85
At the Tuesday morning briefing of
‘He’s an oddball all right,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We went to his house after the briefing last night. He was obviously in, we saw someone moving behind the curtains, but no one answered his door. We rang the bell several times. Then we dialled his home number. Someone answered – sounded like him, and we told him we were outside. He hung up without saying anything. We rang back and we could hear it ringing – and we saw curtains twitch upstairs. But it went to answerphone each time we tried ringing again.’
‘The behaviour of someone who has something to hide,’ Grace said.
‘With his reluctance to see us, me and Bella decided it would be better to talk to his neighbours, see what we could find out about him before we tried him again.’
‘And?’
‘They confirmed he’s one of those people who keeps himself to himself. A couple of them said they’ve never seen him. One said she’s seen him several times go off to work on his bicycle and come home at night and he’s nodded at her a few times, but that’s all. One said she’s seen a tarty-looking woman come to the house a couple of times.’
‘Sounds like a call girl,’ Grace said. ‘He lives alone?’
Glenn Branson nodded. He looked down at his notebook, open on the first page of the interview with Whiteley. ‘Well, the thing was, boss, we were focused on his work connection with Stonery Farm and the angling club. That was a hard enough struggle. We didn’t get much into his private life. But yeah, definitely single.’
‘So none of the neighbours ever talked to Eric Whiteley?’
‘All the immediate neighbours we talked to are elderly, a couple of them pretty infirm. All pleasant enough but no one seems to know or care too much about anyone else. It’s sort of a weird little enclave where he is.’
Grace made a note. ‘This man is not making me feel all warm and fuzzy. I want to know more about him. Why would he hide from you, unless he had something to conceal?’ He looked at Glenn then, pointedly, at Bella. ‘Any thoughts?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ she said.
‘This is a murder enquiry, Bella. “Don’t know” is not an answer I want to hear. Go back to his office in the morning and get in his face. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, and blushed under his uncharacteristically withering glare.
Grace turned to the indexer. ‘Annalise, anything on your check on the serials about Eric Whiteley?’
‘I have one thing, sir. Almost two years ago exactly, he reported a bicycle theft from outside his office.’
There were a couple of sniggers. One from a recent addition to the team, DC Graham Baldock, and the other from Guy Batchelor. Grace glared at them both. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t find having a bicycle stolen funny. It may not be the kind of major crime we deal with in this branch, but if you have a bike you love that gets nicked it’s pretty distressing. Okay?’
Both detectives nodded apologetically.
‘It sounds like Whiteley was pretty difficult then. I spoke to DC Liz Spence at John Street who was dealing with bicycle crime at the time. He was pretty aggressive towards her over it. Didn’t feel the police were doing enough, that they should have made it their major priority. She was sufficiently concerned back then about his level of aggression to put background checks on him.’
‘And?’ Grace asked.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing came up.’
‘If you want my opinion, sir,’ Bella Moy said abruptly, ‘he’s just a harmless saddo.’
Grace looked at her for some moments. ‘You may be right, Bella, but you have to remember something. Criminals escalate. The sicko who starts off as a seemingly harmless flasher can turn into a serial rapist twenty years later.’
‘Yes, sir, I understand,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be frivolous.’
Grace saw his BlackBerry was flashing red at him. New emails. He tapped to check them as he asked, ‘Norman, anything back yet from the High Tech Crime Unit on Myles Royce’s computer?’
‘No, chief, not so far.’
He glanced through the emails. The second was from the Chief Superintendent of Brighton Police, Graham Barrington.
Roy, call me urgently after your briefing.
86
Drayton Wheeler looked at his watch. 9.03 a.m. Time was passing slowly. Ordinarily, with just six months or so left of it, he might have been grateful. But not up here, lying on this hard wooden floor inside the dome that supported the chandelier, surrounded by mouse droppings, and goddamn seagulls screeching outside.
The battery on his fucking Kindle was running out. In his calculations he hadn’t figured that would happen, but he’d left the thing switched on to wireless, which ate up the battery life. Great. He had about nine hours to kill, and an hour of reading time left. So much for his ambition to finish
Nor anything by Dostoyevsky. Nor Proust. He hadn’t read much Hardy either. Just one Scott Fitzgerald. Two Hemingways. All people you were supposed to read to make you a more rounded human being. And the more rounded you were, the easier it was for some bastard to stick a pin in you and deflate you.
Well, he sure as hell would not be fretting about it in his grave. Fade to black. Good riddance.
At least today’s
Dying. With every single one of his damned ambitions unfulfilled. Thanks to people like Larry Brooker and Maxim Brody who had screwed him. Everyone had screwed him. Life itself had screwed him.
He was a genius, he knew that. He always had the ideas first. And some other bastard always got there before him, or stole them. He’d had the idea of writing about a child wizard. Fucking JK Rowling got hers out first. He’d had the idea about a young teenage girl falling in love with a vampire. Some Mormon called Stephenie Meyer wrote her books ahead of him.
Now
And it had been stolen from under his feet.
He munched angrily through his breakfast of a stale Marks and Spencer egg and bacon sandwich and an over- ripe apple, washed down by cold coffee.
He had that book on his Kindle. Written by one of his favourite authors, Kurt Vonnegut. Vonnegut was a cynic too. The book was all about a great visionary writer called Kilgore Trout who found one of his science fiction novels being used as toilet paper in a motel lavatory. That was pretty much how Wheeler felt about his own career. He was a genius constantly pissed on from a great height.
