Not Dead Yet

  He put it down carefully where he had found it in order that it could be photographed by a SOCO officer, and followed the Curator out on to the roof, ducking through a small door that was barely bigger than a serving hatch. The sky had turned ominously dark, as if it were about to rain. Barry strode ahead, along a narrow steel platform, with a sheer drop to the ground to his left, and Grace followed gripping the handrail, trying not to look down. Ahead of him and all around was a spectacular view across the roofs of the Pavilion, with its onion domes and minarets. Down below he could hear sirens and see more blue flashing lights of vehicles pulling up.

  ‘That’s the dome of the Banqueting Room, right ahead,’ David Barry pointed. They scaled a short, metal ladder, then went along another narrow walkway. Then they climbed a long, steep ladder, Roy Grace nervously clinging on tightly as the Curator, above him, clambered as confidently as a mountain goat.

  Grace hauled himself on his knees on to a narrow platform, with the dome curving majestically skywards above him. And now he really did not dare look down.

  Then his phone rang.

  He debated for a moment whether to answer it, then very carefully pulled it out of its cradle. ‘Roy Grace,’ he said.

  It was ACC Peter Rigg, and he sounded anxious. ‘Roy,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I gather there’s a bit of an incident at the Royal Pavilion.’

  ‘Er – yes, sir, I have.’

  ‘I think you’d better get there PDQ.’

  Grace looked out across the city rooftops. ‘I am actually here, sir.’

  ‘Good, excellent! Anything to report?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have a great view.’

  ‘View?’

  He saw Barry was crawling through a tiny inspection hatch door.

  ‘Can I call you back in a few minutes, sir?’

  ‘Please. The Chief Constable’s fretting.’

  ‘Yes, I know, sir.’ He ended the call and followed Barry through the hatch, having to ease himself in backwards, into almost total darkness and the musty smell of old wood, and something acrid and deeply unpleasant.

  ‘This is the second skin of the building,’ the Curator said, shining his torch beam around. ‘Outside you have the visible bottle-shaped shell of the dome. This is the wooden framework supporting it.’ Both men coughed. Grace’s eyes were stinging. He could see wooden slats, like a primitive ladder, rising above him and getting increasingly narrow.

  The Curator shone the beam upwards, illuminating a wooden cross beam, with a severed metal shaft suspended from it. It looked, to Roy Grace, the same diameter as the shaft sticking out of the top of the fallen chandelier. Wisps of smoke or steam were curling upwards from it. Grace frowned, then coughed again. Then he looked down, and through a small hole, a large section of the Banqueting Room was visible beneath. He could see the two paramedics still on all fours, in the wreckage of the chandelier.

  The Curator swung the torch beam down and something glinted in the light. It looked like a metal bottle cap. Then Roy Grace noticed a discarded San Pellegrino bottle. Near it were fragments of broken plastic.

  ‘Bloody litter louts!’ the Curator said, reaching for the bottle.

  Grace grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t touch it – it could be a crime exhibit and it might contain acid.’

  ‘Acid?’

  Grace guided the beam up the severed shaft again. ‘What do you suppose that is?’

  Barry stared at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Then they both saw the rucksack wedged between two slats, a short distance above them. Grace took the torch and climbed up to it, then shone the beam inside. He saw an opened all-day-breakfast pack of sandwiches, a can of Coke, a bottle of water, a Kindle, a battered leather wallet, and what looked like an iron tyre lever.

  Tucking the torch under his chin, he again pulled a pair of protective gloves from his pocket and snapped them on. Then he took out the wallet and opened it. Slotted in one pocket he saw a photograph of a small boy in a baseball cap, and a plastic Grand Hotel room key jammed in another. He put the wallet into a plastic evidence bag and slipped it into his pocket.

  Then he coughed again, just grabbing the torch before it fell. He shone the beam back on the shaft. The end of it, with wisps of smoke still rising, had melted into a bulbous shape that reminded him of mercury in a thermometer. ‘What do you know about chemistry?’ he called down to the Curator.

  ‘Never my strong subject,’ David Barry said, staring up at the end of the shaft.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Roy Grace said. ‘But I can tell you one thing. Your chandelier didn’t fall by accident.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m happy to hear that or not.’

  Grace barely heard him. He was thinking about Gaia’s son Roan, who had apparently been sitting beneath the chandelier seconds before it fell. Had the boy been the intended target?

  No. He did not think so. His immediate hypothesis was that Gaia was the target. Something had gone wrong in the assailant’s plans. Timing? The appearance of Roan?

  Who was the man crushed beneath the chandelier? The perpetrator? Or a heroic innocent bystander?

  He did not think the latter. Innocence didn’t play any part in what had just happened.

  96

  Roy Grace and a subdued David Barry strode quickly back into the Banqueting Room. The film crew had now been cleared from the room, and two police officers stood by the doorways. A large number of Fire Brigade officers were standing by with their equipment, waiting for a decision that would be made by the Coroner’s Officer and the Home Office pathologist, who would be called out, whether the body could be recovered to the mortuary, or the first part of the post-mortem was to take place here.

  A Crime Scene Photographer had arrived, as well as the Coroner’s Officer, who was talking to DI Tingley. Grace hoped there were sufficient people from the mortuary on call so that Cleo would not be dragged out here from her much needed rest this evening.

  Jason Tingley turned to Grace. ‘Chief, we can’t get a Home Office pathologist until first thing in the morning. Nadiuska’s going to be doing the post-mortem. I explained the situation and she’s given permission for the body to be recovered to the mortuary.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked up, briefly. ‘I think we’re going to have a difficult balancing act with the film people. It looks to me that someone deliberately brought down this chandelier. I want the dome above it treated as a crime scene – get SOCO up there right away, and warn them there are some hazardous substances.’

  One of the police officers at the door came over to him. ‘Sir, there’s a gentleman who says he is the film’s producer who’s insisting on speaking to you.’

  Grace walked across to the door and saw a short, bald man, expensively dressed in casual clothes, who was looking indignant.

  ‘You the officer in charge around here?’ Larry Brooker said imperiously.

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace – I’m in charge of Major Crime for Sussex.’

  ‘Larry Brooker, I’m the producer of this movie.’ He stabbed a finger towards Jason Tingley. ‘I gotta problem with that colleague of yours. I’m making a multi-million-dollar movie and he won’t let me on my own set!’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s correct,’ Grace said. ‘No one is permitted in the building while we carry out our investigations. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, too.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t let this happen,’ Brooker said.

  ‘With respect, it’s actually not your decision to make,’ Grace said.

  The producer glared at him. ‘So just whose decision is it, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘Mine,’ Grace said.

  ‘You have to get real, Detective – do you have any idea—’

  ‘Is a dead body under that chandelier real enough for you?’ Grace said, cutting him short, barely containing his anger now.

  ‘So, like, what’s the score?’

  Did this creep really not care? Grace stared at
the bald runt, highly tempted to say something that would really piss him off. The score is three–two to Manchester United, perhaps. The Test Match score in Bangalore? But he remembered the importance of this film to his beloved city. ‘Mr Brooker, I’m conscious of your situation, and I’ll be as fast as I can. I’m going to bring in a team to work overnight. I’m afraid we do have to seal off the whole building, but subject to what the maintenance and Health and Safety people say, I’ll try to give it back to you tomorrow afternoon. Would that be acceptable?’

  ‘What time tomorrow afternoon?’ Brooker growled.

  ‘What time do you need it?’

  ‘We were planning to shoot after it closes to the public: 5.45 p.m. onwards.’

  ‘Chief!’ Tingley cautioned.

  ‘Fine,’ Grace said, ignoring Tingley’s protestation. ‘You’ll have it back for then. Are you able to do any filming outside, or in a different location tonight?’

  ‘That was the plan – we have over one hundred extras here. It’s a very important scene – it’s a key scene in the movie. But how can we even shoot outside with all these police vehicles here?’

  ‘We’ll get them moved – if you tell us which area you want cleared outside, we’ll make that happen.’

  Then he turned to the DI. ‘My car’s outside. Meet me there in five minutes.’

  He hurried out of the building, looking around for Andrew Gulli, but could see no sign of him. Then he crossed the lawns towards the little village of motorhomes and trailers. Four man-mountain security guards stood by the steps to Gaia’s motorhome. Grace showed his warrant card, then asked if any of them had seen Mr Gulli.

  ‘He went over to the hotel to see about stepping up security there,’ one of them replied, talking in a voice that sounded like he had a mouth full of ice cubes.

  Grace knocked on the door. It was opened a few moments later by a female assistant, who he had seen before in Gaia’s suite in The Grand. She had ginger hair, cut in a fashionably skewed style, and wore a black T-shirt and black jeans over deck plimsolls. ‘Lori, right?’

  She smiled in recognition, but looked uneasy. ‘Inspector Grace – what can I do for you?’ she said in a clipped American accent.

  ‘I wanted to check that Roan is okay.’

  ‘Uh huh, he’s fine, thank you.’

  ‘He’s not injured?’

  ‘No, he’s good, he’s not even upset – I think he was more confused than anything. Thank you for asking. What’s actually happened? Andrew Gulli told us there’s been some kind of accident with a chandelier, but we don’t have any details.’

  ‘Yes, I’d just like to explain the situation – is Gaia here?’

  The assistant stepped back for a moment and called out, ‘It’s Inspector Grace!’

  Moments later she beckoned him to come on board.

  He climbed the steps and entered the cavernous interior of the vehicle, which smelled of a very appealing perfume, and the fainter smell of a recently smoked cigarette. A television was on, tuned to a cartoon channel, and Roan sat at a table, wearing his baseball cap, a computer game in front of him, staring at the cartoon with a rather bored expression, then turned his attention to his game.

  ‘You okay?’ Grace asked him.

  He shrugged and pressed a toggle on his game.

  Then a woman he did not at first recognize appeared through a partition door, wrapped in a cream silk dressing gown, her blonde hair cropped short in a male cut. She looked tearful, but greeted him with a cheery and very sexy voice. ‘Hey, Mr Paul Newman Eyes!’

  He smiled at her; she looked different but still strikingly beautiful.

  ‘What’s going on? Is the goddamn building falling down or something?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m really sorry – we’re doing our best to establish what happened.’

  She strode up to him, put her arms around him and hugged him hard. ‘This is scary,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll get to the bottom of it quickly, I promise you.’

  Suddenly, she gave him a quick – but not that quick – peck on the cheek, then stared into his eyes for some moments. Staring back into hers, he felt an electrifying frisson between them.

  ‘I know you will. Thank you for everything you’re doing while we’re here in your city, Chief Inspector.’ Her breath smelled minty.

  He shrugged and blushed. ‘I’m afraid with this incident in the Banqueting Room, it’s clearly not enough.’

  ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  He shook his head. ‘Thank you, but I have to get on in a second. I just wanted to make sure Roan was okay. It’s too early to say whether there’s any foul play, but we’ve closed down the Pavilion in order to conduct our investigations, so there won’t be any filming in there tonight.’

  ‘You think someone might have done something to bring that chandelier down?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to alarm you, but it’s a distinct possibility.’

  ‘They were targeting my son?’ Her eyes opened wide in fear.

  ‘If what happened is connected to the email that was sent last night, and that’s pure speculation at this stage, I’d say it was more likely they were targeting you and got their timings wrong. But I wouldn’t want to say anything that might cause you to worry unduly at this stage.’

  She stared him in the eyes again. ‘So long as you’re around, Chief Inspector, I won’t be worried!’

  He thought for a moment she was going to kiss him again, and he took a step back, half turning away, trying, albeit rather unconvincingly, to retain a professional detachment. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for being so understanding.’

  ‘De nada!’ She blew him a kiss.

  97

  Grace hurried back across the Pavilion lawns towards his car with a spring in his step. Despite his worries, he felt he was walking on air. He’d never imagined the day might come when he was kissed by an icon!

  ‘What are you smiling about, chief?’ Jason Tingley greeted him, standing by his car. ‘You look like you just won the lottery!’

  ‘Gaia’s kid’s okay, thank God. I’m relieved, that’s all.’

  ‘You sure that’s all it is?’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’ Grace grinned at him. Tingley was a sharp detective who missed nothing.

  The DI looked at his watch. ‘That was a long five minutes. Get lucky in there, did you?’

  ‘It was a purely professional visit.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Ignoring the innuendo, Grace climbed into the car and pulled his seat belt on. Tingley sat in the passenger seat. ‘None of my business, of course,’ he said.

  There was a rap on Grace’s window. He lowered it to talk to the tall woman with long fair hair who was holding a reporter’s notepad.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’ she queried. ‘Sorry to bother you. Iona Spencer, from the Argus.’

  Shit, Grace thought, cursing silently. He should have known that Spinella would be replaced pretty smartly. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Is there anything you could tell me about what’s happening in the Pavilion? I gather there’s been a fatality.’

  ‘There’ll be a press conference in the morning,’ he said, politely. ‘It would appear at the moment that a maintenance worker has been fatally injured in an industrial accident.’

  ‘Are any of the cast of the film involved?’

  ‘No, I can assure you of that. I’m sorry, we are in a hurry, but I will have more information for you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  As he drove off, Tingley commented, ‘Well, at least she’s better looking than Spinella.’

  ‘And better mannered,’ Grace said, inserting his phone into the hands-free cradle, then calling the Chief Constable’s number.

  Five minutes later Grace pulled the car up on the driveway in front of The Grand Hotel, and they went inside and straight up to the front desk. Grace was aware that, strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be doing this kind of legwork th
ey were embarking on, and should have delegated it to a much lower rank – a DC or DS. But, having been given overall responsibility for Gaia’s security, at this moment he wanted to be hands on. Equally importantly, he genuinely loved real, old-fashioned detective work – the slog to find clues and unravel tiny parts of the puzzle. If he let it, his work would keep him permanently desk-bound, and he never wanted that to happen.

  He showed his warrant card to a young woman on duty on reception, then handed her the plastic room key he had retrieved from the wallet inside the rucksack in the Pavilion’s roof space.

  ‘We need to identify someone who has been fatally injured in an accident, and we found this in what we believe are his belongings. Could you tell us who this room is registered to, please.’

  She inserted the key into her computer and moments later said, ‘Room 608, Mr Jerry Baxter. I have an address for him in New York.’

  Tingley jotted it down.

  ‘Can we see the room, please?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I’ll phone the duty manager – actually, the General Manager is here, I’ll call him.’

  Andrew Mosley had, it seemed to Grace, all the qualities required of a consummate hotelier. Smart appearance, a charming manner, an efficient air and impeccable manners. He took them up in the lift, along the corridor then knocked, dutifully, on the door of room 608 and waited some moments. Then he knocked again. When he was satisfied no one was answering, he inserted the key and pushed the door open, calling out a cautious ‘Hello?’ before switching on the lights.

  The two detectives entered the small room, which was furnished with twin beds, an armchair, a round table on which sat a copy of Sussex Life magazine and Absolute Brighton, a side table, and a desk fixed to the wall, littered with receipts. There was a window overlooking an internal courtyard, and another door, ajar, leading through to the bathroom.

  A suitcase lay open on the floor, and on the top of the clothes inside it lay a dark-blue passport bearing a crest and the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

  Grace pulled on a pair of gloves; Tingley followed suit. Then Grace picked up the passport and opened it, flicking rapidly through the pages until he came to the identification one.