Peter James - Not Dead Yet

Grace looked around his assembled team, which had now grown to twenty-six people, including the MIR-1 Office Manager – Detective Sergeant Lance Skelton – two indexers and two crime analysts. ‘Okay, a bit of housekeeping before we start.’ He broke out into a broad smile. ‘I’m very happy to tell you all that the mole who has been blighting our major enquiries for most of the past year has been outed.’

He instantly had the rapt attention of the entire room, broken only for a moment by a sudden burst of ringtone from a mobile phone. A blushing DC Emma Reeves hastily silenced it.

‘I’m very pleased and relieved to tell you that it is not anyone within the police service. It is none other than our good friend, Kevin Spinella from the Argus .’

‘Spinella?’ DS Guy Batchelor said, astonished. ‘How, chief – I mean – I thought the mole was feeding him? What did he do?’

‘He hacked my phone.’ Grace held his BlackBerry up for all to see. ‘He did it electronically. He installed some form of data logger software. It made a recording of every single phone call I received or made, and all texts, and immediately sent them electronically to his own phone.’

Several of the team were frowning. ‘But how did he get access to your BlackBerry, to install it, boss?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

‘He didn’t need to,’ Grace replied. ‘Ray Packham at the High Tech Crime Unit said that all he would have needed to do was to stand within a few feet of me. I keep the Bluetooth option switched on all the time. He could have simply uploaded it from his phone to mine in a matter of seconds.’

‘But that little toerag’s a newspaper reporter, not a tekkie boffin, boss,’ DC Exton said.

‘He would have needed a tekkie friend,’ Grace said. ‘I imagine we’ll find whoever that is. At this moment Spinella’s in custody and his phone’s being taken apart. But I need the High Tech Crime Unit to check all your phones – and my strong advice is to keep your Bluetooth switched off all the time you don’t need it.’

‘So, do we know how far this goes up the chain of command at the Argus , sir?’ Dave Green asked.

‘I spoke to the editor, Michael Beard, earlier. He sounded very genuinely shocked, and said if that were the case, the reporter was totally out of line and acting in a rogue manner, completely alien to the paper’s policy. I subsequently received an email from him a few minutes before I came in here, telling me that Spinella has been suspended with immediate effect. I get the sense Spinella was acting alone – the editor wouldn’t do that to him if he were acting on official policy.’

‘So what happens to Spinella’s career now?’ Norman Potting asked.

Bella Moy rounded on him. ‘What? You care?’

Glenn Branson watched the exchange, intrigued. Until last night he thought that Bella couldn’t stand the man. Now, he realized, it was more like the bickering of an old married couple. He was still in shock from seeing them together, and had not told Roy yet. He looked at the two of them now. Surely she was capable of attracting someone a lot better than Norman?

Such as himself.

Then again, he knew, his collapsed relationship with Ari showed just how little he understood women.

‘I think I’d be lying,’ Roy Grace went on, ‘if I said I was going to be losing any sleep over harming Kevin Spinella’s future career prospects.’

There was a ripple of laughter.

‘Has he been charged yet?’ Jon Exton asked.

‘What, like his phone?’ Potting riposted and chortled, oblivious to the raised eyebrows around him.

Grace ignored him. ‘Yes, he has. With a bit of luck he could be looking at three to five years.’

‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,’ Nick Nicholl said sarcastically.

‘He’ll like being inside,’ Potting said, on a roll now. ‘He thrives on inside information!’ He chortled again.

‘Very witty, Norman,’ Grace said. Then he turned to the press officer, Sue Fleet. ‘You’ll need to liaise with the Argus and find out who will be our new principal contact there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Okay, let’s move on, down to business.’ He looked at his prepared notes. ‘Glenn, what do you have for us from the postmortem today?’

‘We hope to have the DNA results on the four limbs back tomorrow, boss. But from their well-preserved condition the pathologist Nadiuska De Sancha was able to match them up pretty well to the torso. She was unable to find anything under the nails, skin scrapings or anything else which might indicate a struggle and perhaps give us the perp’s DNA.’

‘What about fingerprints?’

‘Yes, boss, we got a complete dead set.’

‘Good.’

‘We also got good plantars, too.’ Plantars were toe prints. ‘The fingerprints indicate the hands – therefore the arms – are probably from the same body, but there are no hits from the database, so we’re no further forward with identification.’ He turned to the forensic podiatrist. ‘Do you have anything to add on the legs, Haydn?’

‘At this stage,’ Kelly said, ‘the right and left leg appear to belong to the same body – I’m as near to one hundred per cent certain as I can be. I fully expect the DNA analysis will confirm this for us.’

‘So all we need is the head, and we’ll have a complete assemble-it-yourself human cadaver in kit form,’ Potting said.

There were several sniggers. Bella Moy gave him a reproachful look.

‘What do you have for us on mispers, Norman?’ Grace asked.

‘We now have thirty-seven male mispers from the three counties, chief, who fit the age and build profile of the victim. The families that we have been able to contact have been asked to provide items we might be able to obtain DNA from. There are five mispers where we have been unable to find any relatives, and another six with relatives who can’t provide us with anything at all.’

Grace thanked him, and turned to DC Nick Nicholl. ‘Nick, how are you getting on with the list of people who’ve had access to Stonery Farm?’

‘We’re pretty much complete, sir.’ He turned to the indexer Annalise Vineer. ‘Annalise has been making up a database for us to cross-reference against.’

‘We have everyone in it who has been to the farm in the last twelve months – at least the names that the Winter family have given us,’ she said, with a slight toss of her head which sent her fringe flicking left, then right, over her forehead. ‘Tradesmen, friends, professionals. I’m also cross-referencing them against the Police National Database to see if there are any matches with known criminals.’

‘Good work,’ Grace said. He looked down at his notes. ‘Right, I understand we have some development regarding the suit fabric.’ He looked at Glenn.

‘I had a long conversation with a very helpful woman at Dormeuil, the cloth manufacturer. They’ve confirmed it is their fabric, and, no surprise, that it is not one of their major sellers. One problem we have – but it could be much worse – is that a relatively new specialist manufacturer of men’s fashion suits, called Savile Style, bought a large quantity of the material three years ago, making over nine hundred suits from it, which they’ve supplied mostly to individual men’s clothing stores around the country – as well as some overseas. They’re putting together a list of all stockists – definitely one or two in Brighton – who bought the suits. Dormeuil are also letting me have a list of all tailors who’ve bought bolts of this cloth too, which would have been for made-to-measure suits – tailors like Gresham Blake.’

‘What we need to do,’ Grace said, ‘is to get the names of every individual we can who bought a suit in this fabric and then, Annalise, check against the visitor list to Stonery Farm and see if that throws up anything.’ He turned to Bella Moy. ‘Did we get any more leads from Crimewatch ?’