The last time they’d spent a day together, at Christmas last year, when, after their boozy lunch Lance had again told Roy he was wasting his talents in the police, and that he would never become rich as a copper, Roy had retorted, ‘Maybe not, but I have something you will never have.’
‘And what’s that?’ Lance had asked, through a blue cloud of cigar smoke.
‘The knowledge that I have enough,’ Grace had said.
They hadn’t spoken again for the rest of that day. And Roy wasn’t much looking forward to seeing him now. But, big bonus, despite Cleo in her advanced state of pregnancy not drinking, he’d be able to have a couple of glasses of red wine. It might help him cope with the boyfriend.
Then his job phone rang.
He grabbed it quickly, slipped out of bed and answered, whispering, ‘One moment!’
He hurried through into the en-suite bathroom. As he did so, he remembered he had completely forgotten that he was doing a favour to the previous week’s duty Senior Investigating Officer, Mike Ashcroft – who had helped him out by covering his shift last week – taking over from him today instead of the customary 6 a.m. Monday morning.
A slightly nervous female voice he didn’t recognize said, ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’
‘Uh huh,’ he said, closing the door behind him.
‘It’s DI Sapna Patel at Brighton.’
‘You’re new?’
‘I am, my first shift, sir.’
‘Tell me?’
‘We’ve a possible suspicious death, sir. The victim has been identified as someone well known to Sussex Police – Archie Goff.’
‘Very well known,’ Grace confirmed. ‘A proper recidivist.’
‘He was found two hours ago on a pavement in Saltdean, by a gentleman walking his dogs. DS Walker attended and there are a number of things that make her concerned that this is not a natural death. The first is that the dead man reeks of what apparently smells like an accelerant, possibly petrol, as if he has been doused with it. He also has a wound behind an ear, and the fingers of both hands look to have been crushed.’
‘Sounds like he might have upset someone,’ Grace said. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, sir, but I felt you should be informed.’
‘Where is the body now?’
‘Still in situ, sir.’
‘Has a coroner been notified?’
‘No, sir, not yet. DS Walker felt that should be a decision by Major Crime.’
‘Let me have the address.’ She gave it to him and Grace did a quick calculation. ‘OK, I’ll be there in half an hour. Is the body taped off?’
‘It is, sir, and we’ve a scene guard present.’
‘Good work, Sapna. What I’d like you to do is arrange a CSI team to attend the scene as quickly as possible, and I’ll meet them there.’
‘I will do, sir.’
Grace had a quick shower, dressed hastily, knotting his tie, then explained the situation, apologetically, to a drowsy Cleo.
‘So you won’t be making lunch,’ she murmured.
‘I’ll do my best to be back in time.’
‘It wasn’t a question,’ she said, sounding more awake now. ‘It was a statement.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I’ll get those words engraved on your tombstone,’ she said.
He looked down at her. ‘Baby.’
Then she pursed her lips. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very sensitive. I understand what you have to do.’ She raised a hand from under the duvet and waved it. ‘Let me know how it’s going, and when you know you’ll be back.’
He lingered for some moments, temporarily lost for words, leaned over and kissed her, then headed downstairs.
A heart laden with guilt. And worry. And grief.
There was a dead body lying on a pavement in a suburb of Brighton. And quite likely a loving partner wondering why he hadn’t come home last night.
Could a police officer responsible for finding the answers as to why he hadn’t come home and to who had killed him, sit comfortably in his skin on a chair in a Sussex pub, enjoying a prawn cocktail, perfectly roast beef and a few glasses of a decent red wine? If so, that person was in the wrong job.
You had to make choices in life and live with the consequences, not only those of your actions, but of your inactions.
Roy Grace went downstairs, ate a piece of toast spread with Marmite, peanut butter and slices of cucumber, downed it with a Nespresso, then hurried out to his car.
Before he drove off, he texted Cleo:
Love you so much, babes. XXXX
59
Sunday, 3 November
Thirty minutes later, following the satnav on his phone, in its cradle on the Alfa’s dash, Roy Grace passed the Lido then turned off the coast road, winding up through the network of Saltdean’s pleasant residential streets.
There had been no reply yet from Cleo.
Cresting the brow of a steep hill, a glorious, sunny view of the English Channel came into sight. Then a short distance ahead he saw a cluster of vehicles – two marked police cars, a white CSI van as well as an unmarked saloon. There was a small knot of members of the public standing well back down the road behind crime scene tape and he kicked, almost on autopilot, into full work mode.
A uniformed officer stood steadfast behind another line of blue and white crime scene tape. A motionless male human shape sprawled on the pavement behind her, between the grass verge and a low brick wall that protected the car port of the long, low house beyond that was sunk down below street level. A large off-roader was parked on the far side of the wall, obscuring the view of the front door area.
On the outside of the tape a bewildered-looking man, with gelled silver hair, was in conversation with a police officer. Three officers stood nearby. One he recognized as Detective Sergeant Sally Walker, the other two, a male and a female officer, he didn’t know.
No press, so far, but that wouldn’t last long. He wouldn’t be surprised to see Glenn’s fiancée, Siobhan, arrive any minute – as the Argus’s senior crime reporter, she was normally the first of the press pack at any scene. He parked and approached the group.
‘Good morning, sir,’ DS Walker said. She was tall, fair-haired and all smiles despite the seriousness of the situation.
‘What do we have?’ Grace asked.
She indicated the silver-haired man, who looked, in Grace’s view, very traumatized – and he wasn’t surprised. Finding a dead body on your doorstep was rarely going to be the best start to anyone’s day.
‘This is Mr Hegarty, who lives at the house, number 20, who called it in. He was about to walk his dogs when he came across the body.’
Hegarty, Grace thought. Interesting. Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw the youthful-looking figure of Crime Scene Manager Chris Gee, in full protective clothing, climb out of the CSI van.
Grace hurried back to his car, opened his go-bag in the boot and wormed into a hooded protective suit and then pulled on overshoes and gloves. He greeted Gee, then both of them signed the crime scene log, ducked under the tape and walked towards the body.
Grace could smell the reek of petrol while he was still yards away. He pulled on his mask, glad for the protection against the stench it gave him, and kneeled down a few inches away.
The dead man lay on his back with congealed blood behind his right ear. He was in his sixties, Grace estimated, lean and tall with thinning strands of grey hair. He was dressed in jeans, trainers and a jacket, with a white T-shirt beneath. His pasty face was craggy, tiny shrivel-creases in the skin indicating he had probably been a heavy smoker, this backed up by the ochre shade of his visible front teeth. The fingertips of both his hands looked crushed, the nails dark with congealed blood. Torture? he wondered.