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.’
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
