Not Dead Yet

  ‘Well done,’ Grace said. Then he lapsed into thought.

  Gaia.

  Was there a connection?

  Why should there be?

  He’d been a detective for too long to dismiss anything. A Gaia fan had possibly been murdered. Gaia was in town. But if he had been murdered, that had been long before anyone knew she was coming to town.

  He continued thinking for some moments. Deposition sites tended to be ditches beside quiet roads, or woodlands alongside them. He turned to Glenn Branson. ‘We need to get a list of all the members of the trout-fishing club and have them interviewed – see if any of them saw anything – or react suspiciously to being interviewed. It’s a pretty remote place – I’m not sure any member of the general public would find it by accident. Whoever used this as a deposition site must have had prior knowledge of it. We should also work on a list of anyone who might have had reason to visit it – like maintenance workers clearing the weeds, or working on repairs—’

  ‘I’m there, boss!’ Glenn Branson interjected, and looked at the indexer. ‘Annalise is already liaising with the trout club secretary.’

  ‘He’s being very helpful,’ Annalise Vineer said. ‘He’s given me the full membership list, and he’s working on a wider list of names of all people the club has dealings with who might have reason to have visited, or at least know its location. Such as people from the Environment Agency who handle fishing licences, their fencing contractor, the company they use for weed control, their driveway maintenance people, their printers and their solicitors. I hope to have the full list by tomorrow.’

  Grace thanked her. Then he turned to another of the detectives on his team, Jon Exton. ‘Anything to report from the National Footwear Reference Collection, Jon?’

  ‘Yes, boss!’ Exton said. Glenn liked the young man because he was always brimming with enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ve found an exact match,’ Exton continued. ‘It’s good news and – er – not such good news.’

  Grace frowned. This wasn’t the time or place to start talking in riddles. ‘What do you mean?’ he said, a tad snappily.

  ‘Well the good news, boss, is that the print is from a wellington boot, rather than a trainer.’

  Many prisons issued prisoners with trainers when they left, if they had no other shoes. Partly as a result of that, there were more trainer footprints at crime scenes than any other kind of footwear; the vast numbers of stockists and quantity of trainer manufacturers made it hard to trace the source.

  ‘The footprint is from a Hunter wellington boot,’ Exton went on. ‘The style is one of “The Original” range. I’m afraid the bad news is that this brand is one of the most popular manufactured in this country. There are sixty-four stockists in Sussex, Kent and Surrey. And of course you can get them online.’

  Roy Grace absorbed the information, thinking hard. How many of these were self-service stores like garden centres? What was the possibility of the staff remembering who bought these boots? In every murder enquiry he had to balance the costs of deployment of officers against the probabilities of achieving any result. Sixty-four stockists would consume a lot of the outside enquiry team manpower, if he wanted to get a result quickly. How many a day could any individual cover? In his experience, having to wait for staff they needed to interview to come back from breaks, and the like, was time consuming. Six retail outlets a day would be good going. It would take two officers a good week to cover every shop and store.

  DC Reeves put her hand in the air. ‘Sir, Hunter is a very expensive brand – I know because I recently went shopping for some wellies. Do you think there is some significance in this? That it tallies with the expensive suit material from the victim? What I mean by this is it tells us the perpetrator might be financially well off.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Good point, Emma.’ He made a note. Then he instructed Jon Exton to proceed and have all stockists interviewed. Although, in his heart, he knew there was a slim likelihood of a result from that effort. At least it would cover his backside when he wrote it up in his Policy Book, should his investigation get questioned at a later date.

  He turned to the forensic podiatrist Haydn Kelly. ‘Anything to add at this stage, Haydn?’

  Kelly shook his head.

  ‘Okay. I don’t think we are going to achieve a lot more overnight. The next meeting will be at 6.30 p.m. tomorrow,’ Grace said. ‘Glenn and I will be holding a press conference at eleven o’clock, so if there are any significant developments that come in before then, let me know.’

  As he stood up, Emma Reeves asked, ‘Any chance of Gaia’s autograph, chief?’

  Grace smiled.

  72

  Cleo lay in bed, her laptop propped in front of her on the duvet, logged into Mumsnet, her coursework papers for the Open University degree she was taking in Philosophy spread all around her. She was leadenly tired, but it was only 7.30 p.m., far too early to go to sleep. Laura Marling, one of her current favourite folk singers, was playing on her iPod.

  The baby was going wild tonight – it felt like it was dancing inside her. She lifted the duvet, hitched up her nightdress and watched, fascinated, as her belly looked like it was dancing too, its shape shifting from round to square, with little pointy bits sticking out.

  She wished Roy was here to see this. He’d promised to be home soon. She hoped the baby would still be active when he got here.

  ‘You’re going to be amazing, Bump. You know that? You’re going to be the most loved baby in the whole world!’

  Bump danced even more wildly, as if in acknowledgement.

  She left Mumsnet and logged on to Amazon to look up prices of car seats. With the birth of the baby imminent, she was focused on all the stuff she needed to get. She had a list compiled by her best friend Millie, who had two daughters, and another list compiled by her sister Charlie, an interior designer, who had insisted on decorating the baby’s room herself.

  Cot; crib linens; mattress pad; waterproof mattress pads; blankets; baby wipes; nappies; changing pad; nappy bag; nappy-rash cream. The list just went on and on. Everyone had told her that her life would change, but only now was it really starting to dawn on her how right they were. She went on through the list. Six bottles and sterilizing equipment; bottle brush; bottle warmer; infant formula milk; nipple cream; breast pads; nursing bras; a breast pump in case Roy had to feed the baby when she wasn’t there.

  And just how often would Roy be there? That was one of her biggest concerns. She knew just how wedded to his work he was. In her job at the mortuary there was a constant stream of sudden deaths, which police officers had to attend. Whenever the name Roy Grace came up, she heard nothing but positive comments. He seemed universally liked and respected. He was a good man, she knew that – just one of the countless reasons why she loved him.

  But there was one shadow to their relationship. He was a great copper, but would that mean he’d be a great father?

  Would he be there for their child’s first Nativity play – or would he be tied up on a murder investigation? And on Parents’ Evening? Sports Day?

  When they talked about it he always dismissed her concerns, reminding her that his father had been a police officer, yet had always managed to find the time to attend the things that had mattered. But he had not been a homicide SIO who didn’t know what was going to happen in thirty minutes’ time, let alone thirty days’.

  Roy constantly assured her that their life together was more important than his work. But was that true? And did she even want that to be true? Would she really want a murder enquiry to suffer because Roy was more interested in spending time playing with his child?

  One of Cleo’s friends was married to a high-flier and she hardly saw him, particularly after the second baby was born. He would arrive home after both infants were asleep, eat dinner, and then crash out in the spare room so he wasn’t woken by the baby’s constant demands for food.

  Did the baby actually know yet she had a father?

  Another worr
y that she had right now was the vandalization of her car.

  Roy had told her he knew who had done it, and that he had ensured it would never happen again. But there was always going to be the danger of retribution against any police officer by an aggrieved criminal. That was something she knew she would have to live with – and be a little bit vigilant all of the time.

  But she had another, even deeper, worry. Roy’s missing wife Sandy.

  Cleo found it hard to get him to talk about her, and yet she felt the woman’s presence all around her. During the early days of their relationship, Roy had invited her back to his house. They’d made love in his bedroom and she’d stayed the night, but had barely slept a wink. She had fully expected the door to fly open at any moment, and this attractive woman to appear, staring at them contemptuously.

  Sure, Roy had assured her that his relationship with Sandy was long dead, and that’s how she regarded it. But there was always the nagging doubt in her mind.

  ‘What if?’

  ‘If?’

  It gave her some comfort that Roy was having his wife declared legally dead. Ten years on. But that would not stop her reappearing if she were still alive. And how would Roy react then?

  He claimed that it was over, and nothing would change that.

  But what, Cleo wondered, if she had been abducted by some crazy guy. How would Roy react if Sandy appeared now, escaped from some deranged kidnapper? Surely he would be morally obliged to take her back? Regardless of what he said…

  Cleo was not a person who would normally wish anyone dead, but sometimes she fervently wished that Sandy’s body would turn up. So at least Roy would have closure. And they could move on with their lives free and clear of any shadows.

  73

  She sat in the shadows on the shaded side of the street, where she had been parked for over two hours. But at least darkness was falling, finally. It was 9.30 p.m. Once she used to love these long summer days. But today the daylight was just a major nuisance.

  The interior of the small rental car reeked of cheeseburger and greasy fries. Through the windscreen she had a clear view of the entrance to the gated townhouse development where Cleo Morey lived. On the radio, the sound turned low, the Rolling Stones were singing ‘Under the Boardwalk’.

  The song took her back to one of their many disagreements about so many things. She preferred the version sung by The Drifters. They had argued over who wrote it. She claimed it was Kenny Young and Arthur Resnick, who were part of that group. But Roy insisted it was The Rolling Stones.

  ‘Mama, mir ist langweilig,’ said her son, in the passenger seat beside her. He had red all around his mouth, and was busily dipping a cluster of French fries into the mess of ketchup at the bottom of the carton.

  ‘Mein Schatz, wir sind jetzt in England. Hier spricht man Englisch!’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘Yah? Okay. I’m bored.’ Then he yawned.

  She stroked his forehead, affectionately. ‘Sehr gut!’

  He turned his head and looked at her quizzically. ‘You said people speak English here, now you speak German yourself. Huh!’ He picked up the huge carton of Coke and sucked noisily through the straw.

  Sometimes, when the boy made her really irritated, she would think – although never say to him – I left Roy for you? I must have been crazy.

  But that was the truth. Or at least part of the truth. She had left Roy Grace because she had found out she was pregnant with their child. The child they had both wanted so badly; the child they had been trying to have for almost eight years. It was so ironical. She had found out she was pregnant, finally, just days after she had made the decision that she did not want to spend the rest of her life married to Roy Grace. Married to Sussex CID. Subordinate to Sussex CID.

  She knew that the moment Roy found out she was pregnant, she would be stuck; for a long time; for a life sentence; even if they parted, she would have to share the child with him for ever. As a result of a windfall inheritance from an aunt, which she did not tell Roy about, she was independently well off. She could afford to leave. And she did.

  She didn’t say a word to her parents, whom she despised. Did not tell anyone. Instead she went into hiding with the only people who had ever given her a feeling of self-worth. The only people who, she felt, regarded her as someone in her own right, and not someone defined by who had given birth to her, or who had married her.

  For the first time in her life, she had been her own person. Not her parents’ daughter, Miss Sandy Balkwill. Not her husband’s wife, Mrs Roy Grace. She had her new name, which she had borrowed from her maternal, German grandmother. Her new identity. Her whole new life ahead of her.

  Sandy Lohmann.

  Sandy Lohmann was a woman who had cleared everything from her head: the husband who constantly let her down because he had to go to a crime scene; the father who let her down because he could never tell the truth about a damned thing in life; the mother who’d never had an opinion of her own.

  The Scientologists operated the Clear, under their universal banner, THE BRIDGE TO TOTAL FREEDOM. They had helped her to clear the past out of her mind, and look at the world through fresh eyes. And they had helped her to look after the baby.

  It was while living in their headquarters near East Grinstead in Sussex that she had met Hans-Jürgen Waldinger. He had subsequently persuaded her to move with her infant son to Munich, where he introduced her to the organization he had helped to establish, called the International Association of FreeSpirits. The organization offered similar mental regeneration to the Scientologists, but in what she felt was a less aggressive – and costly – process.

  She had found Waldinger very attractive. And still did. But living with him had not worked out. She rapidly ended up arguing and rowing with him just as much as she had done with Roy. In the end she had moved into an apartment of her own.

  So what the hell was she doing back here?

  A damned advertisement in a Munich newspaper she had just happened, by chance, to see a month ago. That was why.

  SANDRA (SANDY) CHRISTINA GRACE

  Wife of Roy Jack Grace of Hove. City of Brighton and Hove, East Sussex, England.

  Missing, presumed dead, for ten years. Last seen in Hove, Sussex. She is five feet, seven inches tall (1.70 metres), slim build, and had shoulder-length fair hair when last seen.

  Unless anyone can provide evidence that she is still alive to Messrs Edwards and Edwards LLP at the address beneath, a declaration will be sought that she is legally dead.

  Of course, at some point Roy was going to move on with his life, what did she expect? But all the same it hurt like hell. She couldn’t help it. It was his damned fault she’d had to leave in the first place. Now it seemed he was trying to dismiss his past with a single wave of his hand. Having herself declared dead could only be for one reason: so he could be free to marry again.

  Marry his pregnant bitch.

  She pulled the particulars of the house out of the glove locker. The house where they had once been so happy. Their home. It was on the market now, and it might never come back on the market again for the rest of their lives, because it was the kind of house people lived in for years. The kind of family home where people could grow old together.

  The two of them could have grown old there together. That had been the plan. She and Roy. What would that have been like? What kind of an old couple would they have made?

  ‘How long do we have to stay here?’ Bruno asked suddenly in German.

  She looked at him, the son Roy had always wanted, and was about to reply, but then stiffened. A man was striding down the street towards them, dressed in a dark suit, and carrying a bulky attaché case. It had been ten years since she had last seen him, but in this fading light it could have been just twenty-four hours. His trim figure was just the same and his face had barely aged. Only his hair was different, cropped short and gelled. It suited him.

  He looked happy, and that sent a deep twinge of sadness spiralling through her. br />
  She knew there was no chance he would recognize her in the falling darkness, wearing large sunglasses, a baseball cap pulled low over her forehead, and with her hair dyed black. But even so, she tilted her face down. A thousand thoughts were going through her mind. Was the woman carrying a boy or a girl? How happy was he with her? How long had they been seeing each other? Did they argue all the time?

  What do I do next?

  She waited some moments then took a cautious peep. Just in time to see him tapping the entry panel keypad. Then he pushed the wrought-iron gate open and entered. Moments later it swung shut behind him, with a clang.

  Swung shut on her.

  Locking her out of his new life.

  She kept looking until he had walked out of sight.

  Then she twisted the key in the ignition, so hard that for a moment she thought she had snapped it. The engine fired. She checked her mirrors, then accelerated up the road, squealing the tyres, sending Coke spurting over her protesting son.

  74

  ‘Goddamn lucky it ain’t raining,’ Drayton Wheeler said. He turned, as if for confirmation, to the awkward-looking woman standing behind him in the long line of people stretched back from the main entrance to Brighton Racecourse; the building had been commandeered by the film production as the assembly point for the extras.

  She looked up from the copy of the Argus she was reading, staring for some moments at the rather odd man in front of her in the queue to register as film extras. ‘Very lucky.’

  ‘You’re fucking telling me.’

  He was definitely a weirdo, she thought. Tall and gangly, with a grey pageboy fringe poking out beneath a wash-faded baseball cap. He was all twitchy, his face screwing up in frown lines, as if filled with pent-up anger, and had a sickly, sallow complexion. There were fifty people in front of them, all shapes and sizes, waiting to sign on and be fitted for costumes. They had been standing for over an hour, in the blustery wind high up on Race Hill. White rail posts marked the oval race track, and there were fine views across the city and south, over the Marina and the English Channel.