Dead at First Sight, page 18
Haydn Kelly, accompanied by DS Jack Alexander, sat staring at a bank of monitors. Next to them was the senior CCTV operator assigned to assist, Jon Pumfrey. Each of the screens showed different street views of Brighton. On one was the seafront at the bottom of West Street. Another a section of the Lanes, the lunchtime crowds shuffling along. The rain had eased off and many were carrying furled umbrellas. Another showed the busy shopping area of North Street, with the Clock Tower in the background. A further one showed a steady trickle of people heading down Queen’s Road from the station.
Jack Alexander remembered the stuffed fish Roy Grace had on the wall of his office in their previous building, Sussex House. When he’d asked the Detective Superintendent about it, Grace had told him it was to remind him always of one of the essential qualities you needed to be an effective detective. Patience. Good anglers had endless patience and detectives needed that, too. Jack was understanding that only too well, now. For the past hour and ten minutes, his lean, beanstalk frame had been perched on an uncomfortable chair as the four operators cycled, randomly, through live images from various of the plethora of CCTV cameras covering the central area of Brighton and Hove.
It was a long-shot, he knew. All they had to go on was the blurry footage from Munich Police, and the description from Suzy Driver’s neighbour. They were looking for a tall black man with a distinctive swagger, wearing red shoes. Since the surveillance had started there had been over a dozen sightings of males in red shoes, but none of the images had remotely matched their target. They had no knowledge who the suspect actually was, nor if he was indeed still in the area. Even less so whether he would be brazenly out and about on the streets.
After another thirty minutes, badly in need of a drink, Jack was about to get up and stretch his legs when Haydn Kelly suddenly called out, urgently, ‘Camera Five! Can you stop it!’
Pumfrey froze the image. ‘Want me to rewind a bit?’ he asked.
‘Yes, until they first appear, please,’ Kelly said.
Pumfrey wound back, then played it again. The camera showed a pedestrianized street of what looked like fashion boutiques on both sides. Two black men suddenly came into view. One was tall, in a shiny suit and bright-red shoes, striding along like he owned the pavement. His companion was a much smaller, morose-looking man, in a bomber jacket and jeans. They stopped outside a men’s boutique, peering at the window display. The tall African pointed at something and the other nodded.
‘That’s his gait – and his shoes!’ Kelly said, excitedly.
‘Dukes Lane, right, Jon?’ Jack Alexander said.
‘Yes,’ Pumfrey replied. ‘The shop is called OnTrend. Very expensive, high-end.’
The two men walked forward to the edge of the frame, then entered the shop.
The door closed behind them.
Alexander called the Operation Lisbon Incident Room. Emma-Jane Boutwood answered. ‘Is the guv there, EJ?’ he asked.
‘He’s just stepped away to get a sarnie. Glenn’s here.’
‘Put him on!’
Moments later Glenn Branson said, ‘Jack, what’s up?’
‘I’m with Professor Kelly up at CCTV. He’s just identified our suspect going into a boutique in Dukes Lane with another guy – it’s called OnTrend.’
‘I know that shop. Is he still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice work, Jack. It’s only a short street, ask Oscar-1 to see if he can get a unit at both ends.’
Oscar-1 was the Duty Inspector in charge of the Force Control Room. The imposing figure of Keith Ellis, in his white uniform shirt with epaulettes, hurried across from his high perch. Jack Alexander quickly brought him up to speed.
Ellis immediately radioed the Duty Inspector at John Street Police Station, Dan Hiles, and requested response crews to cover both ends of Dukes Lane, relaying the description Alexander had given him.
Less than five minutes later the two men emerged. The tall guy was holding a large carrier bag, on which they could see clearly the shop’s logo and name. The pair walked rapidly out of shot. Ellis gave urgent instructions to the camera operators to try to pick them up again. A minute later another camera picked them up leaving the end of the lane and turning into Ship Street. They walked out of shot once more.
After several minutes there were no further sightings.
‘Maybe they got in a taxi?’ Alexander suggested, his eyes still glued to the screens.
‘I’ll call Streamline and Radio Cabs,’ Ellis said. ‘Get someone from the Incident Room to call the shop, see what information they have on them, what credit card details they have from the transaction.’
Ten minutes later, DC Boutwood rang Jack Alexander back.
‘I’ve spoken to the shop, Jack. He paid cash. They have CCTV inside the shop and will have footage of them.’
‘Good!’ Jack Alexander said. ‘OK, call them back and tell them not to touch the bank notes, we can lift prints from them.’
‘Yes, Jack.’
Alexander looked at Haydn Kelly, who was busy typing on his iPad. ‘What do you have, Haydn?’
‘The tall guy, his gait is an exact match to our man in Munich – and to the footprint analysis from Suzy Driver’s house in Brighton – or, technically, Hove.’
‘So what you’re saying is it’s the same man who was at the scene of Lena Welch’s death in Munich and Suzy Driver’s in Brighton – or rather, Hove?’
‘No question.’
‘So, where do we find him?’
‘You and your team, you’re the detectives. I’m just a humble podiatrist, Jack. I file down corns and bunions and cut toenails for a living.’
‘Bullshit!’
51
Tuesday 9 October
Paul said he would be late home tonight, 8 p.m. at the very earliest, and Toby Seward was happy about that. He’d only got back an hour ago from a meeting with a multinational tech company that had offered him a dream ticket. A series of motivational speeches around the globe. They would fly him and Paul – if he could join him – business class and put them up in swanky hotels. What he was required to do was a cake-walk. Give a series of talks he’d done a thousand times before and could do in his sleep.
On the television on the wall beyond the kitchen island unit, a recording of MasterChef was playing. A contestant was explaining his particular recipe for scallops with chorizo and black pudding. Toby had blanched the scallops, the black pudding ready on the side on the warming plate. He was now occupied dicing tomatoes with his cheffing knife on the chopping board, whilst keeping an eye on the shallots softening in the pan on the induction hob. The oven timer tinged. He needed to take the chorizo out.
The doorbell rang.
Toby glanced at his watch: 7.05 p.m. Who was it? Paul, locked out? Too early for him to be back.
The bell rang again.
Oh, for God’s sake!
He debated whether to take the chorizo out or answer the door first. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Probably some dimwit pizza delivery guy with the wrong address. He walked into the hallway and over to the front door. He should have checked the spyhole, he knew. Should have checked it, he rued, in the months and years that followed. If someone had asked him why he hadn’t, he would not have been able to give them a rational answer.
It was a question that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
52
Tuesday 9 October
Driving to his house along the rutted car track made Roy Grace happy every time. Moving to the countryside from their home in the centre of Brighton had been a gamble for both of them, but so far the only question he had was why had he not done this sooner?
The house came into view, lights blazing in the windows, and he felt a sudden moment of profound joy. As he climbed out of his car into the strong, chilly wind, he heard Humphrey bark and a clanking from the scaffolding on the far side. The workmen were now halfway through installing the en suite for Bruno. And not a day too soon – he’d never known it was possible for a young boy to take quite so long over his appearance or to have quite so many skin- and hair-care products. Some days he would be in there for the best part of an hour with him and Cleo getting more and more exasperated. It would be better in a couple of weeks, when his son had his own private bathroom. He could spend all day in there, if he wanted.
Grace looked at the house, still finding it hard to take in that he actually lived here now. Their home, their sanctuary. The rural air, tinged with woodsmoke, smelled so good. It was strange, he thought, standing here in almost pitch blackness. He used to be afraid of the dark when he was a kid, but now he felt safe in it. Secure. Far more so than he’d ever done living in the centre of the city with all the street lights – and shadows.
Built in the 1930s for a farm labourer and his family, it wasn’t the prettiest, picture-postcard cottage in the world. It had been built on the cheap, with plain, rendered exterior walls, and every window was a different size, making it look slightly lopsided. But he and Cleo loved both the house and the isolation, a place where she could escape from her duties in the mortuary, the never-ending task of receiving and preparing bodies, and trying to find words of comfort for each newly bereaved relative as they faced probably the worst moment of their life – identifying their loved one’s body. And a place where he could get away from the pressure-cooker environment of Major Crime Investigation, chill with his family and recharge his batteries, if only, often, for just a few hours.
Ten minutes later, changed from his suit into jeans and a quilted gilet, he went downstairs, removed his laptop from his bag and plonked it down on an armchair opposite Cleo. She was on the sofa, surrounded by her coursework papers for the Open University degree she was taking in philosophy – which she had been steadily working on ever since he’d known her. Snug in a loose-fitting jumper, with the fire blazing, she looked cosy and contented. But Roy knew just how frustrated she was that she wasn’t getting through the course more quickly. A combination of both a demanding job and home life made it hard to find the time to study, and with no classroom to turn up to, self-motivation was challenging.
They’d yet to go through a full winter here, and on the advice of other friends who’d made the move to the countryside, they’d invested in a wood-burning stove to supplement their heating. And tonight, with a draught blowing through the single glazing, he was glad they had. He took a log out of the basket, opened the door of the stove and pushed it into the flames, shutting the door again immediately. Then he looked enviously at Cleo’s glass. But it wasn’t an option, not even one small glass – he wouldn’t take the risk. If there were any developments on the case he could be called back out.
‘Supper in half an hour?’ Cleo said.
‘Sure.’ He sat down and opened the lid of his computer.
‘You seem very distant tonight,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ he replied. ‘Pewe is down my throat over Suzy Driver.’
‘He’s still angry at you for making it a murder enquiry?’
‘Yes.’
‘For God’s sake, Roy, Suzy Driver was murdered, no question. She did not hang herself. Frazer has no doubt at all. EJ was at the postmortem, along with Michelle. Tell Pewe to speak to either of them or read the interim report!’
‘I know. I’m on it. My team had the prime suspect sighted in the centre of Brighton this afternoon, but he disappeared.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyhow, sorry I’ve not asked – how was your day? How are the kids?’
As if on cue, there was a faint gurgle from the baby monitor on the table beside her. ‘Noah’s fine, he’s asleep. Bruno’s upstairs playing that game again. Him and half the youth of this nation.’ Then she brightened. ‘But hey, he’s made a friend at school!’
‘What? He has?’
Bruno’s lack of friends had been a big worry to both of them. He’d not seemed interested in making any friends at all. Their attempts at introducing him to similar-aged sons of friends had not gone well and there had been no further contact with any of them. For these past six months that Bruno had been living with them, he never spoke of contact with anyone else.
‘He’s been invited to a birthday party in a gaming bus!’
‘A what? Gaming party bus?’
‘It’s a new craze, apparently. Parents can hire this bus which rocks up at your house and all the kids get into it and play games!’
‘OK,’ he said, dubiously. ‘Games? Like hide-and-seek and pass-the-parcel?’
‘Don’t show your age! Children’s games are a bit more sophisticated these days, methinks – electronic – mostly video games. Don’t you think it’s brilliant, Roy – just the fact that he’s been invited and seems keen to go?’
‘Sure.’
‘You don’t sound that excited.’
‘No, I am, absolutely. It’s just . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘I know what you’re going to say, but I think we should give him more time before we – you know – take him to any kind of specialist. Going to a party is a really big step forward for him, perhaps a turning point in getting him more socialized.’
‘Yes,’ he said, walking upstairs, wishing he could believe it. He stuck his head into Noah’s bedroom, lit with the weak glow of the nightlight, and tiptoed over to the cot. The boy was sound asleep, on his side. He would do anything for this little chap. But, he wondered guiltily, would he do the same for Bruno? He quickly dismissed the thought. As the animal mobile above him tinged in the draught, he blew Noah a kiss and stepped back and out of the room, closing the door silently.
Then he went along to Bruno’s room.
Outside the door, he could hear gunfire, explosions and Bruno shouting out loud, one moment in joy then the next in anger. He went in. Bruno was in his usual pose, lying back on the bed in jeans and a T-shirt, staring at the screen in fierce life-or-death concentration, his fingers moving in a blur on the control unit.
On the screen Grace saw an old bus, high in the sky, functioning as the basket for a hot-air balloon; a crouched man in military gear with a pickaxe sticking out of his backpack, aiming an automatic weapon. Swooping down aggressively out of the sky was a man on some kind of powered hang-glider, fashioned from what looked like an old window frame and shutters. There were explosions everywhere around a strange landscape with weird architecture and some ruins.
He walked round the side of the bed into his son’s line of sight and said, ‘Hi, Bruno, how are you doing?’
Bruno gave him a dismissive wave, furrowing his brow in even deeper concentration, either feigned or real, Roy couldn’t be sure, and either way it angered him.
He stood for a moment. Just to let Bruno know he wasn’t going away simply because he was being ignored. But, within seconds, he could see that Bruno was completely absorbed again, living and breathing the game. Life or death.
The sheer intensity of the boy’s focus disturbed him a little. It was as if he’d gone through a parallel universe and was inside the set himself. Maybe that was the aim of the modern game creators. A kind of simulated or virtual reality that was more real than life itself.
A few minutes ago Cleo had implied he was a dinosaur. Only partly in jest. He was aware how little he knew about the culture of youngsters today, and that there was no point at all, he realized, in trying to draw from his own memories of being that age. During the time when he had been off, he’d tried very hard to engage with Bruno and learn a little more about his likes and dislikes, but virtually nothing had been forthcoming.
Bruno suddenly surprised Roy by muting the sound and turning to face him with a softer, more vulnerable expression than he’d seen before.
‘I know we still need to speak, Bruno – but I’ve been very busy with work.’
‘So how many bad guys did you catch today?’
Grace laughed. And suddenly they were chatting easily for a good fifteen minutes, more like mates than a father and son.
After he left the room, he stood for a while on the landing, reflecting that maybe he and Cleo had really started to make progress on building their relationship with the boy.
He went down to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water and sat back down opposite Cleo, telling her the good news. Then he began the task of scanning the deluge of emails that had poured in, most of them irrelevant. But one caught his eye.
It was from his former boss, Assistant Chief Constable Alison Vosper. He’d not heard from her since the day she’d left a couple of years ago to join another force, and from the signature on her email, she now appeared to be with the London Met. Their relationship, although never easy, had been a lot better than his current one with Pewe. She’d been so mercurial in her moods, sometimes charming and sometimes acidic, that she’d been nicknamed No. 27, after the menu of a local Chinese takeaway, which had listed that dish as ‘sweet and sour pork’.
She was being sweet now.
Dear Roy
I hope this finds you well. You may have heard that I’m now appointed to a Deputy Assistant Commissioner role in the Met. Could we meet for lunch sometime soon? Do you have any time free in the next couple of days, perhaps? There is something I would like to discuss. I will have my staff officer, DI Sparking, contact you to arrange a date convenient to you.
I look forward to seeing you again.
Alison Vosper
Deputy Assistant Commissioner.
Astonished, Grace read it out loud.
‘Interesting,’ Cleo said. ‘What’s that all about?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Are you going to meet her?’
‘Sure, I’m curious. I’ve got to go to London later this week for a meeting in counsels’ chambers with a CPS solicitor and the prosecution counsel they’ve engaged – I could maybe combine the two.’
‘Sounds to me like she intends offering you something in the Met,’ Cleo said. ‘Unless she’s finally realized she fancies you!’
