immediately silenced by a forbidding glare from Grace; but only for a brief moment.
‘Sorry, Roy, didn’t mean any ’arm.’
There was a titter of laughter, and Grace himself grinned, too. ‘Shut it, Norman, okay?’ He noticed an exchange of glances between Potting and Bella Moy, and waited for some withering comment to Potting from her, but she stayed silent so Grace pressed on.
‘Darren Wallace at the mortuary, who has more experience than any of us in these matters, told me that the limbs seem very cold – far colder than they should be even allowing for the fact that they have been immersed in lake water. He surmises that they may have been frozen. I’m sure all of you who can cook know how long it takes to thaw a frozen leg of lamb?’
There were several nods.
‘All I can say at this stage, from the initial mortuary report,’ Grace went on, ‘is that the jagged nature of the severed bones of the limbs bears a visual match with the corresponding areas of the torso, which gives us a timeline problem. It is possible that they’ve been kept refrigerated until now. This is far too early to be sure that we have found the missing limbs, but we could be looking at this lake as a second deposition site.’
‘And if we haven’t, chief,’ Nick Nicholl said, ‘then we have another murder enquiry on our hands?’
‘Exactly,’ Grace said. ‘But I don’t want to go there at this stage. My personal hypothesis is that the perpetrator got panicked by the appearance of the cloth on
‘And does not explain the victim’s head, which is still missing,’ said DS Lance Skelton, the Office Manager for the investigation.
‘Why would the perpetrator have retained the limbs, chief?’ DC Jon Exton asked.
‘I have no idea. That’s our job to find out.’ He looked down at his notes again. ‘Right, missing persons. Norman, anything to report?’
‘I have the outside enquiry team working through all mispers in Sussex, Surrey and Kent who correspond to the estimated date “Unknown Berwick Male” was killed, and to his build and estimated height. But I have nothing to report so far, boss.’
Grace thanked him then moved on. ‘
‘I had to make a decision, boss, between leaving it with the tailor, Ryan Farrier at Gresham Blake, to see what we can learn about its owner from its size and construction, or sending it to the lab for immediate DNA analysis. But I thought in the interests of preserving any possible DNA it should go to the lab first.’
‘That’s the right decision,’ Grace said. ‘Maybe you could take this tailor up to the lab and he could examine it there.’
‘I’ve arranged that already, for tomorrow morning!’ Glenn said, with a grin.
Grace smiled back. He was so proud of his protege. In his methodical manner, eye for detail and the way he thought for himself, Glenn was demonstrating more and more that he had all the makings of a very fine detective. He glanced back down at his notes. ‘A substantial number of quality footprints were found at the site, some in the vicinity of the piece of cloth found on the gorse bush.’ He paused to point to the blow-up and the sample strip pinned to the whiteboard at the end of the table. ‘In particular several matching footprints were found around the perimeter of the lake, and beside the deposition site of the suit.’ He turned to DC Exton. ‘Jon, there were casts and photographs taken; I’m tasking you to find the manufacturer of this footwear. I suggest you start with the National Policing Improvement Agency – their National Footwear Reference Collection.’
‘Right away, chief.’
‘I’ve asked a forensic podiatrist, Dr Haydn Kelly, who is one of the country’s leading forensic gait analysts, to attend tomorrow evening’s briefing – giving him time to analyse the footprints.’ He looked up. ‘Right,
‘Nothing significant, chief,’ DC Nicholl said. ‘We’ve had seventy-five calls so far, and three names. And a load of crank calls. The usual drunks calling in. One said his dad did it – and then went on to say his dad died five years ago. Another said that Kirsty Young did it. We graded the calls, as usual, A, B and C. The only Grade A was the angler, William Pitcher, this morning.’
Grace thanked him then asked, ‘Does anyone have anything else to add?’
Several heads shook.
‘See you all tomorrow at 8.30 a.m.’
As he left the briefing room and headed back along the corridor towards his office, he encountered the figure of Ray Packham, from the High Tech Crime Unit, walking urgently towards him.
‘Roy! I’ve just had a chance to take a look at your BlackBerry.’
‘Oh?’
They stopped beneath a large red noticeboard on which was a flow chart headed,
‘You were right to be concerned. You’ve been hacked.’
Grace stared back at the analyst, suddenly feeling profoundly uncomfortable. ‘I have?’
Packham nodded.
‘By whom?’
‘I’m not sure you’re going to like this. Perhaps we should go to your office?’
Grace led the way.
55
It was a warm evening and the breeze had dropped. Colin Bourner, the doorman of The Grand Hotel, stood proudly outside the front entrance. Across the clogged traffic of King’s Road, and the people strolling or biking along the promenade on the far side, he stared at his favourite view of the sea, flat as a millpond, bathed in the early evening sun. The tide was far out; a handful of fishermen were digging for lugworm bait, and one man combed the wet sand with a metal detector.
On the pavement, closer to the hotel, a dozen paparazzi hung around, and a few fans strung out alongside them, all hoping for a glimpse of Gaia.
A turquoise Streamline taxi turned into the driveway and pulled up. One of the many things Bourner loved about this job was that you never knew who might be arriving. All kinds of celebrities – actors, broadcasters, sports stars, politicians and even royalty sometimes. The hotel was bristling with security – and buzzing with excitement – because they had a big celeb here at the moment, Gaia, who had arrived earlier today. Who knew who might be arriving in the back of this taxi?
He opened the rear door with the same welcoming smile he gave to all visitors to this hotel, and a blonde- haired apparition, caked in far too much make-up, stepped out in a cloud of musky scent. She was dressed in a short black dress that was too tight for her, a silk shawl and dark, wet-look leggings, and stood a little unsteadily on her ludicrously high black suede ankle boots, as if she were having difficulty with them.
‘Good evening, madam, welcome to The Grand Hotel!’ She smiled back and trilled a lipsticky falsetto, ‘Thenk yew.’ She paid the taxi then tottered across the pavement very slowly, fluttering her arms, as if she were being careful not to slip on ice, a bling handbag hanging from a shoulder chain. Then as she entered the revolving doors, she adjusted discreetly, but not that discreetly, the hem of her skirt, pulling it down in an ungainly manner.
Mutton dressed as lamb, Colin Bourner thought, watching her, trying to figure her out. She was dressed like a tart, but he knew all the regular ones who came in here, and this one was too old and too ugly.
Anna walked through into the cavernous hall, feeling very nervous all of a sudden. She had felt fine at home, preparing herself for this moment, thinking of all the signals her idol had given her on
