Not Dead Yet

and Intelligence researchers. ‘I want you to check the serials going back two years, and see if any of Whiteley’s neighbours have ever complained about him. See if he’s been involved in any incidents. We need more information on him.’ Then he said to Bella, ‘I think you should have a word with Whiteley’s senior partner and find out what kind of employee he is.’

‘I have a call in to him already, sir.’

‘Good!’ Then he turned to DC Exton. ‘The Hunter wellington boots – anything to report from the stockists?’ He pointed up at the trio of whiteboards. One board showed a photograph of Stonery Farm, circled in blue marker ink, and a photograph of the West Sussex Piscatorial Society trout lake, also circled in blue, with a line connecting them. A second showed photographs of a Hunter boot, and three photographs of the actual-size prints found around the edge of the trout lake. The third board had photographs of the torso and limbs of Myles Royce, and now, just added today, his face.

‘I’ve obtained a list of online retailers,’ Exton said. ‘We’ve been working through these, compiling a list of names of customers they’ve supplied in our parameter area of Sussex, Surrey and Kent in the past two years. But the problem as we know with many stockists, like garden centres and outdoor wear shops, is many don’t keep customer records. We’re getting as much as we can through credit card records, but that is slow and incomplete. I’ve been feeding names as they come through to the indexer.’ He looked at Annalise Vineer.

‘Nothing so far,’ she said. ‘I’ve names from sixteen stockists of people who’ve made recent purchases, but no hits, and that includes Eric Whiteley.’

Grace had worked with her on several murder enquiries and knew just how thorough she was. If she said no hits, she meant it. He looked at his notes. ‘Haydn – how are you doing on gait analysis?’

‘I’ve completed my computer modelling. I won’t bore you with the technical data but analysis of these prints shows our perp has a very unusual gait. I’m confident I could pick him out in a crowd. I could spend a few days in the CCTV control room at John Street, if you like?’

Brighton and Hove had one of the most comprehensive CCTV networks of any city. This was helped by the fact that the English Channel bordered the south, giving a relatively narrow arc to the east, north and west. But the problem, as Grace saw it, was which crowd? Haydn Kelly was on an expensive daily rate; he couldn’t just sit him down in front of a bank of television monitors and have him observe real-time footage in the hope of spotting the perp, when there were no guarantees that Myles Royce’s killer was even in the city.

He looked up at the dead man’s photograph. Royce was fifty-two, his mother had told Potting. He looked a little younger, in Grace’s view. The unfortunate man had not been blessed with great looks. He had a rather weak, flaccid face with bulging eyes, as if he had a thyroid problem, protruding lips, a squat nose and a shapeless mop of dark- brown hair with the unnatural flat tones of a bad dye job.

A trustafarian. Modest inherited wealth. Never had to do a day’s work in his life. Just dabbled in property from time to time. From the expression he wore in his photograph, he sure as hell did not look happy, Grace thought.

So how did you end up like this? Your torso covered in quicklime and immersed in chicken shit? Your limbs in a trout lake? And your head missing?

‘You know what, chief?’ Norman Potting said, as if reading his mind. ‘If we could just find his head, maybe he could tell us who did it!’

There was tittering in the room. Roy Grace did his best to keep a straight face, but after some moments he allowed himself a grin.

In all the murder enquiries he had attended, and more recently had run, he could not remember a single one where there had been less information about the victim or the suspected perpetrator.

In two hours’ time he had to attend a press conference with Glenn. If they put over their messages correctly, it could lead to a crucial witness either phoning the police directly or the Crimestoppers line anonymously. The enormity of his responsibility never escaped him. Myles Royce was his mother’s only child. He was her life. For over thirty years after leaving home, he went to see her every week, and phoned her every Sunday evening at seven, without fail. Now he hadn’t phoned for almost six months. And he wouldn’t be phoning ever again.

What had he done to deserve ending up dead, and with such appalling lack of dignity? Who had done this to him – and why? Was the motive sexual? Jealousy? Robbery? Homophobia? A random psychotic attack? Revenge? An argument that turned into a fight?

He looked at his team. ‘Which of you are Gaia fans?’

Several hands shot up. He looked at Emma Reeves, who seemed the keenest. ‘Am I right that Gaia includes a bit of S &M in her work, yes?’

‘Yes, chief – but only in a fun way in one of her acts, and on one of her album covers.’

‘Are we missing something very obvious here? Did she ever write a song about dismemberment? Or have some sick art about it that someone might have copied?’

‘I know everything she’s done, sir,’ Emma Reeves said. ‘That makes me a bit sad, doesn’t it?’

Grace smiled. ‘Not at all.’

‘But there’s nothing I can think of in her work that would send some sicko off to dismember someone.’

*

After the briefing ended, Grace returned to his office and made a new entry into his Policy Book.

Homophobic murder?

Blackmail of a gay lover?

Criminal involvement? Witnessed something? Drugs deal at a gay cruising site?

His phone rang. He looked down at the display and did not recognize the number. He stepped out into the corridor as he answered it.

The voice of the caller was low and furtive. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’

Grace didn’t need to ask who was calling. He recognized the voice of the recidivist and informer, Darren Spicer. ‘Yes, how can I help you?’

‘Got some more information for you. You can have this for free.’

‘That’s very generous.’

‘Yeah. Thought you’d like to know. That deal I was offered, what we discussed?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Your friend’s just come back to me and doubled it, for me to do that job.’

82

Drayton Wheeler lay, curled up on the floor, listening to Mozart’s Figaro overture on his iPod earphones. It was Mozart’s music which had sustained him through all the shit in his life. Mozart lifted him to the heavens. When the time finally came, he didn’t want some fucking priest holding his hand, he wanted to be alone, listening to this.

He looked at his watch, munching on the cheese sandwich he had selected from his rations. Midnight. It would be safe to move into position now – he had figured out the security guards’ rota in here during the small hours.

He finished eating, switched off the iPod and drank some water. He removed the iron tyre lever from his rucksack, and scooped everything else back into it apart from the torch, then stood up and hauled it on to his shoulders, shaking the cramp from his legs. Then he relieved himself in a corner.

When he had finished, he slowly and cautiously pushed open the heavy door and stepped out, looking in both directions. Just darkness. No one there. Holding the tyre lever in his right hand and the torch, switched on, in his left, he made his way along the passage, passing old pipework, a modern red firehose reel, and three rickety old antique chairs with broken wicker seats. He felt nervous. So close now. He had to succeed. Had to. He switched the torch off, held his breath then, knowing there would be security guards prowling around above him, inched his way up the steps in the darkness until he reached the half-gate.

Footsteps.

Shit.