Not Dead Yet

Anna only found out by chance, by a Google alert she had signed up to which picked up all online mentions of her idol, that Gaia was a guest on Top Gear tonight. Her Star in a Reasonably Priced Car, according to the alert, had been filmed earlier in the year, when she had last been over here.

Cars were not Anna’s thing. She had watched the show once before to see what all the fuss was about, and had turned it off in a huff when Jeremy Clarkson had been rude about Nissan Micras. That was the car she owned and liked, in an attractive shade of orange. It was a good car, easy to park, perfect for driving around this city. She did not need a Ferrari, even if she could afford one. Nor an Aston Martin. Or a Bentley. Although she had to admit that Gaia’s sports Mercedes was a bit special. She could see herself in that.

With Gaia, seated beside her, driving.

Now, on Sunday night she was glued to the screen, and suddenly, there, on the horrible old pea-green car seat, sat Gaia! Tonight’s Star in a Reasonably Priced Car!

Jeremy Clarkson, in blue jeans, an open-neck white shirt and a jacket that looked like he had borrowed it from someone much smaller, was interviewing her, or rather at this moment, in her soft Californian accent, she seemed to be interviewing him.

Gaia was dressed all in black. Her signal! The one they had agreed in their last telepathic communication. Gaia’s special colour worn just for her.

Black T-shirt. Black, figure-hugging leather jacket. Black leather skirt. Black tights. Long black suede boots.

Gaia, you are so good to me. So good. We are old spirits, you and I. We’ve met before in past lives. We’ve been lovers before, we both know that. Now sit sideways, please, to show me that you love me!

As she mouthed the words, Gaia suddenly obliged, uncrossing her legs, and turning provocatively sideways, her skirt sliding up her thighs. She threw Anna a direct glance. Looking with her wide blue eyes directly into her soul. Then she winked.

Anna winked back.

Jeremy Clarkson laughed at some joke Gaia had cracked and that Anna had missed. He was fawning over Gaia. But Anna didn’t care. She wasn’t jealous of Jeremy Clarkson. She wasn’t interested in what Gaia Lafayette and Jeremy Clarkson said to each other, nor was she interested in what either of them said to the millions of viewers.

She was only interested in Gaia’s responses to her. And her idol was responding just the way she had asked her to.

‘So you got your interest in cars from a very special lover, it says on your website,’ Jeremy Clarkson went on. ‘A Formula One driver. Could it have been the Stig?’

Gaia laughed. ‘We don’t know who the new Stig is, right?’

‘Not until he sells his story to the press like the last one, no.’

She pointed at her chest. ‘I’m not with him on that. People should not sell secrets.’ Then she raised her right hand, pressed her thumb, middle finger and ring finger together and raised the other two fingers in the air. ‘Secret fox! Right?’ It was her signature image, a shadow boxing image of a fox, mimicking the design which was on all her merchandise.

Clarkson laughed again.

But Anna didn’t laugh. Fury suddenly burned inside her. Secret fox. Gaia never did the gesture in public. That was their secret code to each other.

What did Gaia think she was doing?

Secrets were sacrosanct. Did she not understand? You didn’t share a secret gesture with the whole damned world.

She would damned well tell her that.

35

‘The time is 6.30 p.m., Monday, June the sixth,’ Roy Grace read out from his notes, to his team seated in MIR- 1. He’d only been back a short while from London, where he’d been closeted for several hours in the chambers of the prosecuting barrister on the Carl Venner snuff movie trial. Along with the Crown Prosecution solicitor, he had run through a seemingly never-ending series of questions that he and his fellow officers who might be called by the defence could be asked. The trial, which would have a lot of media attention, was now due to start the following Monday.

‘This is our seventh briefing of Operation Icon,’ he continued. ‘I’ll review, in conjunction with my deputy SIO, DS Branson, where we are to date. Our primary task at this stage remains the identity of the victim, “Unknown Berwick Male”. DNA results back from the lab this afternoon show no matches on the national DNA database. So at the moment unless we can find the head or hands, to give us dental records or fingerprints, we’re faced with a lot of good old-fashioned detective slog, I’m afraid.’ He turned to Branson. ‘Glenn, you have something to report on the suit fabric found close to the victim’s remains?’

Detective Sergeant Branson pointed at the photographs of the checked suit fabric tacked to a whiteboard. ‘I’ve had a report back from Brighton tailors Gresham Blake,’ he said. ‘They tell me this is a fabric manufactured by the cloth company Dormeuil and sold widely, despite it being so garish, both to bespoke tailors and off-the-peg manufacturers around the world. They have been producing this particular design for over forty years.’

‘Glenn, wouldn’t different batches of the cloth have variations?’ Norman Potting asked. ‘Might we be able to narrow the search down if they could identify the batch?’

Branson nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good point. I’ll ask them.’ He made a note, then went on, turning to Emma Reeves. ‘DC Reeves has been in contact with Dormeuil and is working with them on identifying all possible tailors and clothing retailers in Sussex – and further afield if we need – who may have used this cloth in recent years. But I do have one significant development to report on this, I’m pleased to say, which may give us significant help. Crimewatch have agreed to feature it on their monthly show, which by chance is next on tomorrow night. They will be interviewing Detective Superintendent Grace tomorrow shortly before the show is broadcast.’

‘No,’ Grace corrected him. ‘They’ll be interviewing you.’ He sipped his coffee.

Branson’s sudden look of panic provoked a titter in the room. ‘Um – ’ he mumbled, frowning at Grace. ‘Me?’

‘You.’

‘Right.’ Thrown, Branson took a moment to recover.

‘A bit of advice, Glenn,’ Norman Potting said. ‘Don’t wear that tie.’

‘You’re a great one to give sartorial advice,’ Bella Moy snapped at him, huffily.

As if he hadn’t heard her, Potting pointed at Branson’s multicoloured op-art design. ‘I mean it Glenn, it will distract people, and it’ll make you look less serious.’

Branson looked down at his tie, a little hurt. ‘I like it, it’s cheerful.’

Grace nodded. ‘I have to agree with Norman; that won’t look good on television.’

Nodding reluctant assent, Branson continued. ‘We have some more information about “Unknown Berwick Male” from the forensic archaeologist.’ Reading from a document in front of him he said, ‘His age is estimated at between forty-five and fifty. From his femur and tibia measurements, I calculate his height at five foot, six or seven inches. The overall appearance of the bones implies a slight build. He has suffered two broken ribs, either from an accident or being in a fight. From the healing in the bones I estimate this to have been at least ten years ago.’ He looked at Potting. ‘Norman, that should help with your mispers. What do you have for us so far?’

Potting read out a list of missing persons that fell into the approximate range, which came to twenty-three people. ‘So far we’ve been focusing on Sussex and Surrey/Kent borders, and I have the outside enquiry team looking into each of these, collecting toothbrushes and hairbrushes to take DNA from. With your permission, chief – ’ he looked at Branson, then at Roy Grace – ‘I’d like to widen the parameters to the whole of Sussex, Surrey and Kent.’