Not Dead Yet

p.m. in a man’s name.

The Detective Sergeant was on the verge of deciding he had drawn a blank with this particular line of enquiry, when for the second time this afternoon, the normal studious quiet of the Major Incident Room was broken. This time there was an exuberant whoop from Haydn Kelly, who entered with such speed and force that the door swung back and struck the wall behind it with a bang loud enough to make everyone look up with a start.

‘I’ve cracked it!’ he shouted across the room at Roy Grace, beaming like an exuberant kid and brandishing two CD cases in the air.

‘What? What have you cracked? Anna Galicia?’ Grace asked.

The forensic podiatrist moved Grace’s keyboard aside and set his laptop down on the worktop. He flipped open the lid and tapped in his code. Moments later Grace was staring at a screen that was split vertically. On the left- hand side he saw what looked like CCTV footage of the woman he recognized from earlier, Anna Galicia, walking along a street in Brighton. On the right-hand side of the screen was a balding man in a business suit. Along the top were several columns of spinning numbers and algebraic symbols that seemed to be calibrating and re-calibrating as each person walked.

Haydn Kelly pointed at the left screen. ‘See our mysterious Anna Galicia?’

Grace nodded.

‘There’s a good reason why no one’s been able to find her.’

‘Which is?’

Kelly pointed at the right-hand screen. At the balding man in the business suit. ‘Because that’s her.’

Grace looked at the forensic podiatrist’s face for an instant, in case he was joking. But he appeared deadly serious. ‘How the hell do you know?’

‘Gait analysis. See all those computations on the screen? I can do the analysis visually, to a pretty high degree of accuracy because I’ve done it for so long, but those calculations done by the algorithm I developed add certainty. There is a very minor variation because the woman is on high heels and the man is wearing conventional male shoes. But they’re the same person. No question.’

‘Beyond doubt?’

‘I’d bet my life on it.’

110

Roy Grace stared at the screen, his eyes switching from the woman to the man to the woman again, feeling a sudden chill deep in the pit of his stomach. ‘Glenn,’ he said. ‘Come and see this.’

Branson stepped over, looked at the screen and exclaimed, ‘That looks like our friend Eric Whiteley!’

‘Whiteley?’ Grace said, the name ringing a strong bell, and trying to place it.

‘Yeah – the weirdo accountant me and Bella interviewed. That’s the outside front door of his office – who’s taken it?’

Norman Potting looked up. ‘I’ve got something interesting here about Eric Whiteley, assuming it’s the same one, Glenn.’

‘In what context?’

‘Could just be a strange coincidence. I’ve got the name Eric Whiteley just come in on an email from HSBC,’ Potting said. ‘I’ve got a list of all people who made cash withdrawals at hole-in-the-wall machines close to Cafe Conneckted on Monday night. According to the bank, he drew fifty pounds out of one of one of their machines in Queen’s Road, at 8.32 p.m.’

‘Do they have his photograph?’

‘Well, this is the strange thing, they haven’t.’ Potting pointed at his own screen. ‘This is the person who appears to have withdrawn the money – Anna Galicia. The bank think it’s possible she’s stolen his card.’

Glenn Branson was shaking his head. ‘No, she hasn’t stolen Eric Whiteley’s card. She is Eric Whiteley!’

Grace looked at his watch. 5.20 p.m. He radioed the Control Room and asked for the on-duty Ops 1 Controller. Moments later he was through to Inspector Andy Kille, a highly competent man he liked working with. He explained the situation as quickly as he could, and asked for uniformed and plain clothes officers to go to Whiteley’s office, with luck catching him before he left for the day, and arrest him. He told Kille to warn them the man could be violent.

When he ended the call he instructed Guy Batchelor and Emma Reeves to take an unmarked car to Whiteley’s home address, and sit close by in case Whiteley showed up. Next he told Nick Nicholl to get a search warrant for both Whiteley’s home and his office signed by a magistrate, and then to head directly to Whiteley’s house.

Next, he spoke to the Ops 1 Controller again, and asked for a unit from the Local Support Team – the public order unit which specialized in executing warrants and wore full protective clothing, including visors, for the purpose – a POLSA and Search Officers to stand by near to Whiteley’s house, but out of sight, until Nicholl arrived with the search warrant, then to go straight in, accompanied by DS Batchelor and DC Reeves. Again he cautioned the man might be violent.

Less than five minutes later, Andy Kille radioed Roy Grace back with news from two Response officers who were now on site at the offices of accountants Feline Bradley-Hamilton. Eric Whiteley had not turned up for work today. His office hadn’t heard from him and he had not responded to their calls.

Shit, Roy Grace thought, shit, shit, shit. The deep chill inside him was rapidly turning into the white heat of panic. The innocuous ones. So often it was the meek, mild- looking guys who turned out to be monsters. The UK’s worst ever serial killer Harold Shipman, a bearded, bespectacled, kindly looking family doctor who just happened to have a penchant for killing his patients, and despatched 218 of them, and possibly many more.

He stared at Whiteley’s image on the screen. One thing he knew for sure: someone who was capable of killing once was well capable of killing again. And again. His mind was spinning. Whiteley had not showed up for work all day. He turned to Glenn Branson.

‘Glenn, you spoke to Eric Whiteley’s boss a few days ago, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘Do I remember right that he said the man was a bit of an oddball but a very reliable employee?’

‘Yes. Said he was a loner, but yes, totally reliable.’

‘So him not showing up for work all day without contacting the office, or having an outside appointment in his diary, is out of character?’

‘It would seem so, but we do know that he occasionally works away from the office at the premises of clients.’

Grace was liking this less and less. Hopefully the man was sick, in bed. But in his bones he didn’t think so. He called Guy Batchelor. ‘How are you doing?’

A blast of expletives came back down the phone, followed by, ‘That sodding bus lane! Sorry Roy, but we’re sitting in gridlock from Roedean all the way through to Peacehaven.’

‘Okay, let me know when you are on site.’ Grace immediately radioed the Ops 1 Controller again. ‘Andy, do you have a unit in the Peacehaven area?’

‘I’ll check.’

‘Send the nearest one straight to Eric Whiteley’s house. I need to establish if he’s at home – top priority.’

‘Leave it with me.’

Grace was suddenly craving a cigarette. But he didn’t carry any on him these days, and he didn’t have time to find someone to bum one from – and even less time to go outside and smoke it. Please God, let Whiteley be at home.

And if he wasn’t?

He was thinking of Gaia, she seemed to be a sweet and fragile person behind her tough public persona. He liked her, he was utterly determined to do all he possibly could to protect her and her son. After the incident with the chandelier, the consequences of any similar occurrences were not worth thinking about. Neither morally, nor