Peter James - Looking Good Dead

Grace felt a jolt as if he had plunged his finger into an electrical socket. Brent Mackenzie was stepping towards him, staring hard at him. He felt his face burn and all his composure went; he stared back at the medium now towering over him, feeling confused, helpless.

‘I’ve got a gentleman with me, I think he might be your father. He’s showing me a badge he used to wear. Does that mean something?’

Maybe, Grace thought, but I’m not giving you any clues. I’m paying you to tell ME things.

Grace stared at him blankly.

‘He’s showing me his helmet. I think he was a police officer before he passed. He has passed?’

Grace gave him a reluctant nod.

‘He tells me he’s very proud of you, but you are having a difficult time at the moment. Someone is blocking your career. He is showing me a woman – with short blonde hair? Is her name Vespa, like the motor scooter?’

Now Grace was mesmerized. Alison Vosper? He desperately wanted to speak to the man, to tell him the name Sandy. But his courage had deserted him. And he did not want to lead him. Was Brent Mackenzie going to tell him something about Sandy? Some message from his father about her?

‘Your dad’s showing me something, Roy. It’s a small insect. Looks like a beetle. He is quite agitated about this beetle. He’s not very clear-’ The clairvoyant cupped his head in his hands, turned round once, then again. ‘I’m sorry, I’m losing him. He said it could save something.’

Grace, staring up at him, suddenly found the courage to speak. ‘What exactly did he say it could save?’

‘I’m sorry, Roy, I’ve lost him.’ The medium looked at someone else. ‘I’ve got a message for Bernie.’

Grace barely noticed. He was thinking. The man had got two hits. His father and the beetle. He said it could save something.

He would grab the clairvoyant at the end of the session, no matter how tired he was, and pump him for more.

What did the man mean? What the hell could it save? His career? Another life?

But he did not have to worry about getting hold of Brent Mackenzie when the evening ended. The clairvoyant, wearing a long anorak over his T-shirt, was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Roy, isn’t it?’ he said.

Grace nodded.

‘I don’t normally do this, but could we have a word in private?’

‘Yes, sure.’

Grace followed him into a tiny consulting room containing a desk, a couple of chairs and several dozen white candles, and the clairvoyant closed the door behind them. In this room he seemed even bigger, towering over Grace.

Remaining standing, Mackenzie said, ‘Look, I’m sorry; we didn’t have a very satisfactory session. I didn’t want to say too much in there, in front of everyone, you know. Some things are private. This doesn’t often happen to me, but I picked up some really bad feeling about you. I’m talking about this beetle thing I saw; I can’t get it out of my head. Like one of those you see in ancient Egyptian writings.’

Tilting his head up at him, Grace said, ‘A scarab?’

‘Yeah, exactly. Scarab beetle.’

Grace nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense.’

The medium gave him a strange look. ‘Makes sense?’

‘It’s to do with work. I can’t really talk about it.’

‘You’re a copper, aren’t you?’

‘Does it show?’

The clairvoyant smiled. ‘I was a copper myself, for ten years. Manchester CID.’

‘You were?’

‘Yeah, well. Long story. Save it for another day. The thing is, mate, they’re telling me you are in real danger. Something to do with this scarab beetle. You need to watch your back.’

By the time Tom had figured out how to light the barbecue, it was already past the children’s bedtime. And by the time he had finally cooked their sausages and burgers, Jessica was sound asleep and Max was grizzling.

And now he had drunk too much rosé wine, and he had to finalize the quotation for twenty-five Rolex Oyster watches engraved with a logo in a microdot, and email it to Ron Spacks. The DVD distribution giant had confirmed he was dead serious about placing the order, and Tom had promised the quotation would be with him no later than tonight. He had found a legitimate supply source that would give Spacks a bargain, and net him close to £35,000 profit on the contract. Not only a very sweet deal, it would be a massive help to his business – and his life – at this moment.

He stared fondly at Kellie, who was lying in front of the television, watching Jonathan Ross interview a rock star Tom had never heard of. Lady, as usual, was sitting by the front door with her lead in her mouth.

He hauled himself up the stairs, gripping the banister rail for all he was worth, as if he was climbing Everest the hard way.

Tom opened Jessica’s bedroom door. Light from the landing spilled in, throwing shadows around. She was fast asleep, her face turned towards him, arm around her large, soft teddy, breathing in, a steady long and slow rhythmic hiss, then out with a sharp phut.

Something gripped his chest like a vice, and his heart. He stood motionless, as if all time in the universe was frozen. This was his daughter. His child. His creature that he had brought into the world. His little person.

Jessica.

God, he loved her to bits. People said that parents had favourites but he didn’t, he could honestly say that.

He blew Max a kiss, closed the door, and with a heavy heart went into his den to finalize the Ron Spacks figures.

When he had checked, then double-checked the email and sent it, he made his way back downstairs. Jonathan Ross on the television was talking about the size of willies. Kellie was now fast asleep, empty wine glass on the floor, a half-eaten box of Milk Tray on the sofa beside her.

After they had put the kids to sleep, he had told her about the website and the subsequent email, and then the photograph of Janie Stretton in the paper tonight.

They had watched the Ten O’Clock News together, and seen the poor young woman featured along with footage of the police search in Peacehaven, and a plea by a Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of the Brighton CID for anyone with information to step forward.

Kellie had really surprised him. He thought he knew her much better than he apparently did. He had imagined she would put the safety of her family first. Particularly after he told her about the threatening email.

She had taken less than a couple of minutes to make up her mind. ‘Imagine that was Jessica in twenty years time,’ she had said. ‘Imagine we were the parents, desperate for justice to be done. Now imagine, knowing all that, you are a witness, maybe the only witness. Your stepping forward might make the difference between the killer being caught – and being prevented from ever killing again – and destroying the lives of all those related to the victim. Imagine if Jessica was murdered by a killer who could have been stopped if only someone had been brave enough to step forward.’

He went through into the kitchen, took out a bottle of his favourite Bowmore whisky and poured himself several fingers. A few hours ago he had made the decision that he would abide by Kelly’s view.

But then he had been expecting her to tell him that he needed to put the safety of the family first. And if that meant doing nothing, that would be preferable to anything that put them in jeopardy. Instead she was completely adamant he should go to the police, regardless of the consequences.

Sitting on a bar stool, he watched his reflection in the window. He saw a hunched man raise a glass of whisky to his lips and drink; he saw the man set the glass back down.

He saw the total despair in the man’s face.