Peter James - Not Dead Yet

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.

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 are 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.

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.