Peter James - Looking Good Dead

‘Who do you like?’

He shrugged again. ‘Johnny Cash is the man. Rachel and I were going to line-dancing classes – had to stop with the little one on its way.’

‘They change your life, kids, so I’m told,’ Grace said, staring down at a pile of Absolute Brighton magazines next to an ashtray.

‘Prenatal classes aren’t as much fun,’ the DC admitted, with a glum nod.

A couple of minutes later the barmaid returned, and ushered them up some stairs into a comfortable office containing bland, functional furniture, in stark contrast to the bar. There was a desk behind which a young man with spiky hair dressed in a T-shirt and jeans was sitting, a sofa and a couple of armchairs, an elaborate sound system, and a bank of black and white monitors on which there were closed-circuit television images of the interior and exterior of the bar.

The young man stood up with a cheery smile and came round to the front of the desk. ‘Hi, nice to meet you, Mr Nicholl,’ he said, and shook their hands. Looking at Grace, he added, ‘I’m Ricky, the manager. Read about you in the Argus – was it yesterday?’

‘Could have been.’

‘Thought they were a bit brutal, like. Can I offer you guys a drink?’

‘I’d love a mineral water – still if possible.’

‘A Diet Coke?’ Nick Nicholl said.

The manager picked up his phone and ordered the drinks, then gestured to them to sit down. They sat on the sofa and Ricky pulled up a chair. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, directing his remarks at the Detective Constable and tapping the side of his head. ‘I got a good memory for faces – need to here, to remember the troublemakers. As I said on the phone, I’m sure that girl you was looking for came in here just over a week ago. Friday night, with a bloke. It was lucky – the tapes normally get wiped after a week – but we’ve had a bit of bother. You won’t bust us or anything?’

Grace grinned. ‘I’m not interested in busting you; I just want to find Janie Stretton’s killer.’

‘OK, we’re cool.’ Then Ricky frowned. ‘What was that stuff I read about a beetle – a scarab?’

‘It’s not important,’ Grace replied, a little more curtly than he had intended.

‘Just interested, cos we got one in here on a shelf in the VIP room – a little bronze, part of the decor. Pushing a ball of bronze shit. Yuk!’

‘Where did you get it from?’ Grace asked.

‘Dunno, the interior decorator was responsible for all that stuff.’ Ricky picked up a remote control and pressed a button. ‘Watch the monitor in the centre,’ he said.

There was a flicker that momentarily turned into a blur, then a series of images dropped down as if the horizontal hold was on the blink. The image stabilized, showing a wide-angle sweep of the very crowded bar, with the date and time running in the bottom right-hand corner.

‘Watch the door, the one that goes out the front, now!’ Ricky said, sounding excited.

Grace saw a muscular man in his thirties with a lean, hard face and a mean, king-of-the-jungle expression, walk in towing a girl with long hair, dressed in a tight-fitting miniskirt. It was Janie Stretton. No question.

He studied her companion carefully, watching his strutting gait which reminded him of the way Paras walked, as if ready to take on all-comers. The man had gelled spikes of short hair, sported a thick chain around his neck, and was dressed in a singlet and slacks. Holding Janie Stretton’s hand all the way, he cut a swathe through the crowd and went straight up to the bar, at which point the camera, moving in a steady arc, lost them.

A few minutes later the camera picked them up again. The man was holding a pint glass of beer and she had a cocktail of some sort. The man clinked his glass against hers, then, in a curious movement, slid his free hand around her neck, appeared to grab a clump of her hair, pulled her head back and coarsely kissed her neck.

Nick Nicholl had the photographs of Janie Stretton on his lap and was alternately looking down at them then up at the screen. ‘It’s her,’ he said.

‘No question,’ Grace confirmed. ‘Absolutely.’ Looking at the manager, he asked, ‘Who’s her squeeze?’

‘Dunno, never seen him before.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Not one hundred per cent, no – we get an awful lot of people in here. But I don’t think so.’

Grace’s mobile phone rang. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced down at the display.

It was Cleo Morey.

Excusing himself, he hit the button to answer and stepped out of the office.

She sounded very sweet and very humble. ‘I just wondered if you were up for a drink tonight – if you’d like to come over here?’

He melted at the sound of her voice. ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘But I have a good two hours work to do.’

‘So, come over after that – for a nightcap?’

‘Umm…’ he said, totally thrown. This was not the time or place for this sort of conversation.

‘I’ve got wine, beer, vodka.’

‘Any whisky?’ he teased.

‘Now that’s a strange coincidence. I have a whole bottle of Glenfiddich I bought this afternoon.’

‘Obviously synchronicity,’ Grace said, trying to sound cooler than he felt – and not succeeding.

‘Obviously.’

The family liaison officer who took over from Linda Buckley was a thin, overly-polite young PC in his mid-twenties, called Chris Willingham. He carried a small suitcase in which he claimed to have everything he needed for his night’s vigil, and within minutes was happily installed in the living room with an iPod headset plugged into his ears and a copy of the Rough Guide to Croatia open on his lap.

Glenn Branson had rung to say he was coming over again in an hour, making Tom wonder if he had any information. He was also determined to ask the detective why, when he had obviously recognized Reginald D’Eath as the dickhead on the train, he had not revealed this to him this afternoon at the CID headquarters.

Tom left Chris Willingham with a black coffee and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits and retreated to the sanctuary of his den with the Sunday Times, which he had not yet opened. Normally, on a Sunday evening, he and Kellie would flop out on the sofa in the living room with all the sections of the Sunday Times and Mail on Sunday strewn around the carpet. He always started with the business pages, looking for high-profile companies to target as potential customers. Kellie began with the Mail ’s You magazine.

But it was a waste of time even looking at a paper tonight; all he saw was a blur of newsprint. He felt so alone, so afraid. So totally lost and scared.

Scared witless for Kellie.

Reginald D’Eath, the dickhead on the train, the man who had left behind the CD, had been found murdered in his home. Strangled in his bath.

By?

By the same people who had threatened to kill his own family? Tom wondered.

On the news it had been reported that D’Eath – who had changed his name to Ron Dawkins – had done a deal with the prosecution in the forthcoming trial of a paedophile ring. So was it a professional hit? Or a revenge killing by a parent of a child he had abused?

Or, he speculated wildly, the coil of fear in his stomach darkening all the time, was it punishment for losing the disk? The same punishment he and his family were threatened with because he had found it?

Twenty-four hours ago they had been drinking champagne in the drawing room of Philip Angelides’ house. Not a great evening, but at least life had been normal. Now he just did not know what to do. He was trying to get his head around tomorrow, Monday, but was finding it hard to think more than a few minutes ahead. He couldn’t cancel the presentation to Land Rover and supposed he would have to delegate one of his team to do it for him – which would mean paying one of the two salesmen commission on the order if it came through, yet again reducing his margins and his ability to quote competitively. But at this moment that was the least of his worries.