'No, I mean, really. You look like absolute shit.'
'Nice of you to come all this way to tell me.'
'You ever see The Cincinatti Kid?'
'I don't remember.'
'Steve McQueen. Got wiped out in a card game. Had a great ending - you'd remember, the kid in the alley challenging him to a bet, and he tosses his last coin at him.' Branson peeled the lid off, spilling coffee onto the desk, then removed an almond croissant, dropping a trail of icing sugar next to the coffee spill. He proffered it to Grace. 'Want a bite?'
Grace shook his head. 'You should eat something more healthy for breakfast/
'Oh really? So I get to look like you? What did you have? Organic wheat grass?'
Grace held up the Panadol packet. 'All the nourishment I need. What are you doing here in the sticks?'
'Got a meeting in ten minutes with the Chief. I've been drafted onto the Drugs Performance committee.'
'Lucky you.'
'It's all about profile, isn't that what you told me? Stay visible to your chiefs?'
'Good boy, you remembered. I'm impressed.'
'But actually that's not why I'm here to see you, old-timer.' Branson pulled a birthday card out of the second bag and laid it in front of Grace. 'Getting everyone to sign - for Mandy'
Mandy Walker was in the Child Protection Unit in Brighton. At one time Grace and Branson had both worked with her.
'She's leaving?' Grace said.
Branson nodded, then mimed a pregnant belly. 'Actually, thought you'd be in court today.'
'Adjourned to Monday.' Grace signed alongside a dozen other names on the card; the coffee and pastry suddenly smelled good. As
Branson took a bite of croissant he reached out a hand, took the other croissant from its bag and tore a mouthful off, savouring the instant hit of sweetness. He chewed slowly, peering at Branson's tie, which had such a sharp geometric pattern it almost made him dizzy, then handed back the card.
'Roy, that flat we went to on Wednesday, right?'
'Down The Drive?
'There's something I don't get. I need the wisdom of your years. You got a couple of minutes?'
'Do I have any choice?'
Ignoring him, Branson said, 'Here's the thing.' He took another bite of his croissant, icing sugar and crumbs falling onto his suit and tie. 'Five guys on a stag night, right? Now--'
There was a rap on the door, then it opened, and Eleanor Hodgson, Grace's management support assistant, brought in a sheaf of papers and files. A rather prim, efficient middle-aged woman, with neat black hair and a plain, slightly old-fashioned face, she always seemed nervous of just about everything. At the moment she looked nervous of Glenn Branson's tie.
'Good morning, Roy,' she said. 'Good morning, DS Branson.'
'How you doing?' Glenn replied.
She put the documents down on Roy's desk. 'I've got a couple of forensics reports back from Huntingdon. One's the one you've been waiting for.'
'Tommy Lyde?'
'Yes. I've also got the agenda and briefing notes for your budget meeting at eleven.'
'Thanks.' As she was leaving the room he quickly sifted through the pile and pulled the Huntington report to the top. Huntingdon, in Cambridge, was one of the forensic centres that Sussex Police used. Tommy Lytle was Grace's oldest 'cold case'. At the age of eleven, twenty-seven years ago, Tommy had set out from school on a February afternoon, to walk home. He'd never been seen again. The only lead at the time had been a Morris Minor van, seen by a witness who had had the presence of mind to write down the number. But no link to the owner, a weirdo loner with a history of sex offences on minors, had ever been established. And then, two months ago, by complete coincidence, the van had showed up on Grace's radar, when a classic car enthusiast who now owned it got stopped for drunken driving.
The advances in forensics from twenty-seven years back were beyond quantum. With modern DNA testing, police forensic scientists boasted, not without substance, that if a human being had ever been in a room, no matter how long ago, given time, they could find evidence. Just one skin cell that had escaped the vacuum cleaners, or a hair, or a clothing fibre. Maybe something one hundred times smaller than a pinhead. There would be a trace.
And now they had the van. And the original suspect was still alive. And forensics had been through that van with microscopes!
Despite his fondness for Branson, suddenly Grace could not wait for him to leave, so he could read the report. If he solved this, it would be the oldest cold case ever solved in the country.
Popping the remains of the croissant in his mouth and talking while he chewed, Branson said, 'Five guys go on a stag night, right? The groom is a real joker - he's pulled a stunt on each of the guys in the past - handcuffed one poor sod to a seat on the night train to Edinburgh when he was meant to be getting married in Brighton the next morning.'
'Nice guy,' Grace said.
