by Peter James
Branson looked down at his notes, then continued. ‘The best estimates of time of death are six months to one year. The condition of the body indicates that it was covered with quicklime – better known these days as calcium oxide. An amateurish attempt at accelerating its decomposition and an unsuccessful attempt at destroying its DNA. Joan Major has recovered DNA from the bones, which has been sent for fast-track analysis. We hope to have results back by Monday. In the meantime an enquiry team headed by Norman Potting will look into mispers.’
He paused and took a sip from a bottle of water. ‘The Chief and I have set a parameter of missing persons within Sussex and the Surrey–Kent borders. In order to allow for errors in the pathology estimates, we are looking at all misper reports – as well as serials from concerned persons reporting someone possibly missing. Do you have anything to report?’ He nodded respectfully at DS Annalise Vineer, the manager for the analysts, indexers and typists on the enquiry, who handled the computerized HOLMES System data.
A studious but good-humoured woman in her mid-thirties, with long black hair and a fringe covering her forehead, and dressed all in black, she had a dramatic appearance, counterbalanced by a quietly efficient air. ‘We decided to extend our search time frame parameter – after discussions with DS Potting – to a range of three to eighteen months, to allow for time of death errors. ‘We have three hundred and forty-two mispers who have been missing permanently within this period. Of these, one hundred and forty-five are male. So far we have eliminated eighty-seven, from their age and build.’
Grace made a quick calculation. ‘This leaves us fifty-eight?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied.
He turned to Potting. ‘What progress are you making on these, Norman?’
Potting gave the kind of smug grin he always gave, puffing his chest out self-importantly, like an understudy who has suddenly had the starring role thrust upon him. ‘If we could find his skull – that would give us a head start.’
There was another round of laughter. This time Grace smiled, too. As he and everyone else present knew, Potting’s comment was less frivolous than it sounded. Dead bodies could be identified in a number of ways. Visual identification from a family member was the most certain of all. DNA was as effective, also. As were fingerprints or dental records. Sometimes footprints, too, in the absence of anything else to go on.
With this torso, they had only DNA analysis to rely on at present. If the victim’s DNA was not on the national database, they would be faced with a big problem. Expensive analysis of the isotopes in enzymes in the DNA might give clues as to the corpse’s home country, or even county. Forensic scientists had learned recently that food – in particular its constituent minerals – is sufficiently localized to get a region of origin, if not an actual country. The information was of only limited value. For a murder enquiry to be able to make any progress, identification of the victim was paramount.
David Green raised a hand. ‘The search team has completed work in the chicken sheds and no further remains have been found. Following a scoping exercise, I’ve now widened the search parameter to likely deposition sites in the entire area of the farmland, and a one mile radius of the countryside in all areas around it, using Ground Penetrating Radar.’ He pointed to an aerial photograph that was pinned up on the large whiteboard at one end of the room. It showed the farm, outlined in red marker pen, and the surrounding fields, road and ponds. ‘Divers are scanning or searching all the ponds and ditches this evening and tomorrow.’
Grace thanked him, then said, ‘DS Branson will report on the press conference he held at 5.30 p.m. today. Before we get to that, I want to say something to all of you, and I want you to listen carefully. Earlier today I had a phone call from our good old friend Kevin Spinella at the Argus. Yet again, as he has done for the past year, he is ahead of all of us – despite the fact that he’s currently in the Maldives on his honeymoon.’
‘You mean the little shit found someone to marry him, boss?’ Guy Batchelor exclaimed.
‘Incredible as it may seem, yes. Now, I don’t want to make false accusations about anyone, but these leaks to him are coming from someone with insider information. It could be one of you, or it could be someone in another division or department entirely. I just want you all to know that I’m determined to find this person. And when I do – ’ he paused, waiting for his words to sink in. ‘When I do,’ he repeated, ‘that person’s going to wish they’d never been born. Everyone understand me?’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Grace stared briefly at each of them in turn. Twenty-seven people, some, such as Potting, Branson and Nick Nicholl, he had worked with many times previously. Others, such as the new DCs on his team, Emma Reeves, Shirley Rigg-Cleeves and Anna Morrison, he had no idea about. They all looked like good, decent people, but how could he tell?
Besides, at this moment, that was not his biggest problem. Kevin Spinella was more like an irritating sore that got worse the more he scratched. The man at least had his uses, and understood the game, which was more than he could say for a lot of today’s generation of reporters. The real issue at this moment was to decide how wide a net to cast in trying to identify this body, and his killer. He looked down at Eleanor Hodgson’s notes, and his own late additions handwritten in the margins.
‘We need to research Stonery Farm. I’m setting an initial five-year parameter on this. I want the entire history of the place, and its owner, Keith Winter and his family. Have there been any reported incidents in the vicinity? Break-ins? Poachers? If cause of death is strangulation by wire, could Winter or any of his family have done this? Has he or any of his family ever studied martial arts? What kind of rivalries are there in the free-range chicken business?’
He paused as a ripple of laughter went around the room. Then he glared. ‘I’m sorry, did I just say something funny? Would any of you find it funny that a relative you loved had been found dismembered in a four-foot deep quagmire of shit?’
No one answered.
29
Glenn Branson followed Roy Grace out of the Conference Room and along the maze of corridors back to the open area where some senior members of the Major Crime Branch had their permanent offices.
‘How did I do?’ he asked.
‘Good,’ Grace said and patted him affectionately on his back, as they entered his office. He saw the winking message light on his BlackBerry, which he had left on his desk. ‘We need to identify that body pronto.’
‘How?’
Grace slipped behind his desk, sat down and picked up the phone, glancing through the fifteen new emails that had come in. ‘I think you should contact the NPIA,’ he responded, ‘and see if we can get any insight from them about what kind of offender this might be.’
The National Policing Improvement Agency had a range of profilers on their books, who between them had experienced just about every conceivable method of murder, every variation of motive.
‘Good thinking. Do they operate over weekends?’
‘Not at full strength, but they’ll have someone on call twenty-four seven.’
Branson eased himself into a chair opposite Grace’s small desk. ‘You got something on your mind? You seem distracted.’
Grace continued scrolling through the emails. There was one from Graham Barrington, the Chief Superintendent of Brighton and Hove Police, who had been appointed the Gold commander for protecting Gaia during her stay in the city. No messages from Cleo, which was always a relief, after her recent collapse.
Graham Barrington was asking him if he could attend a risk assessment meeting on Gaia Lafayette at 10 a.m. the following morning, Sunday, at his office.
‘A few things,’ Grace said, typing a quick reply to Barrington that he would be there. ‘I’m worried about Cleo – I just heard earlier that Amis Smallbone’s been released. Her car was vandalized during the night.’
‘By him?’
Grace shrugged. ‘His style, yes.’
‘Shit, what ar
e you going to do?’
‘Sort him out, when I can find him. Now I’ve got a new problem. Gaia. The Chief’s put me in charge of her security while she’s here in Sussex.’
Branson’s eyes lit up. ‘I want to meet her! I so want to meet her! Awesome! I can’t believe she’s coming to town!’
‘Wednesday,’ Grace said.
‘Will you introduce me?’
‘If you promise to keep my house tidy!’
‘You’ve got it! Wow! Gaia. She’s like – like – ’ he raised his hands then dropped them in his lap – ‘like incredible!’
‘I thought you were only into black music.’
Branson beamed. ‘Yeah, well, she sings like she’s black! And the kids would die to meet her! How involved are you going to be?’
‘I’ll know more later.’
‘I have to meet her. Got to get her autograph for Sammy and Remi!’
‘They like her music?’
‘Like it?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘They go nuts when they see her on television. Every kid in England loves her. You know how big she is?’ Then he grinned. ‘Actually I suppose you don’t, you’re too old.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it. At your age, you’re probably dreaming about Vera Lynn. Everyone younger than you is dreaming about Gaia.’
‘Yep, well I’m going to be dreaming about her too, from now on. Nightmares.’
‘She’s awesome. I’m telling you. Awesome!’
Grace nodded, thinking to himself. Gaia was truly awesome. Awesome news for Brighton. A megastar. The film would be a massive global boost to the tourism so much of this city depended on.
And he knew that if anything happened to her here, on his watch, it wouldn’t just be the city of Brighton that would forever be tainted. He would be too.
30
His moist lips closed greedily around the fat soft tobacco leaf of the Cohiba Siglo. He sucked the dense smoke into his mouth, blew it out towards the ceiling, then picked up the crystal tumbler and drained the last of the thirty-year-old Glenlivet.
This was the life. A great deal better than prison, oh yes. You could get most stuff that you wanted inside, if you knew your way around the system and had influence, the way Amis Smallbone did. But nothing compared to being free. One of the girls – a redhead, naked except for her ankle bracelet – stood up from the sofa to get him a refill. The other stayed closely at his side, massaging his crotch through his trousers, slowly bringing a part of him back to life again.
He tried to keep his focus on his pleasures tonight. Saturday night. His first taste of freedom in a decade and a quarter. A porn movie was playing on the home cinema screen in front of him. Two blonde lezzies. Yeah. He liked a bit of girl-on-girl action. He liked this big room in this fuck-off mansion set back behind electric gates in Brighton’s swanky Dyke Road Avenue.
He’d lived in a place even bigger than this once upon a time, just a few streets away. Before a certain Brighton copper took it all away from him.
The pad’s owner, his old mate Benny Julius, with his pot belly and dodgy toupee, was down in the basement Jacuzzi with the other three girls. This was a welcome home party. Benny always did things in style, always liked living it large.
He winced as the girl slipped her hand inside his zip. Then she whispered into his ear, ‘Oooh, it’s quite small – but it’s ferocious, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, ferocious,’ he whispered back, before his mouth was smothered by hers.
That was how he was feeling. Ferocious. His focus was slipping from his pleasures. Ferocious. He barely felt the girl’s hand on his shaft any more. Ferocious. Twelve years and three months. Thanks to one man.
Detective Sergeant Roy Grace.
Been promoted a few times now, he’d read.
He was stiff as a rock.
‘Like a pencil,’ she breathed, huskily, into his ear. ‘Like a tiny little pencil stub!’
He smashed her across the face with the flat of his hand so hard she fell to the floor. ‘Fuck you, bitch,’ he said.
‘You couldn’t if you tried,’ she retorted, rubbing her cheek, looking dazed. ‘It’s not big enough to get it in.’
He staggered to his feet, but the drink had got there first. His natty grey suede loafers embedded themselves in the deep pile of the carpet and he fell flat on his face, snapping the cigar in half, showering dark grey ash across the white tufts. As he lay there he stabbed a finger at her. ‘Remember who you fucking work for, bitch.’
‘Yeah, I do. I remember what he told me and all. About why you’re called Smallbone.’ She held up her forefinger and thumb and curled them, with a sneer.
‘You fucking—’ he climbed to his knees and lunged at her. But all Amis Smallbone saw, for a fleeting instant, was her left foot coming out of nowhere towards his face. An elementary kickboxing manoeuvre. Striking him beneath his chin, jerking his head upwards and back. It felt, as his consciousness dissolved into sparking white light, as if her foot had gone clean through his head and out the back of his skull.
31
As he drove his silver police Ford Focus from the Sunday morning briefing meeting on Operation Icon, down the London Road, heading towards the monolithic superstructure of Brighton’s John Street Police Station, Roy Grace was deep in thought, with a lot weighing on his mind, and trying to organize his priorities.
His biggest worry was Cleo, who’d had a restless night with the baby kicking, and was not feeling well this morning. She was still very shaken from the vandalism of her car, and he wanted to get back to her as soon as possible.
There had been no developments on ‘Berwick Male’, as the headless, armless and legless torso had been named. Their best hope was pinned at the moment on a DNA hit, and they should hear from the lab in the morning.
Tomorrow he had to go to London, to Inner Temple, for a meeting with the prosecuting barrister on the Carl Venner snuff movie case. He needed to find time today to meet with the Case Officer DC Mike Gorringe and financial investigator Emily Curtis, to review their evidence files and go through his Policy Book. They would be grilled tomorrow as if they were in the dock, and needed to have all their answers ready. And right now he had to attend a meeting with Chief Superintendent Graham Barrington.
His phone rang, and he answered it on hands-free.
‘Mr Grace?’ said an unfamiliar, chirpy voice.
He answered with a hesitant ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Terry Robinson, from Frosts Garage. You popped in a few weeks ago looking at an Alfa Brera?’
‘Right, yes,’ he said, remembering vaguely. There was a strange and irritating clicking sound on the line for some seconds, similar to the noise he heard before. Either a bad connection or something wrong with his phone, he thought.
‘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.’
&nb
sp; 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!