could she be properly protected in England, where her bodyguards couldn’t carry weapons, they argued? But that was the point, she told them, reversing her decision to quit the film. She would feel safer right now in a country that didn’t have a gun culture. And besides, her style had never been to hide away from her public. She was
And on a more practical level, the production was all set and depending on her, ready to go next week. If she pulled out now, it would collapse. The producers had made it clear it would be impossible to relocate the production to LA. Besides, how long would she have to remain in hiding? If someone out there wanted to get her, they could wait. Weeks, months, maybe even years. She just had to get on with it.
She hugged Roan. ‘You know Mama loves you more than anything in the world?’
‘I love you too, Mama.’
‘So we’re cool, right?’
He nodded.
‘Looking forward to going to England?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Then he frowned. ‘Is that a long way?’
‘It is. We’re going to a place by the seaside. They have a beach. You want to play on the beach?’
His eyes brightened. ‘I guess.’
‘You guess?’
‘Will Marla be there?’
‘No, hon, she won’t. It will be you and me. Taking care of each other. Will you take care of Mama there?’
He stared at her for some moments with round, trusting eyes. And in those moments she had never loved him more, nor felt more scared for him – and for herself. She hugged him tightly, tenderly, pressing her face against the soft young skin of his cheek, smelling the chlorine from the pool on his skin and in his hair. Tears rolled uncontrollably down her face.
28
Roy Grace had met a few coppers who were counting down the years to their retirement day, and the lucrative pension package that came with it, particularly with all the recent budget cuts that were demoralizing much of the force. But he knew far more who, like himself, lived in dread of that day.
With twenty years of service clocked up, he still had ten years in front of him, which might be extended to fifteen if the changes that were under discussion by the powers-that-be went through. But there were times when he worried just how fast time seemed to be passing.
Those were the occasions when he cut a moment’s slack to take stock, and count his blessings, as he did now while waiting for the last of his team to file into MIR-1 for the Saturday evening briefing.
Some days he couldn’t truly believe his luck, that he was doing a job he loved so much. Sure there were people he disliked, such as his former ACC, Alison Vosper, and there were bureaucratic processes that at times got him down, but when he looked back on his career so far, he could honestly say there had been no more than a handful of days when he had not looked forward to going to work. And one of the things he especially liked about his job was that few days were ever the same.
And right now he was doing what he loved best of all, the thing that really got his adrenalin pumping: the early days of a murder enquiry.
‘The time is 6.30 p.m., Saturday, June the fourth,’ he read out from the notes in front of him, prepared by his trusted Management Secretary, Eleanor Hodgson. ‘This is our third briefing of
‘Could you bring us up to speed with the findings from the postmortem?’
‘The information I have so far, chief, from the pathologist Dr Nadiuska De Sancha, and from the forensic archaeologist Joan Major, is that the victim is male, Caucasian, aged mid- to late forties. The broken hyoid and the cut mark further around the top vertebra indicate the likelihood of strangulation by a thin wire. There has been considerable degradation of the stomach contents, as would be expected. But chemical analysis reveals a fragment of oyster shell as well as the presence of ethanol, which indicates he had been drinking wine.’
‘Er – do we know if it’s red or white?’ asked Norman Potting.
‘Does that matter?’ Nick Nicholl asked.
‘It would tell us if he had a bit of class or not,’ Potting commented, with a grin. ‘We’d know we’re dealing with rubbish if we found he’d been drinking red wine with oysters.’
Ignoring him, Branson continued. ‘We took fragments of cloth found in the torso’s immediate proximity for analysis and showed them to the Brighton tailor Gresham Blake. They believe it is a heavy tweed man’s suit material, and are now helping us to identify the manufacturer. It’s an unusual colourway, so we are hoping once we get the manufacturer we can get a list of retailers who might have sold suits made from it – or a bespoke tailor who may have made one to measure.’
‘Such as Gresham Blake?’ DC Emma Reeves asked.
‘Exactly,’ Branson said.
DC Nicholl raised a hand. Branson nodded at him.
‘Just an observation, Glenn, but it seems strange that if the killer went to the trouble of dismembering his victim, presumably to hinder identification, that he would have left him in his clothes.’
‘I agree,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve been thinking the same. It could be a deliberate attempt at laying a false trail. Or, as I think more likely, the perp thought that the clothes, along with the body, would be completely destroyed by the corrosive environment – and miscalculated. I’ve had previous cases where there has been dismemberment of the victim still in their clothes,’ Grace went on. ‘It’s not uncommon, if you have a panicking perpetrator.’
DC Jon Exton raised a hand, looking first at Glenn Branson then at Roy Grace. ‘Sir, if we’re dealing with a chaotic offender he might, as you say, have killed in panic. Perhaps he went too far in a fight, and didn’t give it any thought that the victim was still wearing clothes when he cut him up to remove the head and the limbs, thinking that would stop identification?’
DS Guy Batchelor, a burly, avuncular detective with a cheery smile, shook his rugby ball-shaped head. ‘Surely if he was going to dismember his victim, the perp would have removed his clothes first. It would have made his job much easier.’
‘I’m inclined towards the chief’s opinion,’ Glenn Branson said, then turned towards the Crime Scene Manager, David Green. ‘What do you think?’
Green was a solidly built man in his late forties, with short grey hair, dressed in a sports jacket and grey trousers. He always had a cheery no-nonsense air about him. ‘Those clothing remnants seem unlikely items to be found in a chicken shed,’ he said. ‘The farmer, Keith Winter, has no explanation for how they came to be there. Not something he feeds his hens on,’ he said with a grin.
‘Unless they were dressing up for a hen party,’ Norman Potting said.
There was a titter of laughter, silenced by an icy glare from Roy Grace. ‘That’s enough, thank you, Norman,’ he said.
‘Sorry, chief,’ Potting grunted.
Branson looked down at his notes, then continued. ‘The best estimates of time of death are six months to one year. The condition of the body indicates that it was covered with quicklime – better known these days as calcium oxide. An amateurish attempt at accelerating its decomposition and an unsuccessful attempt at destroying its DNA. Joan Major has recovered DNA from the bones, which has been sent for fast-track analysis. We hope to have results back by Monday. In the meantime an enquiry team headed by Norman Potting will look into mispers.’
He paused and took a sip from a bottle of water. ‘The Chief and I have set a parameter of missing persons within Sussex and the Surrey-Kent borders. In order to allow for errors in the pathology estimates, we are looking at all misper reports – as well as serials from concerned persons reporting someone possibly missing. Do you have anything to report?’ He nodded respectfully at DS Annalise Vineer, the manager for the analysts, indexers and
