversuit, wellington boots and blue gloves, and holding a crime scene log, was acting as scene guard. Next to her stood Crime Scene Manager David Green, also gowned up, together with a smiling man in green waterproofs and waders, holding a fishing rod in a pose like a sentry.

  Glenn hefted his Go-Bag out of the boot of the car, silently cursing that he had not come in boots; mud oozed over the tops of his immaculately polished loafers as he and Bella Moy approached them.

  ‘Sir,’ DC Reeves said, ‘this is William Pitcher who phoned in – he’s actually a retired paramedic.’

  Turning to him, Glenn said, ‘Thanks for your call. You’re sure this fabric wasn’t here yesterday?’

  ‘I’m certain – but I hope I haven’t brought you on a wild goose chase,’ William Pitcher said, looking at David Green, t
hen Emma Reeves and then Glenn. ‘But that cloth was not here yesterday, I’m certain. I left here at nine last night, and I’ve checked the register, and no members of this club came after me, nor did anyone come this morning.’

  Through dense woodland terrain beyond them, Branson saw the glint of water. He looked at Emma Reeves then the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Do you want us in oversuits?’

  Green shook his head. ‘Not necessary – unless you want to go exploring?’ He looked dubiously down at Branson’s shoes. Bella more sensibly had gum boots on.

  ‘I just want to see the suit cloth.’

  Green led him up to the snagged strip of fabric, being careful not to tread on any footprints or tyre marks. There was a gap in the hedgerow and trees through which Branson could see a wooden jetty and some decking. The lake was roughly an oval shape, over-hung in parts by trees and bushes, and several wooden fishing platforms had been built around its shore. At the far end it narrowed to little wider than a river, then opened up beyond into what appeared to be another oval lake. It was an idyllic spot.

  William Pitcher turned out to be extremely chatty, a mine of information about the club and its members. Glenn Branson had never considered that there might be a distinction between what defined a pond and a lake. Now, thanks to William Pitcher who enlightened him, he knew. Any body of inland water larger than half an acre was a lake. And what he was looking at was close to three and a half acres of prime trout water, although, Pitcher explained, it had a weed problem.

  Weeds, it was shortly to turn out, were the least of this particular stretch of water’s problems.

  49

  Amis Smallbone had fury boiling inside him. He padded towards the edge of the turquoise water of the swimming pool, every step with his blistered feet utter agony, stared at the four green cylindrical conifers in metal tubs at the far end, and puffed hard on the Cohiba.

  It wasn’t just fury. It was a maelstrom of rage. The eye of a tornado spinning inside his guts.