Looking Good Dead

‘He’d rather I went there – he needs the tapes. He said I could watch them right away.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

Grace thought for a moment. Nick Nicholl had not been in the CID long, and still had a lot to learn. The young DC was bright but he might miss something – and this promised to be the first lead they had in the case. If this was so, then it was crucial to get every possible piece of information from it.

‘Bring her photographs,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll come with you.’ Turning to Branson, he said, ‘We’ll see Mr Bryce as soon as I’m back.’

‘That’s going to make it well late for him.’ Glenn Branson was thinking, unprofessionally, he knew, but he couldn’t help it, about the remnants of his own Sunday night. He longed to see his kids, even if it was just for five minutes before they went to sleep.

‘Glenn, if Mr Bryce hasn’t murdered his wife, or pulled off some scam with her, he’s going to be wide awake all night long, trust me.’

Branson gave a reluctant nod, knowing Grace was right, and glanced at his watch. Grace would be an hour at the very least and probably much longer. By the time he was back and they’d gone to the Bryces’ house it would be eleven at the earliest. He wasn’t afraid of facing half a dozen knife-wielding thugs in a dark alley in Brighton, but at times he was bloody terrified of his wife, and at this moment he was terrified of picking up the phone to Ari and telling her he was unlikely to be home this side of midnight.

Grace was so fired up by the possible sighting in the Karma Bar that, running his eye down the rest of the incident reports log, he skipped over the report Sergeant Jon Rye had logged an hour earlier, headed War Driving, without even noticing it.

57

Tom read a few pages of The Gruffalo to Jessica. His heart wasn’t in it, and she was not really listening. He didn’t fare any better with Max.

All he could think was, miserably, that he must be a crap father. The children wanted their mother, which was completely understandable, but he was starting to feel beyond inadequate as a stand-in. They now even seemed to prefer the company of Linda Buckley to himself. The WPC was sitting downstairs, waiting for the replacement family liaison officer to arrive and take over from her for the night.

He put the book down, kissed his wide-awake son goodnight and closed the door, then went into his den and made another round of phone calls – to Kellie’s parents, who had been ringing just about every hour, to all her friends, and again to her very worried sister in Scotland. No one had heard from her.

Then he went into their bedroom and opened the top drawer in the Victorian chest where Kellie kept her clothes. He rummaged through her sweaters, smelling her scent rising from them. But found nothing. Next he opened the drawer beneath, which was crammed with underwear. And his hand struck something hard and round. He pulled it out.

It was a bottle of Tesco vodka – sealed, unopened.

He found a second bottle, also unopened. Then a third.

This one was half empty.

He sat down on the bed and stared at it. Three vodka bottles in her underwear drawer?

She’ll probably just want to drink vodka. I saw her. I said I wouldn’t tell.

Oh Jesus.

He stared at the bottle again. Should he phone Detective Sergeant Branson and tell him?

He tried to think it through. If he did tell him, then what? The detective might lose interest, thinking she was flaky and just might have gone off on a bender.

But he knew her better. Or did, until about a minute ago.

He rummaged through the rest of her drawers but found nothing further. He replaced the bottles, closed the drawer, then went downstairs.

Linda Buckley was sitting in the living room, watching television, a police series set in the 1960s. The station Sergeant had a box of cigarettes on his desk, which he offered to a harassed-looking woman with her hair in a bun.

‘You like watching cop shows?’ he said lamely, trying to make conversation.

‘Only the ones set in the past,’ she said. ‘Don’t like the modern ones. They get so many things wrong, it drives me nuts. I just sit there groaning, saying to myself, They don’t do it like that, for God’s sake!’

He sat down, wondering if it was wise to confide in her.

‘You must eat something, Mr Bryce. Shall I pop your lasagne in the microwave for you?’ she asked, before he had a chance to say anything.

He thanked her; she was right. Although all he felt like was a stiff drink. She got up and went out to the kitchen. He stared blankly at the screen, thinking about the vodka bottles, wondering why Kellie had the secret stash. How long had she been drinking? And, more importantly, why?

Did this explain her disappearance?

He didn’t think so. Or at least did not want to think so.

The police series ended and the Nine O’Clock News came on. There was a smell of cooking meat, which churned his stomach. He had no appetite at all. Tony Blair was shaking hands with George Bush. Tom mistrusted both men, but tonight he barely noticed them. He watched jerky news footage of Iraq, then a photograph of a pretty teenage girl who had been found raped and strangled near Newcastle, followed by a plea from a clumsy-looking, inarticulate Chief Inspector with a haircut like a hedgehog, who had clearly never had any media training.

‘It’s on the table!’ the family liaison officer called out bossily.

Meek as a lamb he went into the kitchen and sat down. The television in there was on, showing the same news.

He ate a couple of mouthfuls of the lasagne, then stopped, finding it hard to swallow. ‘I think we should put a note on the front door,’ he said, ‘so your colleague doesn’t ring the bell. I don’t want the kids disturbed, thinking it’s their mother arriving home.’

‘Good plan,’ she said, taking a scrap of paper from her briefcase and walking to the doorway. ‘But I want to see that plate clean by the time I come back!’

‘Yes, boss,’ he said, forcing a grin, then forcing another mouthful down while she stood over him.

Then, moments after she had gone out of the room, a fresh news item was announced by the newscaster. ‘Sussex Police are tonight investigating the murder of convicted paedophile Reginald D’Eath, who was found dead early today at his home in the village of Rottingdean in East Sussex.’

A photograph of D’Eath appeared on the screen. Tom dropped his fork in shock.

It was the dickhead from the train.

58

They had been building Brighton Marina for as long as Roy Grace could remember, far back into his childhood. They were still building it now, and maybe they always would be, he speculated. A large dusty area was closed off on which sat two cranes, a JCB digger and a caterpillar-tracked earth mover, amid towers of building materials beneath tarpaulins flapping in the strong breeze.

He’d never really worked out whether he liked the whole development or not. It was strangely positioned at the foot of tall, sheer white cliffs to the east of the city, and comprised inner and outer yacht basins around which the Marina Village, as it had been named, had grown – and was still growing. There were clusters of ersatz Regency town houses and apartment blocks, dozens of restaurants, cafes, pubs and bars, a couple of yacht