by Peter James
‘Nice,’ he said, and in truth it did suit her. But then again, he thought, she had such striking looks she’d have looked good in a bin-liner with a rusty bucket on her head. Behind her, a woman in her late twenties, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt with a small, gold Secret Fox logo on it, strode across the room with a script in her hand, and put it down on a table beside the sofa. Grace noticed that although most of the pages were white, some were blue, pink, yellow, green, and cherry.
‘Latest changes,’ the assistant said, and walked out again.
Gaia acknowledged her with a briefly raised hand, then turned her attention back to Roy Grace, pointing at her own head again. ‘You think so?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, although his personal preference had always been for long hair.
‘Gotta wear a goddamn wig for the production – this huge heavy Maria Fitzherbert thing – it’s so hot – feels like I’m wearing a rug on my head. The hair falls all around my face, I can hardly see a goddamn thing when I’m wearing it.’
Grace grinned. ‘I believe in her time women only used to wash their hair a couple of times a year.’
‘Yuh huh – Marie Antoinette actually had birds in her hair.’
‘Very hygienic.’
‘So,’ she said. ‘I got saved by your colleague – Chief Superintendent Barrington?’
Grace frowned. ‘You did?’
‘My hairdresser didn’t get over to England – she travels with me everywhere, now she’s pregnant and she went down with complications. So he’s found me this great hairdresser – actually she’s a police officer’s wife!’
‘She is – who?’
‘Tracey Curry. Chief Inspector Steve Curry’s wife.’
‘I know him – I didn’t realize his wife was a hairdresser.’
‘She’s a genius!’
‘I’m glad to hear Sussex Police are turning out to be a full service agency!’ he said.
‘Just keep me alive and look after my kid – that’s all the service I need.’ She indicated an armchair opposite the sofa, and he sat down.
‘We have some good news on that front,’ Grace said. ‘I imagine you’ve heard?’
The voice of James Cagney said, ‘We sure did!’ Her security chief Andrew Gulli strode into the room, dressed as before in a dapper suit. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, it’s so good to see you again.’ He sat in the chair next to him.
Another young female assistant materialized out of the ether and asked Grace how he took his coffee.
Gulli raised both his hands in the air, as if holding up an imaginary football, then lowered them, still with the ball, to his lap. ‘The thing is, Detective Superintendent, they may have caught this guy, but I don’t want us relaxing our guard on Gaia and Roan. You have a lot of crazy people in your city, right?’
‘We have our fair share,’ Grace admitted. ‘But no more than anywhere else in this country. Brighton’s a pretty safe place.’
‘I read you normally have around fifteen to twenty homicides a year, but you’ve already had sixteen, and we’re only halfway through this year. So your homicide rate has doubled.’
Gaia, who sat herself down attentively on the edge of the sofa, was staring at Grace. He could see, beneath her beauty, the crease lines of fear.
‘It’s a statistical blip,’ he replied cheerfully, and instantly knew he had said the wrong thing.
‘Yeah, right,’ Gulli said, his Cagney accent even more pronounced now. ‘So tell me, how did those people lying in body bags in your mortuary feel about being a statistical blip, Detective Superintendent Grace?’
Grace was momentarily distracted by the arrival of his coffee, and waving away the offer of sugar, said, ‘If it’s any comfort, most of the murders were low-life criminals on criminals or domestics.’
Gulli scratched behind his left ear. ‘I’ve been reading a lot of history on your city. In the 1930s Brighton was known as the “Crime Capital of the UK” and the “Murder Capital of Europe”. You know, it doesn’t seem like much has changed.’
Grace was starting to feel annoyed with the man. But he kept his patience. ‘I’ll talk to the Chief Constable and pass on your concerns.’
‘I’d be very grateful,’ Gulli said. ‘In the meantime I’d appreciate it if you maintained the current level of officers.’
‘I can’t make promises but I’ll do all I can.’
‘Thank you,’ Gaia said. She was smiling at him sweetly, and with an almost mesmerizing concentration, staring into his eyes. Was he imagining it, he wondered, or was he getting the come-on from her?
‘Mom, I’m like so bored!’
Roan walked across the room, barefoot, in baggy jeans and an orange T-shirt, a Nintendo console hanging from his fingertips.
She patted the side of the sofa and he sat down grumpily beside her. ‘He’s not too impressed with the weather, are you, sweetie?’
He peered at his Nintendo screen.
‘Is that the new one?’ Roy Grace asked. ‘The 3DS?’
The boy studied the screen and gave him a reluctant nod.
‘He wants to go on the beach, but nothing doing with this weather.’ She pointed to the window at the pelting rain. There was a sudden change in her expression. ‘Do you have kids, Detective Superintendent?’
‘No, I don’t. Just a goldfish.’
She laughed. ‘I figured it would be nice for Roan to meet some kids his age. Do you know anyone who has some who might be willing to play with him, hang out with him a little?’
His eyes widened. ‘Actually, I do, yes!’
‘I would so appreciate that.’ She kissed her son’s cheek, but he barely noticed, he was so focused on his console. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, hon? Someone to play with?’
He shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
‘I could make a quick call – Roan’s six, right?’
‘Just had his sixth birthday party three weeks ago.’
‘This person’s got two kids – I think they’re about six and nine.’
‘Perfect!’
He dialled Glenn Branson’s number.
‘Yuh, old timer, what’s up?’
‘I have someone who wants to speak to you.’
‘Who’s that.’
‘I’ll put her on!’ He handed Gaia the phone and said, ‘His name’s Glenn.’
‘Hi, Glenn!’ she said in her huskiest voice.
Grace smiled. He was trying to imagine his mate’s face at the other end of the line.
66
‘What do you mean, you don’t have any?’
The man hunched over the counter in a white coat was the kind of miserable jerk who should not have been there at all. He should have quit or retired long before he’d decided he hated doing this job so much he wasn’t ever going to be pleasant or helpful to anyone who came in here. With his frayed grey hair and his thick, round bottle-lensed glasses he looked like a Nazi geneticist who’d had a career change. He spoke like one, too.
‘Ve don’t haf any.’
‘You’re a fucking pharmacist; all pharmacists sell thermometers.’
The man shrugged and said nothing.
Drayton Wheeler glared at him. ‘You know where there’s another pharmacist?’
He nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Where?’
‘Vy should I tell you? I don’t like you. I don’t like your attitude.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Vuck you too.’
For an instant, Wheeler was tempted to punch his smug, evil face. But there were all kinds of potential repercussions from that. Not smart. He mustn’t get side-tracked, had to keep focus. Focus. Focus.
He walked out of the shop in a rage and collided with a woman pushing a shopping trolley. ‘Stupid old woman!’ he shouted at her. ‘Watch where you’re going!’ Then he stormed off up the street, everything a blur, his rage playing havoc with his eyes. He was tired. He was grungy. He was hungry. He needed food. He needed a bath.
But most
of all he needed a thermometer.
67
As he walked through The Grand Hotel shortly before midday, threading his way along the corridors towards the car park, Roy Grace’s phone rang. It was Glenn Branson for the second time. The first had been to thank him for putting him on the line to Gaia; he had seemed totally blown away.
‘Darren Spicer, right?’ the Detective Sergeant said.
Glenn was a movie buff and half his references in life involved movie titles. In his current star-struck mood, Grace’s first reaction was to wonder what film he was referring to.
‘Darren Spicer?’ Then he realized.
‘Remember him, chief?’
‘He’s about the most forgettable person I’ve ever remembered. Yes, I do.’ He refrained from adding he’d seen him arriving at Tommy Fincher’s wake a couple of days ago. ‘What about him?’ Then he had to wait for a moment as an ambulance screamed past before he could hear Glenn’s voice.
‘He just belled me. He wants to speak to you.’
Darren Spicer was one of the local villains who was also an occasional informer for Sussex Police. A career burglar, with form that stretched back to his early teens, he was a true recidivist, or what they colloquially called a ‘revolving door prisoner’. He was a man who had spent more of his working life behind bars than free. Earlier in the year, in a stroke of luck – in Grace’s view totally undeserved – Spicer collected a £50,000 reward put up by local millionaire philanthropist Rudy Burchmore, for information leading to the arrest of the man who had attempted to rape his wife. It was his biggest financial result to date in a long second career of acting as a police informant, both from inside jail and out.
‘What did he want?’ Grace asked.
‘He wouldn’t say. Just told me it’s urgent and you’d want to know.’
‘What reward is he after this time?’
‘I dunno. He sounded anxious and gave me a number.’
Grace jotted it down on his pad, then entered the car park, stopped and dialled it.
It was answered almost instantly with a furtive, ‘Yeah?’
‘Darren Spicer?’
‘Depends who’s calling him.’
Fuckwit, Grace thought. He gave his name.
‘Got something for you.’
‘What’s it about and what do you want?’
‘I want a monkey.’ A monkey was £500.
‘That’s big money.’
‘This is big information.’
‘Want to tell me?’
‘We need to meet.’
‘What’s it about, generally?’
‘That movie star you’re protecting.’
‘Gaia?’
‘Know the Crown and Anchor in Shoreham?’
‘That’s a bit upmarket for you, isn’t it?’
‘I’m a rich man these days, Detective Superintendent. I’ll be here for another thirty minutes.’
*
Shoreham Harbour was a major port at the western extremity of Brighton. A village that had long since grown into an annexe to the city was spread along it. The Crown and Anchor pub, with its outside terrace overlooking the harbour, had one of Shoreham-by-Sea’s most attractive and best value restaurants. He had eaten there many times in the past with Sandy, and more recently with Cleo.
Whatever else he might think about Spicer’s sad and generally scuzzy lifestyle, there was no denying the villain was well connected, and his information tended to be reliable. True, £500 was a lot, but the police had funds set aside for payments like this.
Thanks to new levels of public accountability, all police officers, unless attending an emergency, had to comply with public parking regulations. Which was why he wasted ten minutes of his day driving around the narrow streets of the old village part of Shoreham, in the pelting rain, trying to find a parking space.
Spicer was seated on a bar stool, nursing an almost empty straight glass of stout. A tall, gangly man in his early forties who, thanks to his many years spent in prison, looked upwards of sixty. He wore a yellow polo shirt, baggy jeans and brand new trainers. His head was shaven to a brown fuzz, his face was grizzled, with dead eyes.
‘Get you another Guinness?’ Grace said by way of introduction, as he slid on to the stool next to him. It was still early and the bar was almost empty.
‘Thought you wasn’t coming,’ Spicer said without even looking at him. ‘I need a fag. Bring my pint out on the terrace.’ He climbed down from his stool and ambled across the bar. Grace watched him. He had the posture of a bent crane.
A few minutes later, Roy Grace pushed his way through the glass patio door and out on the wooden decking overlooking the Adur, the river which fed the harbour. It was low tide, and mostly mudflats, with a narrow stream of water flowing through the middle. Dozens of gulls were foraging in the mud. Across the far side was the permanent moored community of houseboats, which had been here ever since he could remember.
Spicer was sitting beneath a large umbrella, rain falling all around him, holding a roll-up between his forefinger and thumb.
Grace handed him his pint of Guinness and set down his own glass, containing Diet Coke, and pulled up a chair. ‘Good weather for ducks!’ he said.
The smell of Spicer’s cigarette was tantalizing. But he had made a resolve, many years ago, never to smoke in the daytime, and only one or two, occasionally, in the evening.
Spicer took a long drag and inhaled deeply. ‘Are we agreed it’s a monkey?’
‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘I think you’ll find it a bargain.’ He drained his glass, then lifted the one Grace had bought him.
‘And if I don’t?’
Spicer shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose. I’ll just do the burglary, and I’ll net a lot more than a monkey, yeah?’
‘What burglary are you talking about?’
He drank deeply from his new pint. ‘I’ve been offered good money to burgle Gaia’s hotel suite.’
Grace’s whole body clenched tight. He felt a shiver ripple through him. Suddenly, £500 did seem a bargain. ‘Tell me more?’
‘We have a deal?’
‘I’ll get the money to you in the next couple of days. So, first thing, why didn’t you take the job?’
‘Don’t do burglary no more, Detective Superintendent. The police made me a rich man. Don’t need to do no burglaring.’
‘So what are you into now? Drugs? I guess a wedge like fifty grand could make you a bit of a player.’
Spicer shrugged evasively. ‘I in’t here to talk about myself.’
Grace raised his hands. ‘Don’t worry, I’m clean, no recorder! So tell me who’s offered you this job?’
Even though the terrace was deserted, Spicer still looked cautiously around, before leaning across the table and, in a very low voice, said, ‘Amis Smallbone.’
Grace stared back at him. ‘Amis Smallbone? Seriously?’
Spicer nodded.
‘Why you?’
‘I used to work at The Grand after I come out of prison, down in the maintenance department. Know my way around the place with me eyes shut. I know how to get into any room there. Smallbone had heard that, that’s why he come to me.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to go on the record with this?’
‘Yer having a laugh!’
‘If you made a statement I could get his licence revoked. He’d be back inside for a good long stretch.’
‘I know I’m not that smart,’ Spicer said. ‘But I’m still alive. If I go public and grass up Smallbone, I’d have to watch me back for the rest of my life. No thanks.’ He looked worriedly at Grace. ‘This is not – you know?’
Grace shook his head. ‘It stays with me. No one will ever know we had this conversation. So tell me more? I didn’t think burglary was Smallbone’s game.’
‘It ain’t. He just wanted to fuck you over. Embarrass you.’ Then Spicer gave a wry smile. ‘I don’t think he likes you very much.’
‘That’s a shame. My mant
elpiece will look very bare this Christmas without my usual card from him.’
68
‘No I don’t need help, thank you. Do I look that fucking frail?’
The doorman of The Grand Hotel was taken aback, but outwardly kept his composure. ‘Very good, sir, just trying to be helpful.’
‘When I want your help, I’ll tell you.’
Drayton Wheeler walked on through the lobby, perspiring heavily, struggling from the weight of the sealed brown box under his left arm, and his two heavily laden carrier bags.
He passed a couple of photographers and the same oddball group of people occupying a bay of sofas, several of them holding CD booklets and record sleeves, who seemed to be camped out here, sad fans of that superbitch cow actress. How wrong was she for the part? His part. The one he had written. He pressed the button and waited for the lift. His anger was all over the place, he knew. He had shouted at two different pharmacists, the idiot on the checkout desk in the Waitrose supermarket, the cretin in Dockerills hardware store and the total asshole in Halfords.
He got out at the sixth floor, walked down the corridor, then struggled to get his key card out. He pushed it in then removed it.
The light flashed red.
‘Shit!’ he shouted. He rammed it in then pulled it out again, the weight of the package under his left arm killing him. He put it in again, the right way around this time, and the light flashed green.
He half kicked, half pushed open the door and stepped into the small room, staggered over towards the twin beds and dumped his packages down on one, with relief.
He needed a shower. Something to eat. But first he needed to check everything, to make sure the fuckwits hadn’t sold him the wrong stuff.
He hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign outside the door, turned the security lock, then ripped open the first package, took out the car battery and set it down on top of the Sussex Life magazine that lay on the small round table. Then he dipped into one of the carrier bags and pulled out a heavy metal tyre bar, and then six thermometers which he placed next to the battery. Then he removed the bottle of hydrochloric acid, labelled as paint stripper, which he had bought from Dockerills. He placed that on the table, on top of another magazine, Absolute Brighton. Then he added a bottle of chlorine. He opened the last carrier bag, which was from Mothercare.
