by Peter James
‘Glenn?’
‘Right, boss, me and Bella interviewed all fourteen staff members of the chartered accountancy firm Feline Bradley-Hamilton today. This is the only company we’ve found that has links with both Stonery Farm and the West Sussex Piscatorial Society; the firm’s made a specialist accountancy practice in farming and outdoors pursuits – and it’s created its own software package for farmers. During this process we encountered one person we are not happy about, and we feel should be looked into further.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘His name is Eric Whiteley.’
‘Tell me your reasons,’ Grace said.
‘I used your right-eye, left-eye technique that you taught me.’
Grace nodded. Human brains were divided into left and right hemispheres. One contained long-term memory storage, and in the other, the creative processes took place. When asked a question, people’s eyes almost invariably moved to the hemisphere they were using. In some people the memory storage was in the right hemisphere and in some the left; the creative hemisphere would be the opposite one.
When people were telling the truth, their eyes would swing towards the memory hemisphere; when they lied, towards the creative one – to construct. Branson had learned from Roy Grace to tell which, by tracking their eyes in response to a simple control question such as the one he had asked Eric Whiteley earlier, about how long he had worked for the firm – to which there would have been no need for him to have lied.
‘And?’ Roy Grace asked.
‘It’s my view he was lying to us.’
Grace turned to Bella. ‘What did you think?’
‘I agree, sir. Whiteley’s an oddball. I wasn’t at all happy with how he responded to our questions.’
Grace made a note on his pad. Eric Whiteley. Person of Interest? ‘Did you get his home address?’
‘Yes,’ Bella said. ‘With difficulty.’
Grace raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’
‘He kept trying to tell us we were invading his privacy,’ Branson said.
‘I think you two should go to his house and talk to him again there. Sounds like we need to either bring him in or eliminate him from our enquiries.’
The problem, he knew, with not having a time or date of Royce’s death is that all the team were working in a vacuum. When there was a clearly established time of death, alibis were often a fast and efficient way to eliminate people like Whiteley – or incriminate them. He turned to his HOLMES – Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – and Intelligence researchers. ‘I want you to check the serials going back two years, and see if any of Whiteley’s neighbours have ever complained about him. See if he’s been involved in any incidents. We need more information on him.’ Then he said to Bella, ‘I think you should have a word with Whiteley’s senior partner and find out what kind of employee he is.’
‘I have a call in to him already, sir.’
‘Good!’ Then he turned to DC Exton. ‘The Hunter wellington boots – anything to report from the stockists?’ He pointed up at the trio of whiteboards. One board showed a photograph of Stonery Farm, circled in blue marker ink, and a photograph of the West Sussex Piscatorial Society trout lake, also circled in blue, with a line connecting them. A second showed photographs of a Hunter boot, and three photographs of the actual-size prints found around the edge of the trout lake. The third board had photographs of the torso and limbs of Myles Royce, and now, just added today, his face.
‘I’ve obtained a list of online retailers,’ Exton said. ‘We’ve been working through these, compiling a list of names of customers they’ve supplied in our parameter area of Sussex, Surrey and Kent in the past two years. But the problem as we know with many stockists, like garden centres and outdoor wear shops, is many don’t keep customer records. We’re getting as much as we can through credit card records, but that is slow and incomplete. I’ve been feeding names as they come through to the indexer.’ He looked at Annalise Vineer.
‘Nothing so far,’ she said. ‘I’ve names from sixteen stockists of people who’ve made recent purchases, but no hits, and that includes Eric Whiteley.’
Grace had worked with her on several murder enquiries and knew just how thorough she was. If she said no hits, she meant it. He looked at his notes. ‘Haydn – how are you doing on gait analysis?’
‘I’ve completed my computer modelling. I won’t bore you with the technical data but analysis of these prints shows our perp has a very unusual gait. I’m confident I could pick him out in a crowd. I could spend a few days in the CCTV control room at John Street, if you like?’
Brighton and Hove had one of the most comprehensive CCTV networks of any city. This was helped by the fact that the English Channel bordered the south, giving a relatively narrow arc to the east, north and west. But the problem, as Grace saw it, was which crowd? Haydn Kelly was on an expensive daily rate; he couldn’t just sit him down in front of a bank of television monitors and have him observe real-time footage in the hope of spotting the perp, when there were no guarantees that Myles Royce’s killer was even in the city.
He looked up at the dead man’s photograph. Royce was fifty-two, his mother had told Potting. He looked a little younger, in Grace’s view. The unfortunate man had not been blessed with great looks. He had a rather weak, flaccid face with bulging eyes, as if he had a thyroid problem, protruding lips, a squat nose and a shapeless mop of dark-brown hair with the unnatural flat tones of a bad dye job.
A trustafarian. Modest inherited wealth. Never had to do a day’s work in his life. Just dabbled in property from time to time. From the expression he wore in his photograph, he sure as hell did not look happy, Grace thought.
So how did you end up like this? Your torso covered in quicklime and immersed in chicken shit? Your limbs in a trout lake? And your head missing?
‘You know what, chief?’ Norman Potting said, as if reading his mind. ‘If we could just find his head, maybe he could tell us who did it!’
There was tittering in the room. Roy Grace did his best to keep a straight face, but after some moments he allowed himself a grin.
In all the murder enquiries he had attended, and more recently had run, he could not remember a single one where there had been less information about the victim or the suspected perpetrator.
In two hours’ time he had to attend a press conference with Glenn. If they put over their messages correctly, it could lead to a crucial witness either phoning the police directly or the Crimestoppers line anonymously. The enormity of his responsibility never escaped him. Myles Royce was his mother’s only child. He was her life. For over thirty years after leaving home, he went to see her every week, and phoned her every Sunday evening at seven, without fail. Now he hadn’t phoned for almost six months. And he wouldn’t be phoning ever again.
What had he done to deserve ending up dead, and with such appalling lack of dignity? Who had done this to him – and why? Was the motive sexual? Jealousy? Robbery? Homophobia? A random psychotic attack? Revenge? An argument that turned into a fight?
He looked at his team. ‘Which of you are Gaia fans?’
Several hands shot up. He looked at Emma Reeves, who seemed the keenest. ‘Am I right that Gaia includes a bit of S&M in her work, yes?’
‘Yes, chief – but only in a fun way in one of her acts, and on one of her album covers.’
‘Are we missing something very obvious here? Did she ever write a song about dismemberment? Or have some sick art about it that someone might have copied?’
‘I know everything she’s done, sir,’ Emma Reeves said. ‘That makes me a bit sad, doesn’t it?’
Grace smiled. ‘Not at all.’
‘But there’s nothing I can think of in her work that would send some sicko off to dismember someone.’
After the briefing ended, Grace returned to his office and made a new entry into his Policy Book.
Homophobic murder?
Blackmail of a gay lover?
Criminal involvement? Witnessed something? Drugs deal a
t a gay cruising site?
His phone rang. He looked down at the display and did not recognize the number. He stepped out into the corridor as he answered it.
The voice of the caller was low and furtive. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’
Grace didn’t need to ask who was calling. He recognized the voice of the recidivist and informer, Darren Spicer. ‘Yes, how can I help you?’
‘Got some more information for you. You can have this for free.’
‘That’s very generous.’
‘Yeah. Thought you’d like to know. That deal I was offered, what we discussed?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Your friend’s just come back to me and doubled it, for me to do that job.’
82
Drayton Wheeler lay, curled up on the floor, listening to Mozart’s Figaro overture on his iPod earphones. It was Mozart’s music which had sustained him through all the shit in his life. Mozart lifted him to the heavens. When the time finally came, he didn’t want some fucking priest holding his hand, he wanted to be alone, listening to this.
He looked at his watch, munching on the cheese sandwich he had selected from his rations. Midnight. It would be safe to move into position now – he had figured out the security guards’ rota in here during the small hours.
He finished eating, switched off the iPod and drank some water. He removed the iron tyre lever from his rucksack, and scooped everything else back into it apart from the torch, then stood up and hauled it on to his shoulders, shaking the cramp from his legs. Then he relieved himself in a corner.
When he had finished, he slowly and cautiously pushed open the heavy door and stepped out, looking in both directions. Just darkness. No one there. Holding the tyre lever in his right hand and the torch, switched on, in his left, he made his way along the passage, passing old pipework, a modern red firehose reel, and three rickety old antique chairs with broken wicker seats. He felt nervous. So close now. He had to succeed. Had to. He switched the torch off, held his breath then, knowing there would be security guards prowling around above him, inched his way up the steps in the darkness until he reached the half-gate.
Footsteps.
Shit.
He crouched, heart pounding, pulse tugging at the base of his wrist as if it were a small creature trying to get out. He gripped the tyre lever tightly.
Rubber-soled shoes clumping along. The sound of jangling keys. Then whistling ‘The Harry Lime Theme’. The whistle of someone who was nervous. Whistling badly, missing several of the notes. Was the guard nervous of this place at night?
Just don’t come down here.
To his relief the footsteps faded into the distance and were gone. But he stayed crouched for several more seconds, listening. A walk of twenty feet, not covered by any sensor, would take him to the door which opened on to the stairs up to the long-deserted apartment beneath the dome. He slipped the bolt, pulled open the gate and stepped out into the hallway, holding his breath. Listening intently. Total silence. He pulled the gate shut and slid the bolt back into place, flicked on the torch for an instant to get his bearings and then off again. He walked on tiptoe, passing a sign which pointed to TOILETS, pulled open the door, stepped inside and pulled it shut behind him.
Then, switching on the torch and guided by the beam, he climbed up the long, steep spiral staircase with the rickety banisters, pausing for breath halfway up. Shadows jumped around him. This place was probably full of ghosts. So what, he’d be one soon, too. The dead had never bothered him. Ghosts weren’t scumbags like some of the living.
He reached the top and entered the old, abandoned apartment beneath the dome. A door lay against a wall. There were dust sheets over uneven, angular shapes. Horrible mottled wallpaper, dusty oval leaded-light windows with views out across the street lights, shadows and orange permaglow of the city at night, and the vast black expanse of the sea. A mouse – or a rat – scampered away, feet scratching on the bare boards. The air smelled dusty and dank.
He felt tired. The coffee in his flask had long gone cold. He would have liked to lie down on the floor and sleep, but he didn’t dare. It would be dawn in a few hours. He needed to get into place under the cover of darkness. He stepped carefully across the circular room, passing the trapdoor secured by two bolts, with the wording on it, DANGER – STEEP DROP BELOW. DO NOT STAND ON DOOR, accompanied by the image, in purple, of a falling man. He kept the beam of his torch low, just in case anyone was looking up in this direction, and walked through a doorway into what had once been another bedroom, with everything in here also shrouded in dust sheets. In front of him was a wall, covered in graffiti. One in swirly writing said, J Cook, 1920. There was a drawing of an owl. Another drawing of a shield. Another read, RB 1906.
To the left was a small door, barely bigger than a hatch. He knelt, slid the bolts and pushed it open. The cool, blustery night air with its fresh, salty tang, engulfed him, and he breathed it in, greedily, gulping it into his lungs, a relief from the stale air inside. He removed his rucksack and pushed it through, then eased himself out, hauled himself to his feet, and carefully pushed the door shut.
He was standing on a narrow, steel platform with a handrail, with the wind tugging at him. A long way below, directly in front of him, was the dark area of the Pavilion grounds, and the shadows of the motorhomes of the stars and the production trucks. In the glow of the street lighting, and through the swaying branches of the trees, he could see the Theatre Royal and the restaurants, shops and offices of New Road, and beyond, the dark, uneven rooftops of sleeping Brighton.
Around him, up here on the roof, were turrets, minarets, chimney stacks and chimney pots, and a network of walkways and metal-rung ladders fixed to walls. There was enough ambient light here to see where he was going without using his torch. He set off, walking along a steel platform between two pitched slate roofs, with skylights along one side, carefully gripping the handrail. He had memorized the plans, but even so, now he was up here, he found it hard to get his bearings. There was a faint traffic hum below him. Then the distant doppler wail of a siren stopped him for an instant, in panic.
But it ripped on past and faded.
The dome above the Banqueting Room, which was his target, lay directly ahead of him. One more walkway, then he scaled a short metal ladder, and hauled himself up on to another walkway. His tiredness was evaporating and he was starting to feel really good. Invincible! Yeah, though I walk alone through the shadow of the Valley of Death, I shall fear no evil. For I am the Meanest Sonofabitch in the Valley.
Oh yes!
No one messes with Drayton Wheeler.
No one messes with the Meanest Sonofabitch in the Valley!
One more ladder. His rucksack swung right, pulling him over, but he hung on grimly. Three limbs on a ladder at all times! That was the rule you had to remember. One hand, two legs; two hands, one leg.
He climbed on to the narrow platform, and the dome curved up towards the sky, majestically, steep as a mountain, right in front of him now.
He switched on his torch for a few seconds, saw the tiny inspection hatch door, and switched it off again. He opened it, again pushed his rucksack through in front of him, then he crawled forwards, and through it, on to the first two steps of a wooden staircase, into pitch darkness. Switching on the torch again, he pulled the door shut behind him. His whole body was pounding. He was shorting out with excitement.
Oh yes, baby, oh yes!
He could safely keep the torch on now. He crawled forward, up several more steps, then on to a wooden platform. The interior of the dome mirrored the exterior, like a second skin. The exterior was rendered in carved stone, but the interior frame was constructed from wooden slats, like a concave ladder.
There was no point in climbing it now, he knew from his previous recce, because it just got progressively steeper. He would be more comfortable staying here, on this platform.
If the production stuck to its schedule tomorrow, after the Royal Pavilion closed to the p
ublic, Brooker Brody Productions would start filming one of the key scenes in the movie. His movie. King George IV and Mrs Fitzherbert sitting at the banqueting table, directly beneath the massive chandelier that His Majesty was so nervous of.
The fixings supporting the chandelier were directly above him. A two-minute climb. From the top he could look down, through a tiny crack, at the top of the chandelier, and almost the whole of the room.
With luck if he got his timings right, Gaia Lafayette and Judd Halpern would be pulped.
That would put an end to the ridiculous travesty that Brooker Brody Productions had written into the script, about Maria Fitzherbert committing suicide after being dumped by the king.
Much better for her to die like this.
83
At 1.30 a.m. Roy Grace, snuggled up against Cleo, was woken by a solid kick in his ribs.
‘Ouch!’ he said, for an instant thinking it was Cleo giving him a dig with her elbow, which she did on the rare occasions when he snored. But she seemed to be sound asleep. Then he felt another kick.
It was the baby.
Then another kick.
Without moving, Cleo murmured, ‘I think Bump’s practising for the London Marathon. He hasn’t stopped.’
Grace felt another sudden movement but gentler this time. He said quietly, ‘Hey, Bump, do you mind, I need some sleep! We all need to get some sleep, okay?’
‘Not sure I can remember what sleep is any more,’ Cleo said. ‘I’ve got terrible heartburn and I’ve been to the loo four times.’
‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘You were well away.’
‘I was? It didn’t feel like it. I don’t feel like I’ve slept a wink, either.’ He kissed her on the cheek.
‘I’m wired,’ she said. ‘I’m so wide awake I could do some studying.’
‘Don’t, try to rest.’
‘I can’t take sleeping pills. I can’t have a drink. God, you’re so lucky you’re a man!’ Then she felt the baby move again, and she smiled. She placed Roy’s hand on her abdomen. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? That’s a mini us in there! I definitely think it’s a boy. Everyone’s telling me I look like I’m carrying a boy. You’d prefer a boy, wouldn’t you?’