Looking Good Dead

by Peter James

  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.

  Then he experienced a sudden flash of resentment towards Kellie. Irrational, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. How can you bloody do this to me at a time like this?

  Almost immediately he felt guilty for even thinking that.

  Christ, my darling, where the hell are you? He buried his face in his hands, trying hard to think clearly through the fog of this nightmare and hating himself for being so damned helpless.

  It was over an hour later a blue saloon pulled up outside the house. Looking out of his den window, Tom saw Glenn Branson climb out of the driver’s door and another man – white, in his late thirties, with close-cropped hair, who looked every inch a copper – get out of the other side.

  He raced downstairs, before they rang the bell and disturbed the kids, and opened the door. Lady came bounding out into the hallway, but he managed to calm her and stop her barking. She’d obviously recovered from the bug – or attempted poisoning.

  ‘Good evening again, Mr Bryce. We’re sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘No. Thanks. I’m glad to see you.’

  ‘This is Detective Superintendent Grace, the Senior Investigating Officer on this case,’ Branson said.

  Bryce stared briefly at the Detective Superintendent, surprised that he was so casually dressed, but then all he knew about the police was gleaned from the occasional episode of Morse or Dalziel and Pascoe or CSI, and, thinking about it, detectives on those shows were often very casually dressed, too. The man had a strong, pleasant face with laser-sharp blue eyes and a convincing air of authority.

  ‘Thank you for coming over,’ Tom Bryce said, showing them in, then leading them through to the kitchen.

  ‘No developments, Mr Bryce?’ Glenn Branson asked, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table.

  ‘One, but I think you know that already. The man on the train was the paedophile who was found murdered today. Reginald D’Eath? I recognized his face on the news.’

  Grace gave the room a quick sweep, absorbing the children’s drawings on the wall, the swanky fridge with the built-in television, the expensive-looking units, then he sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom Bryce’s. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife, Kellie, Mr Bryce. I’d just like to ask you a few questions, to help us do all we can to assist in locating her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Watching Tom Bryce’s eyes like a hawk, he asked, ‘Can you tell me when you bought the Audi that was found burned out?’

  The man’s eyes swung immediately to the right. ‘Yes, in March.’

  ‘From a local dealer?’

  Again the eyes went to the right, establishing his memory was on the right side of his brain. Which meant if his eyes swung left in response to a question, he would be accessing the creative side of his brain, and would be in construct mode. Lying. But at this moment he was telling the truth. ‘Yes – from Caffyns.’

  Grace pulled out his notebook. ‘I’d like to start with some chronology. Can we run through the events leading up to the time when Kellie disappeared?’

  ‘Of course. Can I offer you something to drink? Tea or coffee?’

  The SIO opted for a black coffee, and Glenn Branson for a glass of tap water. Tom switched on the kettle and began to talk through in detail the events of yesterday evening.

  When he had finished, Grace asked, ‘You and your wife didn’t have a row or anything, either before you went out or on the way home?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Tom replied, his eyes briefly darting right again. He thought back again to the drive home last night from the Angelideses. Kellie had been in a slightly strange mood, but she’d had plenty of those before and hadn’t vanished afterwards.

  ‘Can I ask a rather personal question?’ Grace said.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Do you have a good marriage? Or are there any problems in your relationship?’

  Tom Bryce shook his head. ‘We don’t have a good marriage.’ Then he said, emphatically, ‘We have a terrific marriage.’

  The kettle started boiling. Tom was starting to stand up when Grace’s next question nailed him back down to his chair. ‘Is everything all right with your finances, Mr Bryce?’

  From the look in those laser eyes, Tom could tell Grace knew something about his problems. ‘Actually they’re not great, no.’

  ‘Did you have any life insurance cover on Mrs Bryce?’

  Tom stood up angrily. ‘What the hell are you getting at?’

  ‘I’m afraid I will have to ask you some very personal questions, Mr Bryce. If you would be more comfortable having a solicitor present, or if there are any you don’t want to answer without one being present, that is your right.’

  As the kettle switched itself off, Tom sat back down. ‘I don’t need anyone present.’

  ‘OK, thank you,’ Roy Grace said. ‘So can you tell me if you have any life insurance cover on Mrs Bryce?’

  The man’s eyes darted again to the right. ‘No. I had some on both of us – for the children’s sake – but I had to cancel it a few months ago because of the cost.’ He stood up and went to make the coffee, and run Branson a glass of water. Grace waited until he had sat back down, and he could see his face clearly once more.

  ‘Have you noticed any change in Mrs Bryce’s behaviour in recent months?’

  And now Grace saw the flickering hesitation in Tom Bryce’s eyes; they darted very definitely to the left, to construct mode. He was about to lie to them. ‘No, not at all.’

  Then immediately after Tom had said this, he wondered whether it was time to come clean and tell them about the vodka. And about her strange Kellie moments?

  But he was scared that if he did they might lose interest. So what the hell was the point in telling them?

  Grace picked up his coffee cup, then set it down again without bringing it to his lips. Again fixing on Bryce’s eyes, he asked, ‘Do you have any concerns that Kellie might be having an affair?’

  Eyes securely right again. ‘Absolutely none. We have a strong marriage.’

  Roy Grace continued with his questions for another half an hour, at the end of which Tom felt the Detective Superintendent had expertly and thoroughly – and at times more than a little unpleasantly – filleted him.

  He felt drained as he finally closed the door on them at almost eleven o’clock, and also uncomfortable. It seemed from the DS’s questions – and the way he had reacted to Tom’s answers – that he was to the police a prime suspect. This was something he wanted to change, quickly, because all the time they were suspicious of him, they would be focusing their energies in the wrong direction. And he realized he had forgotten to ask DS Branson why he had kept quiet about the dickhead’s identity this afternoon.

  Tom popped his head round the living room door, to see the FLO engrossed in his book. He told him to help himself to anything he fancied in the kitchen, and apologized for not having a spare bed. DC Willingham told him he had had some sleep during the day and
planned to stay up all night.

  Then Tom climbed upstairs to his den, far too keyed up to contemplate sleep. He had some important emails to write about the morning’s presentation and somehow had to find the strength to concentrate on them.

  He tapped the return key on his laptop, to wake it up. Moments later a load of emails downloaded. Twenty, thirty, forty. The junk-mail filter picked up most of them, leaving just half a dozen. Three were from friends, no doubt containing jokes. One was from Olivia, his ever-efficient secretary, listing the week’s appointments and reminding him what he needed for the presentation in the morning. One was from Ivanhoe, the Web-doctor site he subscribed to, but rarely had time to read properly.

  The last one was from postmaster@scarab.tisana.al. The header read simply: Private and confidential.

  He double-clicked to read the email. The text was brief and unsigned.

  Kellie has a message for you. Remain online.

  60

  At 11.15 p.m. Emma-Jane Boutwood and Nick Nicholl were still at their desks at the workstation. The rest of the team had left, heading home to their lives, one by one, with the exception of Norman Potting, who was just getting to his feet now, straightening his tie and pulling on his jacket.

  A handful of people remained at the other two stations. The surfaces were littered with empty coffee cups, soft-drink cans, food cartons, and the waste bins were overflowing. The room was always fresh first thing in the morning, Emma-Jane thought, and by late evening it smelled like an institutional canteen: a faintly sickly confection of aromas – onion bhajis from the deli counter of the Asda supermarket across the road, pot noodles, potato soup, microwaved burgers and fries, and coffee.

  Potting gave a long yawn, then burped. ‘Ooops,’ he said. ‘Pardon me. Them Indian things always do that to me.’ He hesitated for a moment, getting no reaction. ‘Well, I’m off then.’ Then he lingered where he was. ‘Either of you care for a quick jar? One for the road on the way home? I know a place that will serve us.’

  Both shook their heads. Nick Nicholl was engrossed in what appeared to be, at least to Emma-Jane, a difficult personal call on his mobile. From the few words she had caught it sounded as if he was trying to pacify his wife, who was upset about something. Probably that her husband was still at work at this hour on a Sunday. In a way, although she missed having a boyfriend – it was a year since she had broken up with Olli – Emma-Jane was relieved that she had no one in her life at the moment. It meant she could concentrate on her career and not have to feel guilty about the crazy hours she put in.

  Ignoring the fact that Nicholl was talking, Potting leaned closer to his face and asked, ‘Don’t suppose you heard the cricket score? I was trying to find it on the net.’

  Nicholl glanced up at him, shook his head then focused on his call again.

  Hesitating again, Potting dug his hands in his trouser pockets and repeated, ‘Well, I’m off then.’

  Emma-Jane raised a hand. ‘Bye, have a nice evening.’

  ‘Just about time to get home and back before tomorrow,’ he growled. ‘See you at eight thirty.’

  ‘Look forward to it!’ she said, a touch facetiously. Taking a sip of mineral water from a bottle, she watched him walk across the room, a shapeless man in a badly creased suit. Although she found him gross, in truth she felt a little sorry for him because he seemed so desperately lonely. She resolved to try to be nicer to him tomorrow.

  She screwed the cap back on the bottle, then resumed working her way through the statements from Reggie D’Eath’s neighbours, which had been taken down earlier today by the house-to-house enquiry team. She was also working on trying to find out more information about the white Ford Transit van that had been clocked outside his house the previous night by one of the dead man’s neighbours.

  Even though the D’Eath murder enquiry was being run by a different team, Grace believed it had enough relevance to Operation Nightingale for his team to be fully up to speed on all aspects of the enquiry at this stage.

  On her desk was the licence number GU03OAG. Its registered owner was a company called Bourneholt International Ltd, with an address, a PO box number, that she would not be able to check out until the morning. When she’d shown it to Norman Potting, earlier, he’d told her that more than likely it was nothing more than an accommodation address. That seemed likely as nothing came up for the name in a search on the internet.

  One of the phones on the workstation started ringing. Nick was still hunched over his desk talking into his mobile so E-J picked up the receiver. ‘Incident Room,’ she said.

  The voice at the other end sounded brisk but courteous. ‘Hi, it’s Adam Davies here from Southern Resourcing Centre. Could you put me on to Detective Superintendent Grace?’ Southern Resourcing was the call handling centre where all non-emergency calls were answered and assessed by trained handlers like Davies.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s out at the moment. Can I help you?’

  ‘I need to speak to someone on Operation Nightingale.’

  ‘I’m DC Boutwood, part of the Operation Nightingale team,’ she replied, feeling proud at saying it.

  ‘I have a gentleman by the name of Mr Seiler on the line phoning about a white van. I ran a registration check on the number he gave me, and it came up on the system that DS Grace has put a PNC marker on this vehicle. I thought he might want to speak to the gentleman.’

  ‘Is he the owner of it?’

  ‘No, apparently it’s parked outside his flat. He made a complaint earlier this evening – it was logged at six forty p.m.’

  ‘It was?’ Emma-Jane said, surprised, wondering why this hadn’t been picked up by anyone. ‘Please put him on.’

  Moments later she was talking to an elderly, irate man with a guttural Germanic accent. ‘Hello, yes. You are not the police officer I am speaking with earlier?’ he asked.

  Jamming the phone against her ear with her shoulder, the young Detective Constable was tapping the keyboard furiously. Seconds later she found the 6.40 p.m. entry, logged by a Detective Sergeant Jon Rye of the High Tech Crime Unit.

  War Driving. Sergeant Rye attended by phone.

  What on earth did that mean?

  ‘I’m afraid it is Sunday night, sir; a lot of people have gone home.’

  ‘Yes, and the man in the white van is outside my apartment again, stealing my internet. It would be good if he went home.’

  Stealing my internet? she thought. What on earth did that mean? But at this moment she was more interested in the van. ‘Can you read the registration number of the vehicle to me, sir?’

  After a moment, and agonizingly slowly, he said, ‘G for golf, U for – ah – umbrella. Zero, three. O – Oscar, A for alpha, G for golf.’

  She wrote it down.

  GU03OAG

  Suddenly, adrenalin coursing, Emma-Jane was on her feet. ‘Sir, let me have your number and I’ll call you straight back. Your address is Flat D, 138 Freshfield Road?’

  He confirmed that it was and gave her the phone number. She tapped it straight into her mobile. ‘Please don’t go outside or frighten him off. I’ll be with you in just a few minutes. I’m going to hang up and I will call you back in two minutes.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you, thank you so very much.’

  Nick was still engrossed in his call, and ignored her frantic gesticulations. In desperation she physically pulled his phone away from his ear. ‘Come with me!’ she said. ‘NOW!’

  61

  Tom, shaking with nerves, sat in his den with a tumbler of Glenfiddich, trying to focus on the emails he somehow had to send to his team tonight about the presentation tomorrow morning. Every couple of minutes he clicked the send-and-receive button on his email. Followed by a large sip of whisky.

  At eleven twenty his tumbler was empty and, in need of another, he went downstairs. PC Willingham was in the kitchen, making himself a coffee.

  ‘Would you like one, Mr Bryce?’ he asked.

  Tom held up his glass and, aware
his voice was slurring slightly, said, ‘Thanks, but I need something a little stronger.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  ‘Would you like one?’ Tom offered, uncapping the bottle.

  ‘Not on duty, thank you, sir, no.’

  Tom gave him an it’s your funeral shrug, filled the tumbler to the brim with whisky, ice and water – but mostly whisky – and went back upstairs. As he sat back down at his desk, he noticed another email had come in from postmaster@scarab.tisana.al, with an attachment. The header said, simply,

  Message from Kellie.

  His hand was shaking so much he could barely steady the cursor on the attachment. He double-clicked.

  The attachment seemed to take forever to open. Then suddenly the entire screen went dark. And Kellie’s face appeared.

  Harshly lit like a solo performer on a stage under the glare of a single spotlight, she was staring straight ahead, out of darkness. Still wearing her evening dress from last night, she was bound hand and foot and roped to a chair. A silver pendant Tom had never seen before hung from a chain around her neck. There was a large bruise below her right eye where it looked as if she had been punched, and her lips looked swollen.

  She spoke in a choked, stilted tone, sounding as though she was attempting to recite from a memorized script.

  Tom stared at her, totally numb with shock, as if this was not real, was just a bad joke, or a bad dream.

  ‘Tom, please watch me carefully and listen to me,’ Kellie said in a quavering voice. ‘Why have you done this to me? Why did you ignore the instructions you were given not to go to the police? They are now punishing me because of your stupidity.’

  She fell silent, tears flooding down her mascara-streaked cheeks. Steadily the camera zoomed in tighter and tighter on her face. Then even tighter, tilting down, favouring the pendant on the necklace. Until the necklace filled the screen completely.

  And the design engraved on it was clearly visible. It was a scarab beetle.