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.
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
Bloody hell, you actually found someone to
‘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
‘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
