Peter James - Not Dead Yet

Andrew Gulli was standing beside the scene guard. As Grace approached he said, ‘This goddamn officious bastard won’t let me through.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. ‘Until we’ve established what happened, we’re treating this whole building as a crime scene; I can’t allow you in. My advice would be to get Gaia and Roan back to the safety of their hotel.’

Gulli shook his head. ‘The director’s asked her to wait – they may shoot some exterior footage tonight.’

‘In that case keep a very close eye on her. Put her security guards around her trailer.’

‘That’s already in place.’

Grace signed the log, ducked under the tape, and hurried through the front of the building. A security guard directed him to the Banqueting Room and Tingley greeted him as he entered. He observed several fire officers working around the edges of the huge, fallen chandelier, and two paramedics on their stomachs in the middle of the debris. He heard the whine of hydraulic cutting gear. Three police officers seemed to be taking down details of the people in the room. ‘What’s the latest?’ he asked.

‘The victim’s died, sir,’ Tingley said, quietly.

‘Shit. What information do we have about him?’ He looked up, then back at the DI. ‘Was he part of the film crew?’

‘Not from what I’ve been able to find out so far. Two of the security guards said he appeared from a part of the building not open to the public, in panic. He punched one of the guards who tried to apprehend him in the corridor, ran into this room and pushed Gaia’s son clear seconds before the chandelier came down.’

‘What was the boy doing in here?’

‘Playing, while his mother was in make-up.’

‘He’s safe and unhurt?’

‘Yes, he’s back with his mother.’

‘This man – show me where he came from.’

Tingley pointed to the corridor Grace had just walked along.

A voice from behind startled them. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t believe this.’

Both detectives turned to see a tall, elegant man in his fifties, in a chalk-striped suit, come into the room. He was looking ashen. ‘This was King George’s worst nightmare. I can’t believe it.’ Then he looked at them both. ‘I’m David Barry, the Curator of this building.’

Grace and Tingley introduced themselves.

Barry looked up at the ceiling. ‘This is isn’t possible. I’m sorry, it’s just not possible. Oh God. Oh my God! There’s someone trapped underneath – what is the poor man’s condition?’

‘The paramedics say he’s died, I’m afraid,’ Tingley responded.

‘This is terrible. Unbelievable.’ He looked at the two men. ‘You have to understand, you must believe me when I tell you this is simply not possible!’

Jason Tingley pointed at the wreckage and said, pragmatically, ‘I’m finding that a little hard to accept at this moment, sir.’

Roy Grace found it a little hard to accept, too. The man had punched a security guard in the corridor and then run into this room. It was impossible to see the chandelier from the corridor. So what did the man know – whoever he was – and how?

‘Was this chandelier checked regularly?’ Grace asked Barry. ‘Does someone carry out safety checks on the fixings?’

The Curator raised his arms, helplessly and bewildered. ‘Well, I mean, every five years the entire thing is cleaned. All fifteen thousand lustres – it takes about two months.’

‘Could it be metal fatigue?’ Jason Tingley said.

‘We carry out safety checks regularly on everything,’ Barry said. ‘Queen Victoria had the original shaft replaced with aluminium. We never had any reason to change it. You have to believe me – this just could not happen. It couldn’t!’

Grace was trying to recall who it was who said, The moment the world ends, the last sound you will hear is the voice of an expert explaining why it could not happen . ‘I’d like to have a good look around the building,’ he said. ‘Can you take me up to the space above the ceiling?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Can I help in any way here before we do that?’

‘There’s nothing anyone can do here – we have to stop all work now until the Coroner’s Officer arrives,’ Tingley said.

Grace told Tingley to stay in the room, then followed the Curator out of the Banqueting Room, along the corridor, past a sign to the toilets, and in through a door in the main hallway. ‘We have a bit of a climb up a spiral staircase,’ David Barry said. ‘Can I ask you not to put your hand on the railings – they are very unstable – this is why we don’t let the public in here.’ He pulled out a torch.

Grace followed him up a steep, winding spiral staircase that seemed never-ending. Halfway up, Grace stopped and touched the handrail. It felt extremely wobbly, with a long drop beyond it into darkness. He stepped away and moved as close to the wall as he could get, hugging it as he climbed; heights had never been his strong point.

Finally, both men puffing, they reached the top and entered what looked to Grace like a derelict bedroom, mostly covered in dust sheets over angular shapes. Even in the waning light of the June evening, he could see ancient, mottled wallpaper, with graffiti scrawled over much of it, and oval leaded-light windows overlooking the Brighton skyline.

David Barry decided they could see well enough without his torch. He spoke with a pleasant, cultured voice. ‘This was where the king’s senior household staff had their quarters, back in Prinny’s day. I don’t know how much you know about the history of this palace, Detective Superintendent, but during the First Wold War it was used as a hospital for wounded Indian soldiers – hence the graffiti. It’s been derelict since that time, largely because the stair rail is in such dangerous condition. Oh, and – er – please be careful where you tread, we have a lot of dry rot up here.’

To his unease, Roy Grace saw that he was standing on a large trapdoor secured by two rusting bolts. It felt decidedly unsafe and he quickly stepped aside and off it.

‘That trapdoor opens downwards on to a forty-foot vertical drop to a store room above the kitchen scullery. There used to be a dumb waiter for hauling meals up to the residents here from the kitchen.’ He pointed upwards to reveal a primitive block and tackle fixed to the ceiling, with rope wound around it. Grace looked down at the floor again. At the large sign which read: DANGER – STEEP DROP BELOW. DO NOT STAND ON DOOR.

Suddenly he saw something glint on the floor beneath a dust sheet hanging over the bed, and knelt down. It was a chocolate wrapper. A Crunchie bar. ‘Did they have these in King George’s day?’ he asked.

The Curator smiled, looking sinister in the shadows. ‘I’m afraid there have been a few unofficial visitors up here in more recent times. We’ve had a number of break-ins. It’s almost impossible to maintain one hundred per cent security in a building of this size.’

‘Of course.’ Grace stared again at the chocolate bar wrapper, as the Curator walked across the room. Putting on a pair of gloves, Grace picked up the wrapper and sniffed it, expecting it to smell stale. But to his surprise it seemed fresh, as if it had been opened very recently. Then he noticed a tiny smear of lipstick where the front of it was folded back.

He put it down carefully where he had found it in order that it could be photographed by a SOCO officer, and followed the Curator out on to the roof, ducking through a small door that was barely bigger than a serving hatch. The sky had turned ominously dark, as if it were about to rain. Barry strode ahead, along a narrow steel platform, with a sheer drop to the ground to his left, and Grace followed gripping the handrail, trying not to look down. Ahead of him and all around was a spectacular view across the roofs of the Pavilion, with its onion domes and minarets. Down below he could hear sirens and see more blue flashing lights of vehicles pulling up.