Peter James - Not Dead Yet

‘I’ve heard that.’

‘She does, it’s true.’

Anna Galicia signed the release form, and entered the details requested from her. She was given the production schedule, a call sheet for Monday, and was then directed through to the female costume room.

It was full of fat women, slim women, young women, middle-aged women, squeezing into ridiculous costumes and ornate wigs. They were there for the money, the sixty-five pounds a day. They were there for vanity. For fun.

None of them was there for the same reason as herself.

None of the others was there because Gaia had personally asked them to be there, like she had asked her. To make amends for her behaviour at The Grand. She had been stressed out with jet lag. She was deeply sorry for her behaviour.

Anna was big-hearted. She knew how to forgive.

She’d forgiven her.

After his costume fitting, Drayton Wheeler took the extras’ courtesy bus down to the centre of Brighton, then walked along to the Royal Pavilion, checking that one part of his purchase from Mothercare was safely in his pocket. He paid his entrance fee and went in. It was half past one. Over four hours before the place closed to the public.

More than sufficient time, with luck.

He made his way straight to the Banqueting Room, and was pleased to see it was packed with people, all slowly moving around the edge of the room, restricted by the ropes on their brass posts which kept them well away from the banqueting table. He was even more pleased to see there was only one security guard in here at the moment.

He stopped only a short distance along, pretending to admire a handsome mahogany side table, laden with silverware. A couple with two bored children shuffled past, followed by a group of Japanese tourists, who stopped right in front of him. On the far side of the room the security guard was momentarily occupied preventing someone from taking a photograph. Now was perfect!

No one noticed him slip his hand beneath the side table, and press something small and hard against the underside, holding it until he was certain the glue had taken. It took only a few seconds, during which the Japanese tourists had, very obligingly, not moved either.

Then he shuffled on forward, going with the flow. Mission accomplished!

‘The bitch won’t let me!’ Glenn Branson said, storming into Roy Grace’s office shortly before 8 a.m. on Monday. ‘Can you believe it? The chance of a lifetime, something they could tell their children about one day, and their grandchildren!’

Grace looked up from the notes his MSA had prepared for this morning’s briefing. ‘Won’t let you what?’

‘Take Sammy and Remi to meet Gaia’s kid, right?’

‘You’re joking!’

‘I am so not joking. I am seething. She said no. I asked them both when I took them out on Saturday afternoon, and they were thrilled to bits. I told you they’re both massive Gaia fans. So I told her they wanted to go, when I took them back.’

‘So, she can’t stop you. Just take them.’

‘She says Gaia is a symbol of sex and bad language and she’s not having her corrupting them.’

‘That’s ridiculous! Her little boy is six years old!’

‘You want to phone Ari and tell her?’

‘I will, if you like,’ Grace said, with false bravado. Not many things scared him in life, but Glenn Branson’s wife did.

‘I spoke to my solicitor over the weekend. She advised me not to force the issue, that Ari could use it against me.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’ He sat down in front of Grace, looking dejected. ‘How was your weekend?’

For a change, Grace had had a peaceful weekend. Just two short briefings on Operation Icon , and the rest of the time he had spent with Cleo. They’d gone shopping on Saturday and bought stuff for the baby’s room, had a takeaway curry on Sunday, watched a couple of movies, and in between read some of the papers. One of Cleo’s extravagances, which he liked, was that she had virtually every English Sunday paper, from lowbrow to highbrow, delivered every week.

It was a fine day, and she had insisted they go out for fresh air to their favourite place, the undercliff walk at Rottingdean, and she had managed the entire length of it. It really seemed the problems with a sudden bleed that she’d had a few weeks ago were a thing of the past. Just a few more weeks to go before she was due.

She would stop work at the end of this week. Most of the rest of Sunday he’d spent on the sofa with her as she worked on her Philosophy studies, and he’d gone through all the trial papers on the Carl Venner case, which opened at the Old Bailey this morning.

He reached out and took his friend’s massive black hand. It was hard as a rock, like gripping a piece of ebony. All the same, he squeezed it. ‘Don’t let her get you down, matey. Okay?’

Glenn squeezed back.

Grace said nothing. He could see the big, tough guy he loved so much was close to tears.

‘The time is 8.30 a.m., Monday, June the thirteenth. This is the seventeenth briefing of Operation Icon ,’ Roy Grace said to his team in the Conference Room. ‘Does anyone have any progress to report since our briefing of yesterday morning?’

Annalise Vineer raised her hand. ‘Yes, chief. I’ve been going through the list of members of the West Sussex Piscatorial Society supplied to me by their secretary, and the list of all people who had any involvement with this club. I’ve found someone with a link to Stonery Farm.’

‘You have?’ Grace said. ‘Well done – tell us!’

‘I don’t know if it’s of any significance, but Stonery Farm and the West Sussex Piscatorial Society use the same firm of Brighton accountants, Feline Bradley-Hamilton. There’s one name in particular that’s common to both, which is an auditor employed by this firm, a man by the name of Eric Whiteley. He has carried out the annual audit for both the farm and the club for several years.’

Grace wrote the name down. ‘I’m not familiar with how auditors work,’ he said. ‘Would he have been to the premises of both?’

‘Well, he goes to the office at Stonery Farm each year. The Piscatorial Society secretary was unable to tell me whether Whiteley has ever actually been to the lake that the Piscatorial Society own. But he is their principal contact.’

‘How many employees are there at these accountants, Feline Bradley-Hamilton?’ Grace asked.

‘Fourteen, sir,’ Annalise Vineer replied. ‘There are four partners, the rest are employees.’

‘So anyone from this firm would have access to information about Stonery Farm and the Piscatorial Society, presumably?’ Grace quizzed.

‘Presumably, sir, yes,’ she replied.

Grace felt excited; at last he had something concrete to work on now. And his instincts were telling him that while the perpetrator was not necessarily part of this accountancy firm, there was the possibility of a lead coming from here. ‘So we can’t be sure Eric Whiteley would be the only one in the firm who knows where the lake is?’

‘No, sir. But certainly he’s the only one who visits Stonery Farm on a regular basis.’

‘And that’s the only match you have? The only person common to both?’

‘Yes, it is, sir.’

‘Is the club secretary able to tell you anything about this Eric Whiteley?’

‘Not much, sir. Says he’s a quiet, unassuming man who just turns up at the secretary’s house every year, by appointment, to get the paperwork signed off. He doesn’t talk much, apparently.’

‘Okay, first things first, we should interview everyone in the firm who’s been there more than six months. I want two trained interviewers – ’ He looked at the faces around him.