She would stop work at the end of this week. Most of the rest of Sunday he’d spent on the sofa with her as she worked on her Philosophy studies, and he’d gone through all the trial papers on the Carl Venner case, which opened at the Old Bailey this morning.
He reached out and took his friend’s massive black hand. It was hard as a rock, like gripping a piece of ebony. All the same, he squeezed it. ‘Don’t let her get you down, matey. Okay?’
Glenn squeezed back.
Grace said nothing. He could see the big, tough guy he loved so much was close to tears.
77
‘The time is 8.30 a.m., Monday, June the thirteenth. This is the seventeenth briefing of
Annalise Vineer raised her hand. ‘Yes, chief. I’ve been going through the list of members of the West Sussex Piscatorial Society supplied to me by their secretary, and the list of all people who had any involvement with this club. I’ve found someone with a link to Stonery Farm.’
‘You have?’ Grace said. ‘Well done – tell us!’
‘I don’t know if it’s of any significance, but Stonery Farm and the West Sussex Piscatorial Society use the same firm of Brighton accountants, Feline Bradley-Hamilton. There’s one name in particular that’s common to both, which is an auditor employed by this firm, a man by the name of Eric Whiteley. He has carried out the annual audit for both the farm and the club for several years.’
Grace wrote the name down. ‘I’m not familiar with how auditors work,’ he said. ‘Would he have been to the premises of both?’
‘Well, he goes to the office at Stonery Farm each year. The Piscatorial Society secretary was unable to tell me whether Whiteley has ever actually been to the lake that the Piscatorial Society own. But he is their principal contact.’
‘How many employees are there at these accountants, Feline Bradley-Hamilton?’ Grace asked.
‘Fourteen, sir,’ Annalise Vineer replied. ‘There are four partners, the rest are employees.’
‘So anyone from this firm would have access to information about Stonery Farm and the Piscatorial Society, presumably?’ Grace quizzed.
‘Presumably, sir, yes,’ she replied.
Grace felt excited; at last he had something concrete to work on now. And his instincts were telling him that while the perpetrator was not necessarily part of this accountancy firm, there was the possibility of a lead coming from here. ‘So we can’t be sure Eric Whiteley would be the only one in the firm who knows where the lake is?’
‘No, sir. But certainly he’s the only one who visits Stonery Farm on a regular basis.’
‘And that’s the only match you have? The only person common to both?’
‘Yes, it is, sir.’
‘Is the club secretary able to tell you anything about this Eric Whiteley?’
‘Not much, sir. Says he’s a quiet, unassuming man who just turns up at the secretary’s house every year, by appointment, to get the paperwork signed off. He doesn’t talk much, apparently.’
‘Okay, first things first, we should interview everyone in the firm who’s been there more than six months. I want two trained interviewers – ’ He looked at the faces around him.
Glenn raised a hand. ‘Boss, I’d like to suggest Bella and I do the interview. Big
Grace nodded assent. Both detectives were trained Cognitive Suspect Interviewers. ‘He doesn’t sound a very likely candidate, but the link between the two places is interesting.’
He looked down at his notes, then at Norman Potting. ‘Myles Royce, Norman? You’re expecting DNA results back from the lab later today?’
‘I am indeed, boss.’
‘Let me know as soon as you hear.’
‘I will indeed.’
Glenn Branson stared at Potting, still trying to figure out what on earth Bella Moy could see in the man. Twenty years her senior, charmless and, despite his recent makeover, not in any way physically appealing. At least not in his view. Although to be fair, he had been married four times, so presumably he had
David Green, the Crime Scene Manager, reported on the progress that SOCOs and the Specialist Search Unit were making, looking for the missing head in the area around the West Sussex Piscatorial Society. Or rather, the lack of progress. This morning he had instructed them to widen the search parameters.
That was not good news, Grace thought. Although, from experience, he knew that there was always the possibility that the head, if buried on dry land, could have been carried off by a fox or a badger. Perps often spent hours digging deep graves for their victims. But these tended to preserve the bodies quite well. It was shallow graves that caused much bigger problems for murder investigation teams, because all kinds of animals would carry the remains away, for food and nests, dispersing them over a wide area.
He drew a circle on his pad around the name
After the meeting ended he headed back to his office and phoned Victoria Somers, the mother of his god- daughter, wondering if Jaye might like to play with Gaia’s son. She was a few years older than Roan Lafayette, but from the tone of her mother’s voice, that did not matter remotely. She sounded thrilled to bits.
One very small problem sorted.
And brownie points for himself all round.
78
He felt ridiculous. He had a pretty good idea that he looked ridiculous too. And he was perspiring heavily. He was in goddamn agony. The waist of the jacket was far too tight for him; the crotch of the cream pantaloons was crushing his balls, and the boots the idiot wardrobe woman had crammed his feet into were at least two sizes too small, and crippling his toes. His wig felt like he was wearing a straw bird’s nest.
He should be spending his last days on a sunlounger on a yacht in the Caribbean, drinking mojitos, surrounded by nubile young women. This was so wrong. The story of his fucking life. Screwed all the time. The goddamn movie business, goddamn television. Screwed by each of his agents. And now this final insult. Brooker Brody Productions stealing his story. The best damned thing he had written in his life.
And instead of basking in glory, he was sweating in tights and an itchy wig.
That bitch who had been rude to him on Saturday was going to be sorry, too. He was looking around for her but had not seen her so far. He had plans for her. That was the great thing about dying – you no longer had to give a shit!
But first he had to focus. The task ahead. He had a copy of the production schedule. It gave him every day’s shooting on location in Brighton. Inside and outside the Pavilion, depending on the weather. Outside during the daytime, weather permitting. Inside when it was closed to the public.
Tomorrow after it was closed they were starting shooting the scene in the Banqueting Room when George IV ended his relationship with Maria Fitzherbert, telling her she was history.
The king would tell her while they were sitting beneath the chandelier that he was always scared of. Hollywood stars Judd Halpern and Gaia seated beneath that chandelier. How great would it be to have it crash down on both of them?
