Looking Good Dead

Branson frowned at the question. ‘What assurance would make you feel comfortable?’

There was a long silence.

‘Hello? Mr Bryce, Tom, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ His voice sounded faint.

‘Did you hear my question?’

‘I don’t know if I – if I should. I don’t think I can take the risk.’

The phone went dead.

Glenn Branson dialled the number on the display, and it went straight to voicemail. He left a message saying he had called back, then waited a couple of minutes, wide awake, his brain racing, wishing Ari would be more understanding. Yeah, it was tough, but it would just be nice if she showed a little more sympathy. He shrugged. What the hell. Maybe he should read that book she’d bought him for Christmas, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. She’d told him it might help him understand how a woman felt. But he doubted he ever truly would understand what women wanted. Men and women didn’t come from different planets; they came from different universes.

He dialled Bryce’s mobile number again. It still went straight to voicemail. Next he dialled the man’s home number, feeling a sudden deep dread that he could not define.

‘Gone?’ Roy Grace said, standing next to Branson in the hallway of Tom Bryce’s house at ten past two in the morning, staring in bemused fury at the young family liaison officer. ‘What do you mean, he’s fucking gone?’

‘I went up to see if he was all right, and he wasn’t there.’

‘Tom Bryce, his four-year-old daughter and his seven-year-old son leave the house and you didn’t bloody notice?’

‘I, uh…’ Chris Willingham said helplessly.

‘You fucking fell asleep on the job, didn’t you?’

‘No, I…’

Grace, chewing gum to mask the alcohol on his breath, glared at the young officer. ‘You were meant to be looking after them. And keeping an eye on him as the prime fucking suspect. You let them walk out on you?’

The FLO talked both detectives through all that had happened in the past few hours, in particular the email Tom Bryce claimed to have received and which had vanished from his computer.

Grace had come straight from the Royal Sussex County Hospital, where the young Detective Constable he had such high hopes for, Emma-Jane Boutwood, was on life support and about to be taken into theatre. He’d had the grim job of phoning her parents and breaking the news to them that their daughter was not expected to live.

He had dragged himself away from Cleo reluctantly and on a high, but after finding out the full scale of E-J’s injuries, all memories of his time tonight with Cleo had been erased – at least temporarily – and he was now feeling very low, and desperately concerned for Emma-Jane.

The driver of the van, as yet unidentified, was still unconscious and in the intensive care unit at the same hospital. Grace had ordered a twenty-four-hour police guard on his bed, and left instructions with the constable who had turned up that, the moment the man regained consciousness, he was to be arrested for the attempted murder of a police officer. Grace could only hope they wouldn’t have to upgrade the charge to murder.

Meanwhile DC Nick Nicholl was waiting for him back at the Incident Room with a laptop computer he wanted Grace to see, and dodgy Mr Tom Bryce had done a moonlight flit with his two kids – just what was that all about?

And the week was just over two hours old.

Turning to Branson he said, ‘This phone call Bryce made to you – you said he sounded strange. Scared?’

‘Well scared,’ Branson confirmed.

Grace thought for a moment. ‘Did you get him to fill out a missing persons report form for his wife yesterday?’

Branson nodded.

‘You filed it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Phone Nick – he’s at the Incident Room now. Ask him to look it up. It’ll have the addresses of Mrs Bryce’s close relatives and friends. A frightened man is not going to drive far with two small children in the middle of the night. Have you put out a description of the car?’

Both Chris Willingham and Glenn Branson stared at him blankly. It clearly had not occurred to either of them.

‘What the fuck is going on?’

Glenn Branson, trying to calm him down, said, ‘Roy, I didn’t know how far we were supposed to go keeping tabs on him. Chris was just here to help him cope and to offer protection.’

‘Yes, and if we circulate a description of the bloody vehicle he’s in, we can get him even more protection – from every damned patrol car that’s out there.’ Which wasn’t very many at this time of night, he knew.

‘Shall I tell Nick to call out the rest of the team?’

Grace thought for a moment. The temptation to haul Norman Potting out of his bed was almost irresistible, but he had a feeling it was going to a very long day today. He would let as many of them as possible have a night’s sleep, so at least he would have some fresh, alert people at the eight thirty briefing.

He needed to organize a replacement for Emma-Jane, he realized. And how was Alison Vosper going to react to yet another road traffic accident caused by a police pursuit? The taxi driver was in hospital with various minor injuries, his passenger, who hadn’t been wearing a seat belt, had a broken leg. An Argus reporter was already down at the hospital, and they would be all over this story like a rash.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

‘One problem – I don’t know the registration of the vehicle he’s in,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘Well that shouldn’t be too hard to find – there is probably the logbook somewhere in the house.’

Leaving Branson to make the call and the FLO to search downstairs for information on the car, Grace went upstairs, found the children’s bedrooms then the master bedroom with its unmade bed. Nothing. Tom Bryce’s den looked a lot more promising. He glanced at the man’s desk, piled high with work files, and a webcam on a stalk. Crinkling his nose against the stench of vomit, he rummaged around in the drawers but found nothing of interest, then turned to a tall black metal filing cabinet.

All the information was in a file marked cars.

Not all police work required a degree in rocket science, he thought.

Fifteen minutes later, Grace and Branson were in a grim elevator, with obscene spraypainted graffiti on every wall and a puddle of urine in one corner, in a tower block on the Whitehawk council estate.

They emerged at the seventh floor, walked down the corridor and rang the bell of Flat 72.

After a few moments a woman’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

‘Police!’ Grace said.

A tired, harried-looking woman in her early fifties, wearing a dressing gown and pompom slippers, opened the door. She looked as if she had been attractive in her youth, but her face was now leathery and criss-crossed with lines, and her wavy hair, cut shapelessly, was blonde, fading into grey. Her teeth were badly stained – from nicotine, Grace judged by the reek of tobacco. Somewhere behind her in the flat a child was screaming. There was a faintly rancid smell of fried fat in the air.

Grace held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace of Brighton CID, and this is Detective Sergeant Branson. Are you Mrs Margaret Stevenson?’

She nodded.

‘You are Mrs Kellie Bryce’s mother?’

She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Yes. ’E’s not here. You’re looking for Tom? ’E’s not here.’

‘Do you know where he is?’ Grace asked.

‘Do you know where my daughter is?’

‘No, we’re trying to find her.’

‘She wouldn’t disappear – she wouldn’t leave the children. She didn’t never hardly bear to let them outta her sight. She wouldn’t even leave them with us. Tom brung the kids here about an hour ago. Just rang the bell, bundled them in, then left.’