Looking Good Dead

by Peter James

  He had to walk on bloody eggshells.

  Might be easier, he thought, to walk on water.

  By six in the morning Grace had had enough of listening to the dawn chorus, to rattling milk bottles, to a barking dog way off in the distance, to all the damned stuff inside his head.

  He pushed back the duvet, swung his legs out of bed and sat still for some moments, his eyes raw from lack of sleep, his head pounding. He had not slept for more than half an hour throughout the entire night, if that. And tonight he had a date. A really, really serious date.

  And that too, he knew, was a big part of the reason he had barely slept. Excitement. Like a smitten teenager! He couldn’t help it. He could not remember when he had last felt like this.

  He walked to the window, opened the curtains a fraction and stared out. It was going to be a fine day; the sky was a blank, dark blue canvas. Everything felt very still. An enormous thrush was hopping clumsily around the dew-drenched lawn, pecking at the ground in search of worms. Grace stared at the Zen water garden Sandy had created, with its skewed-oval shape and its large, flat stones, and then at all the plants she had put around the borders of the lawn. A lot had died, and the ones that remained were wildly out of control.

  He had no idea about gardening; that had always been Sandy’s domain. But he’d enjoyed helping her create her own special garden out of the boring eighth of an acre rectangle of lawn and borders that they had started with. He dug in places she told him to dig, fertilized, watered, lugged bags of peat up and down, weeded, planted, a willing skivvy to Sandy as foreman.

  Those had been the good times, when they were building their future, making their home, their nest, cementing their life together.

  The garden that Sandy had created and loved so much was neglected now. Even the lawn looked ragged and weed-strewn, and he felt guilty about that, sometimes wondering what she would say if she returned.

  Saturday mornings. He remembered how he used to go off for his early run, and come back bringing Sandy an almond croissant from the bakery in Church Road and her Daily Mail.

  He drew the curtains right back, and light flooded in. And suddenly, for the first time in almost nine years, he saw the room differently.

  He saw a woman’s bedroom, decorated mostly in different shades of pink. He saw a Victorian mahogany dressing table – which they had picked up for a song at a stall in the Gardner Street market – very definitely covered in a woman’s things: hairbrushes, combs, make-up and scent bottles. There was a framed photograph of Sandy in evening dress and himself in black tie finery, standing beside the captain of the SS Black Watch on the only cruise they had ever been on.

  He saw her slippers still on the floor, her nightdress on a hook on the wall beside the bed. What would any woman make of this if he brought her back here? he thought suddenly.

  What would Cleo think?

  And, he realized, these thoughts had never occurred to him before. The house was a time warp. Everything was exactly the way it had been that day, that Tuesday, 26 July, when Sandy had vanished into thin air.

  And he could still remember it so damned vividly.

  On the morning of his thirtieth birthday Sandy had woken him with a tray on which was a tiny cake with a single candle, a glass of champagne and a very rude birthday card. He’d opened the presents she had given him, then they had made love.

  He’d left the house later than usual, at nine fifteen, and reached his office at Brighton police station shortly after half past for a briefing on the murder of a Hell’s Angel biker who had been dumped in Shoreham Harbour with his hands tied behind his back and a breeze block chained to his ankles. He’d promised to be home early, to go out for a celebratory meal with another couple, his then best friend Dick Pope, also a detective, and his wife Leslie, who Sandy got on well with. There had been developments on the case, and he’d arrived home almost two hours later than he had intended. There was no sign of Sandy.

  At first he’d thought she was angry at him for being so late and was staging a protest. The house was tidy; her car and handbag were gone; there was no sign of a struggle.

  Then, twenty-four hours later, her elderly black VW Golf was found in a bay in the short-term car park at Gatwick Airport. There had been two transactions on her credit card on the morning of her disappearance, one from Boots, and one from Tesco. She had taken no clothes and no other belongings of any kind.

  His neighbours in this quiet, residential street just off the seafront had not seen a thing. On one side of him was an exuberantly friendly Greek family who owned a couple of cafes in the town, but they had been away on holiday. On the other side was an elderly widow with a hearing problem, who slept with the television on, volume at maximum. Right now, at 6.18 a.m., he could hear a muffled American voice through the party wall between their semi-detached houses; it sounded like John Wayne, addressing a bunch of bums he had just rounded up.

  He went downstairs into the kitchen, wondering whether to make a cup of tea or go for his run first. His goldfish was drifting aimlessly around his circular bowl, as ever.

  ‘Morning, Marlon!’ he said breezily. ‘Having your morning swim? Are you hungry?’

  Marlon’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

  He filled the kettle, pulled up a chair and sat down at the kitchen table, looking around, wondering what signs of Sandy were in this room. Almost everything, except for the silver fridge, was red or had a red motif. The oven and the dishwasher were red, the handles on the white units, the hob, the doorknobs, were all red. Even the kitchen table was red and white. All Sandy’s choice. It had been the fashionable colour at the time, but it all looked a little tired now; the ceramic surfaces were badly chipped. Some of the unit hinges had sagged. The paintwork was scratched and grimy.

  The truth was, he knew, he would be better off in a flat. They rattled around in this place – himself, Marlon and Sandy’s ghost.

  He opened the cupboard door beneath the kitchen sink, ducked down, found a roll of black bin liners and tore one off. Then he picked up a photograph of himself and Sandy from a shelf and stared at it for a moment. It had been taken by a stranger, with Grace’s camera, on their honeymoon. Right at the top of Mount Vesuvius. Sandy and he stood, looking sweaty from the exertion of the hard climb, both wearing T-shirts, against the backdrop of the crater partially masked by low grey cloud.

  He placed the photograph in the bin liner, then stood still as if waiting to be struck dead by a thunderbolt.

  But nothing happened.

  Except a whole load of guilt crept up through him. What if it went really well tonight and he ended up bringing Cleo Morey back here after their dinner date?

  He realized he needed to remove anything that was obviously Sandy’s. And that was a huge milestone for him. A mountain.

  But maybe it was time?

  Then, having second thoughts, he took the photograph out of the bin liner and put it back on the shelf. It would look odd if he did not have photographs. It was her personal things he needed to reduce around the house.

  Up in the bedroom, he looked at her hairbrush. There were still strands of her long, fair hair in the bristles. He pulled one out, held it up, his heart leaden suddenly. He let the strand drop and watched it float to the carpet, feeling a lump in his throat. Then he brought the brush to his nose and sniffed, but there was no scent of Sandy remaining on it, just a flat, dry smell.

  He put the brush into the bin liner, and all the rest of her belongings from the dressing table and then from the bathroom. He carried the bag into the spare room used for storing junk, and placed it next to an empty suitcase, the box that his laptop had originally come in and several old rolls of Christmas wrapping paper.

  Then he got changed into his shorts, singlet and trainers, folded a five-pound note into his pocket, and set off for his run.

  His route took him straight down to the Kingsway, a wide dual carriageway running along Hove seafront. On one si
de were houses that would give way in half a mile or so to continuous mansion blocks and hotels – some modern, some Victorian, some Regency – that continued the full length of the seafront. Opposite were two small boating lagoons and a playground, lawns and then the promenade with stretches of beach huts, and the pebble beaches beyond, and just over a mile to the east, the wreck of the old West Pier.

  It was almost deserted and he felt as if he had the whole city to himself. He loved being out this early on a weekend, as if he had stolen a march on the world. The tide was out, and he could see the orb of the rising sun already well up in the sky. A man walked, far out on the mudflats, swinging a metal detector. A container ship, barely more defined than a smudge, sat out on the horizon, looking motionless.

  A sweeper truck moved slowly towards Grace, engine roaring, its brushes swirling, scooping up the usual detritus of a Friday night, the discarded fast-food cartons, Coke cans, cigarette butts, the occasional needle.

  Grace stopped in the middle of the promenade, a short distance from a wino curled up asleep on a bench, and did his stretches, breathing deeply that familiar seafront smell he loved so much – the salty tang of the fresh, mild air, richly laced with rust and tar, old rope and putrid fish – that Brighton’s elder generation of seaside landladies liked referring to in their brochures as ozone.

  Then he began his six-mile run, to the start of the Marina and back again. For the final mile, he always turned inland, running up to the busy shopping thoroughfare of Church Road, Hove, to an open-all-hours grocery store, to pick up some milk and a newspaper, and maybe a magazine that took his fancy. Maybe this morning he would buy another style magazine. Something like Arena. Get some more ideas about what to wear tonight.

  He stopped outside the shop door, partly refreshed by his run and partly exhausted from his lack of sleep, perspiring heavily. He did his stretches, then entered the store and walked over to the newspaper and magazine section. And instantly saw the headlines of the morning edition of the Argus.

  Beetle Riddle in Brighton Law Student Murder

  Seething with anger, he grabbed a copy of the paper from the stand. There was the photograph of Janie Stretton he had released yesterday. Inset below it was a small photograph of a scarab beetle.

  Sussex CID are refusing to say whether a rare scarab beetle, not native to the British Isles, might hold a vital clue to Janie Stretton’s killer. When asked to confirm the discovery of the beetle during the post-mortem examination by Home Office Pathologist Dr Frazer Theobald, Senior Investigating Officer Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Brighton and Hove CID was not available for comment . . .

  Grace stared at the words, his fury growing by the minute. Not available for comment? No one had bloody asked him to comment. And he had given strictest instructions that the press were not to be told about the discovery of the beetle.

  So who the hell had leaked it?

  35

  A few minutes before eight thirty, having showered, grabbed a quick bowl of cereal and, although it was Saturday, thrown on a dark suit, white shirt and plain tie – not knowing what the day would bring and who he might have to meet – Grace arrived at MIR One in the Major Incident Suite in a filthy mood, ready to skin someone alive.

  His whole team was already there, waiting for him – and by the looks on their faces, all of them had seen the Argus headline too.

  Just in case they hadn’t, he thumped the paper down on the workstation. By way of a greeting he said, ‘OK, who the fuck is responsible for this?’

  Glenn Branson, Nick Nicholl, Bella Moy, Emma-Jane Boutwood, Norman Potting and the rest of the team all stared back at him blank-faced.

  Grace fixed his accusatory gaze on Norman Potting as his first port of call. ‘Any thoughts, Norman?’ he said.

  ‘The writer on the piece is that young journo, Kevin Spinella,’ Potting rumbled in his deep rural voice. ‘That bugger’s always trouble, isn’t he?’

  Grace suddenly realized that in his anger he had neglected to look at the byline. It was because he was tired; he did not have his brain fully in gear after his sleepless night. A long run normally charged him up, but at this moment he felt drained and badly in need of a strong coffee. And the smell of the stuff was rising tantalizingly from several cups on the desk.

  Kevin Spinella was a recent recruit to the paper, a young, sharp-voiced rookie crime reporter, fast carving a reputation for himself at the expense of the Sussex Police. Grace had had a previous run-in with this journalist, as had most of his colleagues.

  ‘OK, Norman, your first task today is to get hold of this scumbag and find out where he got his story from.’

  The Detective Sergeant pulled a face then sipped on his styrofoam cup of coffee. ‘He’ll probably just tell me he’s protecting his sources,’ he said with a smugness that really irritated Grace.

  Grace had to restrain himself from yelling at the man because the truth was, Potting was probably right.

  ‘The problem is, Roy,’ Branson said, ‘we’ve got a hundred Specials drafted in, searching for the victim’s head. Could be one of them. Could be one of the SOCOs. Could have come from the Coroner’s office. Or the mortuary.’

  He was right, Grace knew. That was the problem with a major enquiry like this. Everyone was curious, that was human nature. It only needed one careless person to leak anything and it would spread in minutes.

  But the bloody damage that could do. Or had done.

  Parking the issue for the moment, he ran through the list that Bella Moy and Eleanor had prepared, and would continue to update, twice daily, throughout this enquiry. Then Norman Potting interrupted him.

  ‘You never know, Roy; we might be able to pin something on this Kevin Spinella.’

  ‘Like what?’ Grace said.

  ‘Well, I heard rumours that he might be a brown-hatter. You know, a turd-burglar.’

  Grace, his heart sinking, felt another Potting moment coming on. ‘Gay is the word we use.’

  ‘Exactly, my friend.’

  Grace stared at him sternly. Norman Potting was just so out of touch with the real world. ‘And how exactly would that help us?’

  Potting pulled a briar pipe, with a well-chewed stem, out of his suit pocket and stared at it with pursed lips. ‘I’m wondering how the editor of the Argus, the voice of the City of Brighton and Hove, would feel about having a poof working for him.’

  Grace could scarcely believe his ears. ‘Norman, as the City of Brighton and Hove has the largest gay community in the whole of the UK, I think he’d be quite happy if the entire editorial team was gay.’

  Potting turned to Emma-Jane and gave her a broad wink, a bead of spittle appearing in the corner of his mouth. Jerking his thumb at his own chest he said, ‘It’s all right, darling; lucky there’re still a few real men around. Make the most of ’em.’

  ‘When I find one, I will,’ she said.

  ‘Norman,’ Grace said, ‘the language you’re using is totally unacceptable. I want to see you in my office straight after this meeting.’

  Then to the team he said, ‘OK, let’s focus. E-J and I have an appointment at an insect farm in Bromley at eleven. Norman, you have your day cut out with Spinella and your follow-ups on Janie Stretton’s answering machine.’

  He continued on through the list of the day’s tasks for each member of the team. All being well there would be a one-hour window this afternoon for himself and Glenn to meet in downtown Brighton, and do a spot of serious clothes shopping.

  Then he tried to push aside the guilt he felt for just thinking this when all his attention should have been concentrated on Janie Stretton. Surely, after all the years of hell he had been through, he was allowed one treat, just occasionally?

  Then, like a dark cloud slipping over the sun, he thought about Sandy again. She was always there, quietly in the background. It was as if he needed her approval for anything he did. He thought guiltily about her belongings that only a couple of hours or so ago he had dumped into a black bin lin
er. In case he brought Cleo Morey back home tonight?

  Or just to try to clear his past, to make way for the future?

  Sometime soon, when he had a moment to himself, he would go to an estate agent and put the bloody house on the market.

  Even just the thought of that was like some giant weight lifting from his shoulders.

  Glenn Branson’s phone rang. He glanced at Grace, who nodded approval for him to answer.

  ‘Incident room, DS Branson speaking. How can I help you?’

  ‘Do you know why most men die before their wives?’ Norman Potting suddenly said.

  Grace, trying to listen to Branson’s conversation, braced himself for what was coming next.

  In response to a sea of shaking heads, Potting said, ‘Because they want to!’

  All the women groaned loudly in unison. Glenn Branson clapped the phone closely to his head and covered his opposite ear with his hand, trying to blot out the sound.

  Potting, the only person who seemed to find his joke funny, was chortling away to himself.

  ‘Thank you, Norman,’ Grace said.

  ‘Got a whole lot more where that came from,’ the DS said.

  ‘I’ll bet you have,’ Grace retorted. ‘But it is a quarter to nine on a Saturday morning. Maybe you’d like to tell us some a bit later on, after we’ve arrested our killer?’

  ‘Good plan!’ Potting said, after some pensive moments. ‘Can’t fault you on that one, Roy.’

  Grace stared back at the man. It was hard to tell sometimes whether he was being smart or just totally stupid. From past experience with the Detective Sergeant, he seemed, usually, to manage to be both simultaneously.

  Branson, dressed today in an expensive-looking collarless leather jacket over a black T-shirt, was scribbling a number down on his pad. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you back. No, don’t worry. Absolutely. Thank you.’

  Everyone had suddenly fallen silent, watching him. As Branson hung up the receiver he said, ‘Another possible lead.’