Peter James - Not Dead Yet

He showed his warrant card to a young woman on duty on reception, then handed her the plastic room key he had retrieved from the wallet inside the rucksack in the Pavilion’s roof space.

‘We need to identify someone who has been fatally injured in an accident, and we found this in what we believe are his belongings. Could you tell us who this room is registered to, please.’

She inserted the key into her computer and moments later said, ‘Room 608, Mr Jerry Baxter. I have an address for him in New York.’

Tingley jotted it down.

‘Can we see the room, please?’ Grace asked.

‘I’ll phone the duty manager – actually, the General Manager is here, I’ll call him.’

Andrew Mosley had, it seemed to Grace, all the qualities required of a consummate hotelier. Smart appearance, a charming manner, an efficient air and impeccable manners. He took them up in the lift, along the corridor then knocked, dutifully, on the door of room 608 and waited some moments. Then he knocked again. When he was satisfied no one was answering, he inserted the key and pushed the door open, calling out a cautious ‘Hello?’ before switching on the lights.

The two detectives entered the small room, which was furnished with twin beds, an armchair, a round table on which sat a copy of Sussex Life magazine and Absolute Brighton , a side table, and a desk fixed to the wall, littered with receipts. There was a window overlooking an internal courtyard, and another door, ajar, leading through to the bathroom.

A suitcase lay open on the floor, and on the top of the clothes inside it lay a dark-blue passport bearing a crest and the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Grace pulled on a pair of gloves; Tingley followed suit. Then Grace picked up the passport and opened it, flicking rapidly through the pages until he came to the identification one.

There was a typically poor quality, photo-booth image of a hostile-looking man, in his forties when it was taken, he calculated from the date of issue, with greying hair brushed forward in a pageboy fringe. It gave his name as Drayton Robert Wheeler , and date of birth, 22 March 1956, which put him at fifty-five years old. His place of birth was New York City, USA.

‘I think this could be our man,’ Tingley said, staring at a receipt. ‘This is from Halfords. Receipt for a car battery and a tyre lever. You said there was a tyre lever in the rucksack, right?’

Grace nodded. ‘Odd things for a tourist to buy.’

‘Not as odd as six thermometers, paint stripper and chlorine,’ the DI said, looking at some of the other receipts. ‘Were you any good at chemistry at school?’

‘Not much. I thought you did a CRBN course a few years back?’ CRBN was training for Chemical, Radiological, Biological and Nuclear incidents.

‘I did, but I’d need to go online to check what could be made with this lot. Mercury is used sometimes in bomb-making.’

Grace turned to the hotel manager. ‘How’s your chemistry knowledge?’

Mosley shook his head. ‘Only very rudimentary, I’m afraid. Stink bombs at school were about my limit!’

Tingley was frowning at another receipt. ‘A baby monitor from Mothercare?’

Grace stared at the receipt. Then realized what the broken plastic fragments he had seen up above the chandelier were. Had Drayton Wheeler been listening to the Banqueting Room from up above?

Then the DI said urgently, ‘Look at this, chief!’

It was a receipt from an internet café, Café Conneckted, dated yesterday, Monday.

Grace looked at it. It was for one hour’s connection, coffee, mineral water and carrot cake. Ten pounds. ‘Do you know this place?’

‘Yes,’ Tingley said. ‘Top of Trafalgar Street.’

Grace’s mind was whirring. Thinking about the threatening email that had been sent last night.

The two detectives looked at each other. ‘Shall I send someone over there?’ Tingley asked.

Grace shook his head. ‘No, you and I are going there. I want to find out for myself.’

Tingley walked through into the bathroom. On the shelf above the sink was a row of plastic medication tubs. Grace followed him. There were six of them, each labelled with a New York pharmacy prescription band. Grace read them all.

‘This guy was some sort of junkie,’ Tingley commented.

Grace shook his head. ‘No, he was ill.’

‘How ill?’

Grace stared at one label in particular. ‘It looks to me like he had cancer. I recognize this – my father died of bowel cancer and was taking this medication, too.’ He thought for a moment. ‘That rude guy, the producer. Do you have his phone number?’

The Detective Inspector fished out his notebook and flicked through several pages. ‘Yes, I have his mobile number here.’

Grace keyed it in. He got Larry Brooker’s voicemail and left a message for him to call back urgently.

Larry Brooker called back just as they pulled up outside Café Conneckted.

‘Does the name Drayton Wheeler mean anything to you, Mr Brooker?’ Grace asked him, then immediately put his phone on loudspeaker.

‘Drayton Wheeler?’ the American said. ‘Um, right, well, yes.’

Grace could detect the unease in the American’s voice.

‘He’s just an asshole – trying to make a claim on our story. That kind of thing happens every time you make a high-profile movie. There’s always some creep comes crawling out the woodwork claiming it was their idea and you stole it.’

‘Might he have had a genuine grievance against you, or your production?’ Grace asked, glancing at Tingley.

‘Oh sure, he was threatening to sue us. No big deal – I told him to contact our lawyers.’ Then, sounding distinctly edgy, suddenly he asked, ‘Has he been in contact with you, or something?’

‘We think he might be the man lying under the chandelier.’

There was a long silence. ‘You’re serious?’

‘I won’t know for certain until we’ve formally identified him.’

‘Is there anything I can do from my end?’

‘Not at the moment. If we make positive identification, then we’ll need to interview you tomorrow.’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you been able to do some filming outdoors tonight? The weather seems to be holding, just.’

‘We are. Your officers here are being very co-operative. We’ll be shooting until around midnight.’

‘Good.’

Grace then rang Andrew Gulli, to ask him if to his knowledge a Drayton Wheeler or Jerry Baxter had ever sent any obsessive or threatening messages to Gaia.

Gulli was certain he had never heard either name.

Grace ended the call and they went into the café, which was almost empty. A heavily pierced woman in her twenties, in jeans and a baggy blouse, stood behind the bar counter, working an espresso machine. There was a lounge seating area to the left, and an archway beyond the bar, through to what looked like a larger area at the rear. On the right was a row of ten workstations, each with a computer terminal. Two were occupied, one by a ponytailed man in his twenties, the other by two teenage girls, one standing looking over the other’s shoulder, both of them giggling.

Grace looked up at the ceiling and noticed a CCTV camera covering the row of terminals. They walked up to the bar. The woman finished making the coffee, gave them a cursory nod, acknowledging their presence, then took the coffee across to the ponytailed man.

When she returned, Grace showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace from Sussex CID Major Crime Branch and Detective Inspector Tingley from Brighton CID.’

She looked a tad bewildered. ‘Yes – er – how can I help you?’

Grace held out a cellophane evidence bag containing Drayton Wheeler’s passport, which was open at the page showing his photograph. ‘Do you recognize this man?’