RG8 - Not Dead Yet

by Peter James

  She strode across the courtyard, dressed in a long lycra T-shirt, with her bump out loud and proud, her Crocs – which Roy didn’t care for – slapping on the cobbles. She ignored her almost constant backache from the weight of the baby, feeling so blissfully happy she was almost high. She was carrying the child of the man she truly, deeply loved. A wonderfully kind, caring and strong person. And she genuinely believed he loved her just as much.

  Two seagulls swirled overhead, shrieking, and she glanced up at them for a moment, then carried on towards the wrought iron gates. She clicked the lock and stepped out into the narrow street. This part of the city was always teeming with people on a Saturday morning, spilling out of the rammed Gardner Street bric-a-brac market a couple of streets away. It was 9.30 and the antique dealer across the road, who specialized in fireplaces, already had some of his goods out on display, propped against the shop front.

  She walked up the hill, taking the first right turn, and strode along the even narrower street, lined on both sides with small terraced Victorian houses, past the nose-to-tail parked cars. She saw her black Audi TT halfway along, where she had parked it last night – relieved as ever that it had not been stolen.

  As she neared it, she witnessed the standard hazard of parking out in the open in this city – thanks to all the gulls, half of the vehicles looked like Jackson Pollock paintings. Even from a hundred feet away, she saw the streaky, swirly white and mustard-yellow splodges all over her beloved convertible.

  But then as she got closer, her mood suddenly changed. With a tightening in her gullet, she broke into an anxious run, ignoring the fact she wasn’t supposed to run. Then she stopped beside the car.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shit.’

  The fabric roof had been ripped open, both lengthways and sideways.

  Feeling a flash of fury, her sunny mood totally gone, she peered inside, looking for the damage. But to her surprise the CD and radio player were intact. ‘Bastards,’ she mouthed. ‘Scumbags.’

  Then she saw the marks on the bonnet. At first she thought it had been someone tracing in the dust with their fingers, until she looked closer. And froze.

  Someone had used a sharp instrument, a screwdriver or a chisel, and had engraved the words in the paintwork, gouging right down to the bare metal.

  COPPERS TART. UR BABY IS NEXT.

  21

  Malling House, the headquarters of Sussex Police, was on the outskirts of Lewes, the historic county town of East Sussex, eight miles north-east of Brighton.

  The sprawling, ragged complex of Police HQ buildings, from where the administration and key management for the force’s 5,000 officers and civilian employees was handled, was fronted by a handsome red-brick Queen Anne house, once a private stately home, and faithfully restored after it had been gutted by fire over a decade ago. It housed the offices of the Chief Constable, the Deputy Chief Constable, the Assistant Chief Constables and other chief officers together with their support staff.

  When Roy Grace halted at the security barrier, he felt the same kind of butterflies he always had when he came here, as if he were still a schoolboy and had been summoned to the headmaster’s study. He had only met the recently appointed Chief Constable, Tom Martinson, very fleetingly at a social event, and had not had the opportunity to talk at any length with him. He would need Martinson’s confidence and backing if he were to rise any further from his current rank of Detective Superintendent.

  The rank of Chief Superintendent was the next goal on his career ladder, but he had no ambition to rise beyond that into the Assistant Chief Constable realm, partly because he didn’t think he could play the required politics, but more importantly because it would make it almost impossible to do any frontline police work, which was what he loved. In those elevated roles you were predominantly deskbound managers. True, in his current role he was deskbound to a large extent, but he always had the option to get out into the field – and took every opportunity to do so.

  In any event he was very content with his current position, as Head of Major Crime. It was a position he could only have dreamed of when he had first joined the police, and it was a job that gave him so much satisfaction he would happily stay in this position for the rest of his career.

  If he had one regret in life, it was that his father, also a police officer, and his mother, had not lived to see his success.

  But at the moment he was preoccupied by a big concern, which was that nothing stayed still in life. As a result of recent government budget cuts, police forces were required to amalgamate divisions and share resources, and some had to implement compulsory retirement after thirty years’ service. Sussex Police was now having to share its Major Crime Branch with Surrey. Which meant he could no longer be sure of remaining in this job. And his fear at this moment was that this summons to see the Chief meant bad news. Police officers could not be made redundant before retirement age, but many were currently being shunted sideways.

  The security guard gave him a cheery wave and he drove through the open barrier, then turned right, passing the police driving school and parked in front of the modern glass and brick Comms building. As he switched off the engine his phone rang.

  The display showed BLOCKED NUMBER.

  He answered, and to his dismay he heard an all too familiar voice down a crackly line, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like the roar of waves.

  ‘Detective Superintendent?’

  ‘That you, Spinella? Thought you were on holiday?’

  ‘I am – in the Maldives on honeymoon,’ the Chief Crime Reporter of the Brighton Argus said. ‘Flying back tomorrow.’

  Bloody hell, you actually found someone to marry you, Grace thought, and nearly said. Instead he replied flatly, ‘Congratulations. I’m afraid your wedding invite must have got lost in the post.’

  ‘Haha,’ Spinella said.

  ‘What’s so important that it takes you away from your bride?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I hear you’ve got another murder.’

  ‘Finding married life boring already, are you?’

  There was a brief silence followed by another ‘Haha’.

  ‘I’d return to your bride, if I were you, Kevin. Leave us to sort out whatever we have to deal with. I’m sure the city can cope in your absence.’

  ‘But you and I have a responsibility to the citizens of Brighton and Hove, don’t we, Detective Superintendent – especially when it involves a headless human torso?’

  How the hell, Grace wondered, as he did every time Spinella called him, did the reporter have this information already? ‘I think our responsibilities are a bit different, actually,’ he replied.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about the body at Stonery Farm?’

  Grace did not answer him immediately. It had been decided that the information that the torso was missing its head and limbs would be withheld from the press for the time being. ‘Why do you suppose it is headless?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, it’s got no arms or legs, so it probably hasn’t got a head either. Not much point leaving the head on if you’re going to that much trouble, is there?’ Spinella said. ‘Not like he’s going to be much use as a football player.’

  Every time during this past year that there had been a murder in the city, Spinella had the information way before anyone else. Any Sussex police computer would instantly have access to the log of the incident – which meant the leak could be coming from anyone inside Sussex Police.

  The moment he had time, he was determined to investigate and find out who that mole was. But right now, with the case of Carl Venner coming up to trial, the unidentified dead body in the tunnel beneath Shoreham Port, their prime suspect in Operation Violin missing and now the torso on the chicken farm, he had more important issues on his plate. ‘What would you like to tell me, Kevin?’ he asked. ‘Sounds like you know more about it than I do.’

  ‘Haha!’ Spinella said again. That damned laugh, which was almost the reporter’s catchphrase, irritated
him every time. ‘Thought you might have a bit of inside track for me, Detective Superintendent.’

  As always, Grace was forced to hold back his anger. Sussex Police needed the co-operation of the local media and there was nothing to be gained – the reverse in fact – from being too confrontational.

  ‘Acting Detective Inspector Branson is the deputy SIO on this case and he’s handling the media,’ Grace said. ‘You’d best speak to him.’

  ‘I just did,’ Spinella said. ‘He told me to speak to you.’

  ‘I thought the point of going on holiday was to switch off,’ Grace said, silently fuming at Glenn Branson. The bastard, passing the buck! But he needed, as ever, to keep Spinella onside. ‘I really don’t know anything at this stage. DI Branson is holding a press conference at five thirty this afternoon. If you’d like to call me just before, I’ll tell you what I know then.’

  Grace tried to work out the time zone in the Maldives. He had in his mind that they were four hours ahead. That would make the press conference at 9.30 p.m. – hopefully messing up a romantic honeymoon dinner for the toerag.

  ‘Umm, well, okay, I’ll try.’

  ‘Tell your beloved it’s something she’ll have to get used to.’

  ‘Haha!’

  ‘Haha!’ Grace replied.

  Then, as he ended the call, Cleo rang.

  22

  Grace had noticed throughout his career that the more senior the rank of his fellow officers, the tidier their offices seemed to be. Perhaps there was a clue here: to rise successfully to the elevated status of Chief Constable, you must be adept at managing your paperwork, or was it just that you had more people, like a Staff Officer as well as an assistant, to manage it for you?

  His own office was a perpetual tip, his desk, floor and shelves stacked with bundles of files. Earlier in his career, when all he’d had was a desk in the Detectives’ Room, its surface was permanently invisible beneath the sprawling paperwork. His untidiness had been one of the things that frequently annoyed Sandy, who had been almost obsessively neat and had a taste for minimalism in her home. Curiously, since Glenn Branson had left his wife Ari and moved into Roy’s now empty house as his permanent lodger – and caretaker of Marlon, his goldfish – he had gone through something of a role reversal, constantly irritated at the mess Glenn left the place in – especially his CD collection. Although recently, since he had put the house on the market, Glenn had started being a lot tidier.

  One of the things he loved about Cleo was that she was almost as naturally untidy as he was. And having a boisterous pet added to the sense of permanent chaos in her home.

  But there was nothing out of place in the Chief Constable’s spacious office as he entered now. The huge, polished wood L-shaped desk was uncluttered, apart from a leather blotter, some silver-framed photographs, including one of the Chief Constable flanked by sports presenter Des Lynam and another local celebrity, a pen set in a leather holder, and a solitary sheet of paper, that looked like an email printout. Two black sofas were arranged in a corner with a coffee table, and there was an eight-seater conference table. On the walls hung photographs of sports stars, a map of the county and several cartoons. The huge sash windows gave magnificent views out across Sussex. The whole room gave off an air of importance, but at the same time felt comfortable and warm.

  Tom Martinson shook his hand firmly and asked him to come in, speaking in a cheery Midlands accent. The Chief, who was forty-nine, was slightly shorter than himself, a strong, fit-looking man, with thinning, short dark hair, and a pleasant, no-nonsense air about him. He was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt with epaulettes, a black tie and black trousers.

  ‘Take a seat, Roy,’ he said, indicating one of the chairs at the coffee table. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘I’d love a coffee, sir.’ Roy Grace was trying very hard to put, temporarily, what Cleo had just told him out of his mind and focus entirely on this meeting, and trying to impress Martinson.

  ‘How do you take it?’

  ‘Muddy, please, sir, no sugar.’

  The Chief smiled, raised the phone on his desk and ordered it, then sat down beside Roy and folded his arms – distancing body language, Grace thought warily, despite Martinson’s cheery demeanour.

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you over here on a Saturday.’

  ‘It’s no problem, sir. I’m working today anyway.’

  ‘The Stonery Farm enquiry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything I need to know?’

  Grace quickly brought him up to speed.

  ‘I have to say,’ Martinson replied, ‘that when I heard you were the SIO on this I felt very confident the investigation was in good hands.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Grace said, pleasantly surprised and somewhat relieved.

  Then Martinson looked more serious. ‘The reason I asked you to come and see me is a rather delicate situation.’

  Shit, Grace thought. This is going to be about the Sussex–Surrey Major Crime branches merger.

  He then had to wait for some moments while the Chief’s assistant, Jean, who was, unusually, working this weekend, came in with his coffee and a plate of biscuits. As she left, he continued.

  ‘Gaia,’ Martinson said, then fell silent for a moment.

  ‘Gaia?’

  ‘You know who I mean? The rock singer and actress? Gaia Lafayette.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  You’d have to have been living under a rock in this city to have missed all the media coverage during the past couple of weeks, Grace thought.

  ‘I personally think she’s a better singer than she is actress, but who am I to judge?’

  Grace nodded. ‘I’d probably agree with you. I’ve never been a great fan, but I know someone who is.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Branson.’

  ‘You’re aware she’s coming to Brighton next week, to star in a film about the love affair between King George the Fourth and his mistress Maria Fitzherbert?’

  ‘I knew her visit was imminent. DS Branson’s very excited, hoping to get a chance to meet her! Presumably the producers know that Mrs Fitzherbert was English, not American?’ Grace said.

  Martinson smiled and raised a finger. ‘Ah, but did you know that Gaia was born in Brighton?’

  ‘Indeed, in Whitehawk.’

  Martinson nodded. ‘The girl done good, as they say.’

  Whitehawk had for many years been one of the city’s poorest areas. ‘She has.’

  ‘But we have a big problem, Roy. Over the past two days I’ve had conversations with a senior homicide detective from the Threat Management Unit of the Los Angeles Police Department, as well as her personal head of security, the head of Tourism and Leisure, Adam Bates, and the Chief Executive of Brighton Corporation, John Barradell. A few days ago, apparently, one of Gaia’s assistants was shot dead leaving Gaia’s house in Bel Air. The police view it as a case of mistaken identity, and that the true target was Gaia herself.’

  ‘I didn’t hear about that.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s made much impact in the UK press. She received an email warning her not to take the Maria Fitzherbert part. Apparently her security advisers weren’t too concerned about it at the time – it was just one of a number of crank emails she gets constantly. But their concerns are that, if they are right in their assumption, she could be targeted again. This email was sent to Gaia the next day.’ He then handed Grace the sheet of paper from his desk. The Detective Superintendent read the words with a chill.

  I made a mistake, bitch. You were lucky. But that changes nothing. Next time I’ll be the lucky one. I will get you anywhere in the world that you go.

  ‘Roy, I don’t think I need tell you the enormous PR value of having this film shot here, in terms of tourism and world exposure, obviously.’

  ‘I understand that, sir.’

  The Chief gave him a worried smile.

  Brighton had a criminal history dating back
to the mid-1800s. After a series of particularly violent murders in the early 1930s, including two separate dismembered torsos being discovered in trunks in station left-luggage lockers, Brighton acquired the unwelcome sobriquet of ‘Crime Capital of the UK’ and ‘Murder Capital of Europe’. For years, the Tourist Board had been trying to shake off that reputation, and the police had been making good progress in reducing the crime rate.

  ‘If anything were to happen to Gaia while she was here, the damage to this city would be incalculable. You understand my drift, don’t you, Roy?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I get that completely.’

  ‘I thought you would. But there’s a problem. I’ve had a discussion with Scotland Yard’s Close Protection Unit. Under their mandate, only royals, diplomats and government ministers qualify for high-level protection. Rock stars – and movie stars – are not on the approved list – they’re expected to provide their own security.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘That makes sense – they have the money to do that.’

  Tom Martinson nodded. ‘Under normal circumstances, yes – to keep fanatical fans at bay. But they’re not permitted to carry firearms in this country. So that gives us the problem of how to protect them against someone with a gun.’

  Grace took a sip of his coffee, thinking hard. Despite Brighton’s dark side, one blessing was that it had never had the kind of gun problem that afflicted some inner cities in the UK. Of all the murders in the county of Sussex in recent years, only a handful had involved guns. But that did not mean that guns were not readily available to anyone with intent, who knew where to ask. ‘We could make an exception with our own Sussex Close Protection Team, I would have thought, sir.’

  Martinson nodded. ‘I want you to do a risk assessment and write a security strategy for Gaia while she’s in Brighton – knowing that there’s a possibility someone may try to kill her with a firearm. I’d like to meet again on Monday morning to go through it, and later on Monday with the team leaders we’ll need to implement it, including the ACCs and the Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove. I’m sorry to throw this at you at the start of the weekend.’