This detailed report set out a summary of the murder of Charlie Porteous, followed by the lines of enquiry, strategies and forensic assessments that had been made. Sloan’s purpose in writing this, as was normal for any SIO, was to allow any new Senior Investigating Officer, at a later date reinvestigating the case, to have an overview of what had taken place.
It had taken Roy Grace three days of reading through the paperwork, and the HOLMES report on his screen, to conclude that Nick Sloan’s hunch was right. This was a case that very definitely merited review, to decide whether or not there was sufficient evidence to warrant the time and resources required to reopen it. In order to do that he would have to establish there was a more than reasonable chance of securing an arrest and conviction. And the more he read, the more confident he felt that there was.
6
Thursday, 19 September
Norman Potting was the last to arrive, as he usually was at any briefing, lumbering in through the door and shutting it behind him with the sound of a safe dropping from a great height onto concrete. Muttering an apology for being late, although he wasn’t, he was actually on time for once – just – the DS grabbed a chair, joining his colleagues around one end of the oval table in the conference room of the Major Crime suite. ‘Learned something interesting today,’ he announced, his gruff voice more croaky than usual. ‘Herrings communicate by farting.’
‘That’s very helpful to know,’ Grace said, a little tersely.
‘You obviously read a classy newspaper, Norman,’ Velvet Wilde jibed.
After he had recently gone through a period of actually looking quite sharp, shedding some weight, and with his former comb-over long gone in favour of a modern, shaven look, Roy Grace noticed the DS was slipping a bit these days. Some of his shirts, like the purple-striped one today, had frayed collars. He guessed, sadly, that was the real Norman all over, a man becoming increasingly ragged around the edges through the trials of life, some of his own making, some totally undeserved and beyond his control. He felt a deep affection for this old war horse and his abilities as a detective that many others in the force failed to see.
Grace checked his watch, before looking up at his small, hand-picked group. ‘The time is 4 p.m., Thursday, 19 September,’ he announced. ‘This is the first meeting to review Operation Canvas, the unsolved murder of art dealer Charles Stuart Porteous in the early hours of Friday, 16 October 2015.’
In front of him lay a fresh investigator’s notebook and a policy book, both labelled Operation Canvas – Review, as well as his printed notes. He glanced around at his team. DI Glenn Branson, his deputy SIO, wearing an unusually sombre tie and even more unusually sombre expression, was responsible for intelligence. Seated next to him was thirty-four-year-old Luke Stanstead, acting as intel researcher. Then Potting and DC Velvet Wilde, together responsible for reviewing all the witness statements and actions of Detective Superintendent Nick Sloan’s former team and making recommendations. Next along sat twenty-seven-year-old DS Jack Alexander, tall with ramrod posture, smartly suited with shiny black shoes, responsible for heading up the forensic review assisted by CSI Chris Gee from the forensics team.
The final member was Pauline Sweeney – known as Polly. The energetic recent addition to his team had not long ago retired as a DC, then returned to join the force as a civilian investigator. With her fair hair pinned up, dressed in a black top, tight-fitting checked trousers and laced high-heeled sandals, Polly brought a touch of glamour to the team. Grace had known her for many years and liked her, as much for her sunny personality as for her brilliant skills at her job. And she was both a fighter and survivor, having taken two years out in the middle of her career to battle and defeat illness.
‘We’ll continue for now with the name originally given to this enquiry, Operation Canvas,’ Grace announced.
‘And who says computers don’t have a sense of humour, eh chief?’ Potting quipped.
Grace smiled; he was right. The names given to each enquiry were thrown up at random by a computer, but often they were uncannily close to the subject, as was the case here. ‘Won’t be long before we detectives aren’t needed at all, will it, Norman?’
Potting tutted. ‘Hope I’m long retired before that day, chief.’
Already well past his years of service to qualify for his pension, Grace secretly hoped that day would still be a long time off for his colleague. Focusing on his notes he announced, ‘Right, I’d like to stress that this is only an initial assessment to decide whether a full reopening of this case should take place. And it must not interfere with any new and current Major Crime enquiry that comes in. Clear?’
Everyone except for Branson, who was preoccupied with his phone, nodded. Grace shot a glance at his friend, wondering what was wrong. Glenn’s whole body language was odd; he normally radiated confidence but today he seemed decidedly downbeat.
Behind Grace were three whiteboards on easels. On one was a carefully curated selection of the original crime scene photographs, showing Charlie Porteous slumped dead in the driver’s seat of his Bentley, in close-up and wide angle. On another were photographs from the postmortem, several close-ups of which showed his smashed-in skull. On the third was Porteous’s family and association chart.
‘Key evidence I’ve extrapolated so far from Nick Sloan’s report is that at the time of his death, Porteous might have been in possession of a high-value painting. He had possibly brought it with him down to Brighton, from his London gallery, to show it to a potentially interested collector in Sussex. This person was identified as George Astone – who was subsequently eliminated from Sloan’s enquiries. But at this moment it is only hearsay he had this painting with him, and we don’t have full details of its provenance.’
Glancing down at his notes, Grace said, ‘Paraphrasing from Nick Sloan’s notebook entries, he was the duty SIO on the night the murder happened. He has recorded being called out at 8.10 a.m. on the morning of Friday, 16 October, by the duty inspector at Brighton police station. Earlier that morning a newspaper delivery person called the police, stating she had seen what looked like a body in the driver’s seat of a Bentley at the front gates of Tongdean House, 173 Tongdean Avenue, Hove. The dead man was subsequently identified as Charlie Porteous.’
Grace sipped his mug of tea. ‘Around 3 a.m. of that same morning, Porteous’s wife, Susan, who hadn’t left the house all day, had alerted the police as her husband had failed to arrive home from London and wasn’t answering his phone. That call had been logged, with no action taken at the time. The then duty inspector at Brighton nick understandably took the view it was too soon to involve the police.’
Everyone on the team nodded, their eyes drawn towards the whiteboard with the gruesome blow-up photographs of the dead man, apart from Glenn Branson, who was still focused on his phone, texting.
The majority of murders that happened, year on year, in the counties of Sussex and Surrey were, sadly, Grace thought, domestic-related. Mostly, the law-abiding people of these prosperous so-called home counties were able to sleep easy in their beds, untouched by the violence happening in other less privileged strata of society – and in other more violent parts of the country.
Which was why the image of the portly, balding man, upright and lifeless in the driver’s seat of his silver Bentley Flying Spur, the back of his skull smashed in, and a deep gouge behind his ear, the leather headrest stained by his brains and blood, drew everyone’s attention. It stood out clearly among the very many murder scenes Grace had attended during his career to date. As it evidently did with his team.