distressed, he felt genuinely sorry for the man, and that was without the bombshell he was about to drop.
‘My housekeeper isn’t-’ He waved his arms helplessly in the air. ‘Um, but can I get you some tea? Coffee?’
Grace was parched. ‘Tea please, milk, no sugar.’
‘The same, please,’ Branson said.
As Stretton went out, Grace walked over to one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, an elegant side table covered in photograph frames.
There were a couple of much older people – grandparents, he presumed. Then one of a slightly younger Derek Stretton with an attractive woman of about the same age. Next to this was a young woman – Janie, he guessed. She was about seventeen or eighteen in the photograph, pretty and very classy-looking, in a black velvet ball gown, with long fair hair swept up and clipped by two diamante barrettes, and an ornate silver choker around her neck. She bore a striking resemblance to a young Gwyneth Paltrow. She was smiling at the camera, but there was nothing self-conscious in that smile. To Grace it was a Yes, I am gorgeous and I know it smile.
There was another photograph next to it, also of Janie, a couple of years younger, on a ski slope, wearing a lilac anorak, designer sunglasses and a seriously cool expression.
Grace glanced at his watch. It was 11.30 a.m. He’d ducked out of the press conference, leaving it to the PRO Dennis Ponds to tell the pack that they now had the name of the victim, and would be releasing it the moment her next of kin had been informed – which would be in about an hour and a half or so. Then he wanted Ponds, in particular, to get her photograph out in as many places as possible, to see what sightings of her last hours might come in from the public, and to get the case on the next episode of
Branson wandered over to the fireplace. A number of birthday cards stood on the mantelpiece. Grace followed. He stared at one with a cartoon of a proud-looking man in a suit and bow tie, with the wording above, ‘To a very special Dad!’
He opened it up and saw the message: ‘To my Darling Daddy. With all my love, tons and tons and tons of it. J XXX’.
Grace put the card back and walked over to a tall bay window. There was a fine view down to the Hamble River; Branson joined him and they stared at a forest of masts and rigging from a marina that looked as if it was just beyond the boundary of the property.
‘Never been into boats,’ Branson said. ‘Never been totally comfortable with water.’
‘Even though you live by the sea?’
‘Not exactly
Branson slipped the phone back in his pocket. ‘That was Bella. Guess what – your request for two extra officers for the team – know who they’ve given us?’
‘Hit me.’
‘Norman Potting.’
Grace groaned. ‘It’s about time he retired; he’s older than God.’
‘Hasn’t exactly thrilled the ladies. Bella is not happy.’
Detective Sergeant Norman Potting was in his mid-fifties, a late joiner compared to some. He was a old-school policeman, politically incorrect, blunt and with no interest in promotion – he had never wanted the responsibilities – but nor had he wanted to retire when he reached fifty-five, the normal police pension age for a sergeant, which was why he had extended his service. He liked to do what he was best at doing, which he called plodding and drilling. Plodding, methodical police work, and drilling down deep beneath the surface of any crime, drilling for as long and deep as he needed until he hit some seam that would lead him somewhere.
The best that could be said about Norman Potting was that he was steady and dependable, and could get results. But he was boring as hell, and had the knack of upsetting just about everyone.
‘I thought he was permanently up at Gatwick with the anti-terrorist lot,’ Grace said.
‘They obviously had enough of him. Maybe they couldn’t bear any more of his jokes,’ Branson said. ‘And Bella said he stinks of smoke from his pipe. Neither she nor Emma-Jane want to sit near him.’
‘Poor precious souls.’
Derek Stretton came back into the room, carrying a tray with three china cups and a milk jug. He set it on the plastic table, then ushered them to one sofa, and sat down opposite. ‘You said on the phone you have news about Janie, Detective Superintendent?’ he asked expectantly.
Now Grace suddenly wished fervently he had sent the two FLOs in to do this task, after all.
25
Tom had done virtually no work all morning. He’d sat at his desk in his office with a pile of unanswered emails mounting up on his screen – at least his computer was working again now – and dealt with a few calls that had come in for him, as well as gone carefully through a list of costings for Rolex Oyster watches for Ron Spacks, but all the rest of the time he had been thinking.
Thinking.
His brain spinning but getting no traction.
The call last night at home from Chris telling him he had been burgled.
In fact there seems to be only one damned thing missing… Your CD…
Mind you, he had been in Chris Webb’s office at his home, and it was cluttered beyond belief. It wouldn’t be hard to lose a CD there – he had dozens lying all over the place.
Yet, Tom thought, someone was not happy that he had the CD, and they’d trashed his computer twice to tell him so. So now they’d taken it back? Had Chris Webb tried to play it and alerted them?
If whoever owned that CD – the dickhead from the train – now had it back, would that be the end of the matter?
Maybe the dickhead would be on the train again tonight? But Tom doubted it; in all the years he had been commuting he had never seen him before. Besides, he wasn’t exactly sure what he would do – whether he would go up and shout at him, or whether he would be too nervous to say anything.
He had still not said anything to Kellie about it. Best to keep quiet, keep his head down. There had been no more calls, which meant, hopefully, he’d had his warning.
He sure as hell had got the message.
26
‘The managing agents of the flat your daughter rents in Brighton let us in yesterday, Mr Stretton, and allowed us to take a couple of items belonging to her for DNA testing. We took some hair samples from a brush in the bathroom and a piece of chewing gum we found in a pedal bin,’ Grace explained.
Derek Stretton held his cup without drinking, eyeing him warily.
‘We sent these up to the Police laboratory at Huntingdon, and earlier this morning we received the results. The DNA from the chewing gum and from the hair is from the same person, and there was a complete match with the body that we found on Wednesday. I’m afraid the only conclusion we can come to, sir, is that the murdered young lady is your daughter, Janie.’
There was a long silence, and for some moments Grace thought that Derek Stretton was about to throw his head back and roar with laughter. Instead, all that happened was that the cup began to rattle in the saucer, louder
