It was a receipt from an internet cafe, Cafe Conneckted, dated yesterday, Monday.
Grace looked at it. It was for one hour’s connection, coffee, mineral water and carrot cake. Ten pounds. ‘Do you know this place?’
‘Yes,’ Tingley said. ‘Top of Trafalgar Street.’
Grace’s mind was whirring. Thinking about the threatening email that had been sent last night.
The two detectives looked at each other. ‘Shall I send someone over there?’ Tingley asked.
Grace shook his head. ‘No, you and I are going there. I want to find out for myself.’
Tingley walked through into the bathroom. On the shelf above the sink was a row of plastic medication tubs. Grace followed him. There were six of them, each labelled with a New York pharmacy prescription band. Grace read them all.
‘This guy was some sort of junkie,’ Tingley commented.
Grace shook his head. ‘No, he was ill.’
‘How ill?’
Grace stared at one label in particular. ‘It looks to me like he had cancer. I recognize this – my father died of bowel cancer and was taking this medication, too.’ He thought for a moment. ‘That rude guy, the producer. Do you have his phone number?’
The Detective Inspector fished out his notebook and flicked through several pages. ‘Yes, I have his mobile number here.’
Grace keyed it in. He got Larry Brooker’s voicemail and left a message for him to call back urgently.
98
Larry Brooker called back just as they pulled up outside Cafe Conneckted.
‘Does the name Drayton Wheeler mean anything to you, Mr Brooker?’ Grace asked him, then immediately put his phone on loudspeaker.
‘Drayton Wheeler?’ the American said. ‘Um, right, well, yes.’
Grace could detect the unease in the American’s voice.
‘He’s just an asshole – trying to make a claim on our story. That kind of thing happens every time you make a high-profile movie. There’s always some creep comes crawling out the woodwork claiming it was their idea and you stole it.’
‘Might he have had a genuine grievance against you, or your production?’ Grace asked, glancing at Tingley.
‘Oh sure, he was threatening to sue us. No big deal – I told him to contact our lawyers.’ Then, sounding distinctly edgy, suddenly he asked, ‘Has he been in contact with you, or something?’
‘We think he might be the man lying under the chandelier.’
There was a long silence. ‘You’re serious?’
‘I won’t know for certain until we’ve formally identified him.’
‘Is there anything I can do from my end?’
‘Not at the moment. If we make positive identification, then we’ll need to interview you tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you been able to do some filming outdoors tonight? The weather seems to be holding, just.’
‘We are. Your officers here are being very co-operative. We’ll be shooting until around midnight.’
‘Good.’
Grace then rang Andrew Gulli, to ask him if to his knowledge a Drayton Wheeler or Jerry Baxter had ever sent any obsessive or threatening messages to Gaia.
Gulli was certain he had never heard either name.
Grace ended the call and they went into the cafe, which was almost empty. A heavily pierced woman in her twenties, in jeans and a baggy blouse, stood behind the bar counter, working an espresso machine. There was a lounge seating area to the left, and an archway beyond the bar, through to what looked like a larger area at the rear. On the right was a row of ten workstations, each with a computer terminal. Two were occupied, one by a ponytailed man in his twenties, the other by two teenage girls, one standing looking over the other’s shoulder, both of them giggling.
Grace looked up at the ceiling and noticed a CCTV camera covering the row of terminals. They walked up to the bar. The woman finished making the coffee, gave them a cursory nod, acknowledging their presence, then took the coffee across to the ponytailed man.
When she returned, Grace showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace from Sussex CID Major Crime Branch and Detective Inspector Tingley from Brighton CID.’
She looked a tad bewildered. ‘Yes – er – how can I help you?’
Grace held out a cellophane evidence bag containing Drayton Wheeler’s passport, which was open at the page showing his photograph. ‘Do you recognize this man?’
She studied it carefully for some moments, then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, no I don’t.’
‘He hasn’t been in here?’
‘Not while I’ve been here, I’m sure.’
‘We believe he was here yesterday evening and paid for one hour’s internet access.’
‘Ah, right, I wasn’t here last night.’
‘Who was here?’
‘The owner and his wife, but they’re off today.’
‘Can you contact them?’
She looked at her watch. ‘They’ve gone to a George Michael concert in London. I shouldn’t think they’ll hear the phone. But they’ll be here all day tomorrow. I can try, if you like?’
‘We’ll come back tomorrow,’ Grace said.
Jason Tingley pointed up at the CCTV camera. ‘Is that working?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘How long is the footage kept before it gets wiped?’
‘I’m not certain – I believe it’s a week.’
‘Do you know how to replay footage on it?’ Grace asked.
‘No, and I wouldn’t dare touch it!’
‘Okay, what time do you open tomorrow?’
‘Ten.’
‘Right, now this is really important,’ Grace said. ‘Can you please ask the owners, or leave a message for them, to make absolutely sure all footage from yesterday is retained?’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ she said.
Grace gave her his card, then they left.
As they climbed back into the car, Jason Tingley said, ‘We have a motive. The Cafe Conneckted receipt puts Drayton Wheeler in a place where he could have sent that email last night. In my view we could start making some assumptions.’
‘I hate that word, Jason,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘As I’ve often said, in my experience
The DI grinned. ‘Okay,
‘Why didn’t he just sue?’ Grace replied. ‘Presumably it was money he was after?’
Tingley tapped the side of his head. ‘Dealing with a crazy?’
Grace was thinking about the vials of medication in the bathroom. Was this some kind of desperate act by a dying man? But with what aim? ‘Did you ever hear that expression, “The more I do this job, the less I know?”’ he asked.
