‘At least we know where they come from — and that the hens have a nice life, darling.’
‘From the cost of this netting it would be cheaper to keep them in a suite in the Ritz.’
The second invoice was a stage payment request from Starling Row, their bathroom fitters. ‘Yikes!’ he said. ‘We’ve got our hens in the Ritz and I hope Bruno appreciates his swanky bathroom — let’s hope he doesn’t tell us he had a bigger one in Germany!’
The final invoice was from a company whose name he didn’t recognize. ‘Who are Lloyds Environmental Services?’ he asked, showing Cleo the invoice.
‘They’re the people who come twice a year to suck the sewage from the cesspit.’
‘To remove our shit,’ he added. ‘Hmmmm. I might have a job for them at Headquarters.’
His job phone rang. Apologizing to her, he answered with a curt, ‘Roy Grace.’
And immediately his spirits sank even lower as he recognized the nervy voice of Inspector Andy Anakin, known to most of his colleagues as ‘Panicking Anakin’. Tonight Anakin was the Golf 99 — the Duty Critical Incident Inspector at Brighton police station — and a person with a temperament less suited to handling critical incidents would be hard to find, Grace thought. The vast majority of his colleagues, at all ranks, were good people, but just occasionally someone like Anakin would slip through the cracks — or rather, rise through them. He often wondered how on earth Anakin ever managed to make it into the police force, let alone get promoted to inspector.
‘Roy, ah, good, you are there!’ He sounded out of breath, as ever.
‘I am, yes, Andy.’
‘Ah, good.’
There was a brief silence. Grace took advantage of it. ‘Well, if that’s all you wanted to ask, I’ll sign off now. Cheerio, Andy.’
‘No... no, no, no, I... I... I just wanted to alert you. The thing. Well, sir, you see, I think we may have a situation. Thought I’d better forewarn you.’
‘OK, tell me?’
‘It could turn out to be nothing, of course, a false alarm.’
Grace waited patiently for Anakin to get to the point. It was a long wait. ‘It’s this guy’s wife, you see — ah — as I understand they had a pretty big bust-up eight months ago — quite a long history of abuse. His name’s Liam Morrisey — long history with us, small-time drug dealer, sacked as a bouncer for excessive violence, once did three years for GBH after stabbing someone in a pub.’
‘Nice chap,’ Grace said.
‘No, not really,’ Anakin said. ‘Not at all nice, sir. Thing is, he’s under a court order not to go near her — his former wife — Kerry — he has to remain half a mile distant. She phoned earlier this evening apparently, dialled the nines, because she’d seen him driving up and down her street.’
‘Where does she live, Andy?’
‘Hadden Avenue, just off Freshfield Road, up near the racecourse.’
‘I know it.’
‘An hour ago he threw something from his car into her front garden. She thought it might be a bomb or something. We sent a unit to investigate and it turned out to be what looked like a roadkill fox in a bin liner. The bastard sent her a text saying the next thing the police will find in a bin liner will be her body.’
‘What reassurances have you given her, Andy?’
‘I’ve told her that all the crews have been alerted, and they will drive past her house as often as they can throughout the night. But we haven’t got the resources to do a proper job, you know that, Roy. I’ve got four cars out covering the whole city, it’s ridiculous!’
‘OK, so all’s calm at the moment?’
‘At the moment.’
‘OK, good.’
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Roy. I think it’s going to kick off.’
‘OK, I’m here if you need me. What you should be thinking about is putting a team of officers together who may have to effect a forced entry. Where are your ARVs at the moment, if required, and do you have someone on Division, other than yourself, overseeing this? Do you have a sergeant monitoring the situation for a quick response if required? I suggest you ensure you have a plan to respond quickly if the situation escalates.’
‘OK, I will, I will,’ he said. ‘I definitely will. It’s going to kick off, I know it.’
27
Monday 1 October
Tooth was feeling ill again, despite having seen the specialist this morning in Munich. Dr Wolfgang Riske was considered to be the top man in the world in the field of venoms. It was an appointment he’d waited two months for, and he’d been desperate not to miss it. He seriously believed that the poisons inside him were killing him, slowly, steadily, and the effects he felt were worsening by the day.
A German actor who lived on the floor below him in the Breisacher Strasse apartment building was not helping by playing his goddam piano again. Some piece of operatic crap. The same piece over and over.
Plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-PLONK.
And every few minutes the jerk would start singing along to it, in English, in a baritone voice, changing the inflection each time as if trying to find the right emphasis. Maybe he had a good voice, Tooth didn’t know or care. Country and Western was the only music he listened to, and he didn’t listen to much of that.
It was eleven-goddam-thirty at night. He was singing again now — ‘All my DAYS of philandering are over!’
Plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-PLONK.
The actor’s name was on the panel by the front door. Hans-Jürgen Stockerl. Tooth had seen him once downstairs, coming out of his apartment. A mediagenic guy in his fifties with foppish hair. He’d googled him, out of interest. He was quite famous, it appeared. A stage, screen and television actor, singer and musician.
Tooth had felt lousy the whole short time he’d been in England. Now back here in Munich, he’d not eaten since yesterday morning. Lying on his bed, giddy, a lot of circling around happening inside his head. The room heaved about like he was in the cabin of a ship in a rough sea. Every sound weaved through his nerves. He was trying to sleep.
Plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-PLONK.
‘All my days of PHILANDERING are over!’ He was singing even louder now.
Anger was growing inside Tooth. Anger at himself for failing in Munich and now failing in Brighton. Both because of useless intelligence from Steve Barrey.
‘Shut up!’ Tooth said. ‘Shut the—’
His phone began vibrating and buzzing on his bedside table.
Tooth knew who it was and he didn’t want to answer it. He didn’t have the energy or inclination to listen to Mr Barrey yelling at him.
The only inclination he had was to go downstairs, kick open Hans-Jürgen Stockerl’s front door, break all the fingers on both of his hands and ram a sock in his mouth.
The phone stopped buzzing. A few seconds later, it started again.
Maybe he’d take the phone downstairs and ram that in the crooner’s mouth.
See what his voice sounded like without any teeth.
Plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-PLONK. Again.
The voice, even louder now. ‘All my days of philandering are OVER!’
The phone fell silent again. For a brief while. Then it pinged with a text. He picked it up and glanced at it. As he expected, it was Mr Barrey.
What happened, asshole? Call me. NOW!
Tooth texted back.