Peter James - Looking Good Dead

Then Emma-Jane raised a hand. ‘Are we going to release the information that Janie Stretton had a secret life on the game?’

Grace had been wondering exactly the same thing. He thought about Derek Stretton, already distraught, his life in ruins. What effect would that information have on the poor man? But would there be any value to releasing it? Would it prompt someone who had hired her services to come forward with some vital clue? Unlikely but possible. It was a tough call. Releasing it would greatly increase the press interest. Broader coverage might just mean that someone would come forward. Maybe a waiter or a barman might have seen Janie and this Anton together?

‘Two family liaison officers are with Janie’s father at the moment, DCs Donnington and Ritchie. I will discuss it with them first but my inclination is yes,’ he replied to Emma-Jane. ‘Unless they have very strong feelings that it would be too distressing to Mr Stretton at this stage, we will go ahead and release it.’

Next was Forensics. Grace reported that, apart from the beetle, there were no surprises from the post-mortem so far, apart from one: there was no sign of sexual assault on the victim. He had the report from Dr Frazer Theobald in front of him, but there was no need to read out the pages and pages of technical details. Janie had died from multiple stab wounds from a long, thin blade. Having her head removed hadn’t exactly helped her survival chances either, he thought.

‘At the moment, this scarab beetle is my main concern,’ he said. ‘Has anyone discovered any other murder where a beetle was found at the scene?’

‘There was a woman found on Wimbledon Common in April,’ Nick said. ‘The victim was a twenty-six-year-old woman, also missing her head. She was wearing a silver charm bracelet that none of her family recognized. I had a jpeg emailed through. This is a printout.’ He handed it to Grace. ‘There was no sign of sexual assault in this murder either. And it is unsolved.’

Grace stared at the tiny silver beetle hanging on the bracelet. He recognized the markings instantly. It was a scarab. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘No others?’

‘The Met are the only force to have responded so far,’ Nick said.

Grace stared at the photograph. ‘My hunch is there are going to be others. Can we get the file on this?’

Nick looked at his notes. ‘The SIO is a Detective Inspector Dickinson; he’s offered to meet me – or any of us.’

‘He sounds unusually cooperative for a Met,’ Grace said cynically. The Metropolitan Police tended to be a law unto themselves – arrogant, considering themselves the best, and not that cooperative with provincial forces. ‘Can you arrange to meet him mid-morning tomorrow?’

‘I was meant to be playing for Sussex CID in a police football friendly, but yes.’

‘It’s June now; this is the cricket season, not football,’ Grace said in a chiding tone. ‘We have a father I’ve just spent time with today, telling him his daughter has been butchered; I’m not sure he’d be that impressed to know the murder investigation had to be delayed because of a sodding football match.’

The Detective Constable blushed. ‘No, sir – Roy.’

When he reached the end of his report, Grace summed up. ‘We have now established a crime scene where the murder of Janie Stretton took place. Bella and Nick have conducted questioning of all Janie Stretton’s neighbours, and this is ongoing. The alternative scenarios as I see them are as follows.

‘One, this is a one-off killing by some very sick person.

‘Two, we may be looking at a serial killer leaving a signature. We are waiting for more information from the Met on the other killing where a beetle was found to see if they may be connected. Our killer may therefore have killed at least twice, each time a young woman, and we can assume he is going to kill again.’

Then he asked his team if they had anything to report.

Potting said he had spent much of the afternoon at the firm of solicitors where Janie Stretton had been doing her training. He had interviewed her boss, a Martin Broom – who Grace had encountered in court once, over an assault during a particularly nasty divorce case – and several of her colleagues. Janie had checked out as a popular, hard-working and conscientious young woman.

Do we all have a hidden dark side? Grace wondered privately to himself. ‘I’ve requested an additional team member,’ he said. ‘And I want someone from the High-Tech Crime Department to go through her laptop with a fine-tooth comb,’ he said. Then he turned to DC Boutwood. ‘Emma-Jane, sorry to dump this on you, but I want you to organize a trawl through all the CCTV camera footage in the Brighton area on Tuesday night. You can draft in some help on this. What you are looking for is this young lady.’ He tapped the photograph of Janie Stretton that had been circulated to the press. ‘She went out on a fourth date with a man called Anton, or whatever his real name was, that evening. Someone must have seen them.’ Then he turned to DC Nicholl.

‘Nick, I want you to organize a team of Specials and PCSOs to take this photo to every restaurant, bar and pub in Brighton and Hove, and see if anyone saw her. OK?’

The beanpole nodded.

‘Bella,’ Grace said. ‘Janie Stretton’s father told me her last boyfriend was called Justin Remington – a property developer in London. Go find him and see what he has to say.’

She nodded.

‘Emma-Jane, how did you get on with the tropical insect breeders?’

‘I’ve located sixteen throughout the UK. Some are internet only, but I’ve found seven breeders. One, in Bromley, south London, sounds very interesting. He had a request to supply a scarab beetle just over ten days ago. To a man with an eastern European accent.’

‘Magic!’ Grace said. ‘And?’

‘I’ve arranged to see him tomorrow.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

Grace then looked down at his notes. ‘Norman, we’ve removed the answering machine from the victim’s flat. I’m having it examined by the Technical Support Unit. Whatever information they can extract I’d like you to check up on.’

‘Any good-looking birds?’

‘I’ll find someone to help you if you find any.’

‘I quite like the sound of this agency, if it’s got birds of the calibre of Janie Stretton on its books.’

Grace ignored the man. His remark didn’t even warrant an answer. ‘I’ll see you all here at eight thirty in the morning,’ he said. ‘Sorry to muck up your weekends.’

In particular he avoided eye contact with Glenn Branson. Glenn’s wife was getting increasingly fed up with the hours that police work consumed. But that was his choice, Grace thought. When you signed up to Her Majesty’s police, you took the Queen’s shilling. And in return you dedicated your life.

OK, so maybe it wasn’t actually spelled out in the contract. But that was the reality. If you wanted a life, you were in the wrong career.

It was windier down in Brighton than in London, but the air was plenty warm enough to be outside.

Girls Aloud were pounding out of the CD player built into the barbecue, and a digital light show flashed with the music. Jessica, dressed in baggy jeans, a black top and sparkly shoes, her long fair hair flailing, and Kellie, barefoot in white calf-length trousers and a striped man’s shirt, were dancing on the lawn, gyrating wildly, laughing, having just the greatest time.

Max, in grubby grey shorts and an even grubbier Dumbledore sweatshirt, his blond hair hanging like a tousled mop over his forehead, had not yet finished inspecting the barbecue. He treated it with the reverence with which he might have treated a spaceship that had landed in their backyard. Which indeed was what it looked like.