‘Perhaps he got a last-minute charter?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘Jim’s very romantic – he’s been planning this evening for weeks – months. He wouldn’t have taken a charter that night, absolutely no way.’
Glenn finally succumbed, took a biscuit and bit a chunk. Chewing, he said, ‘I don’t want to sound insensitive, but we know that a lot of smuggling, both of humans and of drugs, goes on in this city. Is it possible that your husband could have been involved in some kind of shipment?’
Again she shook her head vigorously. ‘Not Jim, no.’
Still happy that she was being truthful, he asked, ‘Does Jim have any enemies?’
‘No. None that I’m aware of, anyway.’
‘What do you mean by that, Mrs Towers?’
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked.
‘Go ahead.’
She pulled a packet of Marlboro Lites from her handbag, took out a cigarette and lit it.
‘Everyone loves Jim,’ she said. ‘He is that kind of man.’
‘So in all his time as a private eye he never made an enemy?’
‘It’s possible. I keep thinking about all his old clients. Yes, he might have upset someone, but he’s been out of that game for a decade.’
‘Could it be someone he put inside who’s just been released?’
‘He didn’t put people in prison. He was more – you know – following unfaithful spouses around, doing a bit of industrial espionage. He just snooped around, followed people, that sort of thing.’
Glenn made another note. Then he asked, ‘I presume Jim has a mobile phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not here?’
‘No, he always has it with him.’
‘Could I have the number?’
She reeled it off from memory and he wrote it down.
‘Who is the provider?’
‘O2.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘About quarter past five on Friday. He’d just picked up the boat from the police diving unit and was back in his berth. He said he was going to tidy her up and then he’d be home.’
‘That was the last conversation you had?’
‘Yes.’
She started sobbing.
Glenn sipped his coffee and waited patiently. When she had quietened down he asked, ‘Presumably you’ve tried ringing him?’
‘About every five minutes. Nothing happens. It just goes straight to voicemail.’
Glenn noted that down. He looked up at Janet Towers and his heart went out to her.
Then he thought again about the man who had answered the phone at his home. The man who was babysitting his son and his daughter.
The man he had never met, but at this moment hated more than he had ever believed it was possible to hate anyone.
He forced a smile at Janet Towers and handed her his card.
‘Call me if you hear anything. We’ll find your husband,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll find him.’
Through her sobs her voice suddenly turned to anger. ‘Yes, well, I hope to hell you find him before I do, that’s all I can say.’ She began sobbing again.
59
Roy Grace, holding tightly on to the most expensive bottle of champagne he had ever bought in his life, slipped his key into the front door lock of Cleo’s gated townhouse.
As he did so his phone rang.
Cursing, he dug it out of his pocket and answered it. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace.’
It was ACC Alison Vosper. Just the person he did not want to speak to at this moment. And to cap it, she sounded in a characteristically sour mood.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘I just got home,’ he said, hoping she might be impressed that it was after nine o’clock.
‘I want to see you first thing in the morning. The chief’s been talking with the Chief Executive of Brighton and Hove Council about all the bad press Brighton is getting over your case.’
‘Sure,’ he said, doing his best to mask the reluctance in his voice.
‘Seven o’clock.’
Inwardly he groaned. ‘Fine!’ he said.
‘I hope you have some progress to report,’ she added before hanging up.
Cleo, in a man’s shirt over ripped jeans, was on her hands and knees on the wooden floor, playing who owns the sock with Humphrey. The dog was snarling, growling, whining, tugging away at the sock as if his life depended on it.
‘Hi, darling!’ he said.
She looked up at him, without stopping her tug-of-war and without noticing the bottle he was brandishing.
‘Hi! Look, Humphrey, look who’s here. It’s Detective Superintendent Roy Grace!’
He knelt and kissed her.
She gave him a quick peck, but her concentration was on the dog. ‘Champagne!’ she said. ‘How nice!’ Then, squinting at the black ball of yapping fluff, she said, ‘What do you think of that, Humphrey? Detective Superintendent Roy Grace has brought us champagne! Do you think it’s a peace offering?’
‘Sorry I’m late – got held up after the briefing meeting.’
She tugged the sock, hard. Humphrey slithered towards her, his paws failing to get traction on the polished oak boards. His jaws released the sock, then snapped back on it. Cleo looked up at Roy. ‘I’ve made you the best martini of your life! A fantastic new vodka I’ve discovered – Kalashnikov. It’s in the fridge.’ Then she added, ‘Lucky bastard, you’ll have to drink it for both of us!’
She turned back to the dog. ‘He’s lucky, isn’t he, Humphrey? He gets here an hour later than he promised and he still gets a nice drink. And you and I have to drink water. What do you think of that?’
Grace felt awkward suddenly. She seemed in a slightly distant mood.
‘It’ll go down nicely while I’m waiting for the champagne to chill!’ he said, trying to placate her.
He showed her the bottle.
Examining the label while continuing to tease Humphrey, she said, ‘Detective Superintendent, do you have wicked designs on me tonight?’
‘Very wicked!’ he said.
‘You know I shouldn’t drink.’
‘I checked on the Internet. The new thinking is that the occasional glass doesn’t do pregnant women any harm.’
‘And two?’
‘Two would be even better. One for you, one for the Bump.’
She grinned, then looked down and patted her stomach. ‘What a thoughtful daddy!’ she said, mocking.
Grace slung his jacket and his tie on to a sofa, then put the bottle into the freezer and opened the fridge door. A martini glass, filled to the brim, with an olive on a stick, sat there. He took it out, carried it through into the living room and drank some, then sat down on the edge of a sofa. The alcohol hit him like rocket fuel, giving him an instant lift.
Humphrey let go of the sock and bounded towards him in a series of short hops.
‘Hey, you!’ He knelt and stroked the dog, which immediately responded by biting his hand playfully. ‘Ouch!’ He withdrew it.
Humphrey looked at him, then jumped up and bit him again.
Holding his martini clear, he said, ‘Fellow, you’ve got sharp teeth! You’re hurting me!’
‘Do you know what my father says about martinis?’ Cleo said.
Humphrey ran back to the sock, tore it free from Cleo and began shaking it furiously, as if he was trying to kill it.
‘No. What?’
‘Ladies, beware of the dry martini, have two at the very most. For with three you will be under the table – and with four, you will be under your host!’
Grace grinned. ‘So what does he say about vintage champagne?’
‘Nothing – he’s usually off his face with martinis before he gets to the champagne!’
‘I’m looking forward to meeting him.’
‘You’ll like him.’
‘I’m sure,’ Grace said, not at all sure how her posh father would take to a humble copper.
He sipped again, and now the sharp, dry alcohol was really kicking off inside his head. Then his phone rang, again. Nodding an apology to her, he tugged it from his jacket.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
‘Yo, old-timer!’
It was Glenn Branson.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
