Dead Man's Grip

72

‘I want you all to know,’ said Roy Grace at the start of the 8.30 a.m. briefing in MIR-1, ‘that I am not a happy sodding bunny.’

Everyone in the room was already up to speed on the murder of the lorry driver. Major developments in an inquiry of this scale were passed around instantly.

Taking a sip of his coffee and looking down at his notes, he went on, ‘Item One on my agenda is the ongoing series of leaks coming from someone to our friend Kevin Spinella at the Argus. OK?’

He looked up at thirty-five solemn faces. Yesterday afternoon’s horrific discovery had shaken even the most hardened of this bunch. ‘I’m not accusing any of you, but someone has leaked to him about Preece’s hands being superglued to the steering wheel of his van. It is either a member of this inquiry team, or the Specialist Search Unit, or an employee at Shoreham Harbour, or one of the team in the mortuary. At some point I’m going to find that person and, when I do, I’m going to hang them out to dry on something even more painful than a meat hook. Do I make myself clear?’

Everyone nodded. All those who worked with Roy Grace knew him to be even-tempered and placid, someone who rarely lost his head. It startled them to see him in a temper.

He took another sip of his coffee. ‘Our media strategy could be vitally important. We believe a professional contract killer is here in Brighton, in all probability hired by the Revere family in New York to avenge their son’s death. We need to manage the media extremely carefully, both to try to get assistance from the public in finding this killer before he strikes again and to avoid any possible impact on the community.’

‘Sir,’ said DC Stacey Horobin, a bright-looking young woman in her early thirties, with fashionable straggly brown hair, who had been newly drafted into the inquiry team, ‘what exactly are your concerns on community impact?’

Nick Nicholl’s phone rang. Under Grace’s withering glare, he hastily silenced it. There was a brief moment when Grace looked as if he would explode, but his response was calm. ‘I think we can assure the public, if it comes to it, that there is no general risk to them,’ he replied. ‘But I do not want our force to appear incapable of protecting an innocent member of the public.’

‘Was the Osman served on Mrs Chase, chief?’ asked Duncan Crocker.

‘Yes,’ Glenn Branson replied on Grace’s behalf. ‘Bella and I served it yesterday evening just after 6 p.m. Mrs Chase was offered the opportunity to be moved away, out of the area, but she refused for family and business reasons. Frankly, I think she’s unwise. DS Moy spent the night in her house, pending the installation of CCTV equipment this morning, and a Close Protection Team unit have been in place outside her residence since 9 p.m. last night. So far without incident.’

‘Is there any protection on her commute to work?’ asked Norman Potting. ‘And while she’s in her workplace?’

‘I’ve spoken to Inspector Hazzard at the Hove Neighbourhood Policing Team,’ Grace said. ‘Today and tomorrow, and for the first part of next week, she will be driven to and from work in a marked police car. And I’m putting a PCSO in reception at her office. I want to send a clear signal to this killer, if he’s out there and targeting this woman, that we are on to him.’

‘What about Revere’s family in New York, chief?’ said Nick Nicholl. ‘Is anyone speaking to them?’

‘I updated our NYPD contact on the situation and they’re on the case. He told me that the killings sound similar to the style of a former Mafia hitman, a charmer called Richard Kuklinski who was known as the Iceman. He used cold stores, and one of his specialities was tying up victims and putting them in a cave, then leaving a camera in there to record them steadily being eaten alive by rats.’

Bella, who had been about to pluck a Malteser from the box in front of her, withdrew her hand, wrinkling her face in disgust.

‘He sounds our man, chief!’ Norman Potting said animatedly.

‘He does, Norman,’ Grace replied. ‘There’s just one problem with Kuklinski.’

Potting waited apprehensively.

‘He died in prison four years ago.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose that might rather tend to eliminate him,’ Potting retorted. He looked around with a grin, but no one smiled back. ‘Fishy business, this cold store, yesterday,’ he added, and again looked around, without success, for any smiles. All he got was a withering glare from Bella Moy.

‘Thank you Norman,’ Grace said curtly. ‘Detective Investigator Lanigan was going to go and see Mr and Mrs Revere last night and report back to me. But frankly I’m not expecting anything from them. And one thing Lanigan told me, which is not good news for us, is that their intelligence on contract killers is very limited.’

‘Chief, did this Kuklinski character paralyse his victims first?’

‘Not from what I’ve learned so far from the post-mortem, Nick, no. Our man didn’t paralyse Preece – only Ferguson.’

‘Why do you think he did that?’

Grace shrugged. ‘Maybe sadism. Or perhaps to make him easier to handle. Hopefully,’ he said, raising his eyebrows, ‘we’ll get the chance to ask him that.’

‘Boss, what information are you releasing to the press about the death of the lorry driver?’ DC Emma-Jane Boutwood asked.

‘For now, no more than a man was found dead in a cold store at Springs Smoked Salmon,’ Grace said. ‘I don’t want speculation. Let people think for the moment that it might have been an industrial accident.’

He glanced down at his mobile phone, which was lying next to his printed notes on the work surface in front of him, as if waiting for the inevitable call from Spinella. But it remained, for the moment, silent. ‘I haven’t yet decided what we should release beyond that. But I’ve no doubt someone will make that decision for me.’

He gave a challenging stare to his team, without looking at any specific individual. Then he glanced down at his notes again. ‘OK, according to his employers, Stuart Ferguson left the depot in the fridge-box lorry shortly after 2 p.m. on Tuesday. We need to find this lorry.’ He looked at DC Horobin. ‘Stacey, I’m giving you an action which is to try to plot the lorry’s route and sightings from the time it left the depot in Aberdeen to wherever it currently is. We need to find it. You should be able to plot much of its journey fairly easily from an ANPR search.’

Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras were positioned along many of the UK’s motorways and key arterial roads. They filmed the registration plates of all passing vehicles and fed them into a database.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

Grace then read out a summary of the post-mortem findings so far. After he dealt with several questions on that, he drained the last of his coffee and moved on to the next item on his list.

‘OK, an update on lines of enquiry. The murder of Preece’s friend Warren Tulley at Ford Prison is still ongoing.’ He looked at DS Crocker. ‘Duncan, do you have anything there for us?’

‘Nothing new, chief. Still the same wall of silence from the other inmates. The interviewing team is talking to each of the prisoners, but so far we have no breakthrough.’

Grace thanked him, then turned to DC Nick Nicholl. ‘The superglue on Ewan Preece’s hands. Nick, anything to report?’

‘The Outside Inquiry Team are continuing to visit every retail outlet in the Brighton and Hove area that sells superglue. It’s a massive task, chief, and we’re really understaffed for it. Every newsagent, every DIY and hardware shop, every supermarket.’

‘Keep them on it,’ Grace said. Then he turned to Norman Potting. ‘Anything to report with the camera?’

‘We’ve covered every retailer that sells this equipment, chief, including the Cash Converters stores that sell ’em second-hand. One of them was good enough to check the serial number on the one in the van. He reckons it’s not a model sold in the UK – it can only be bought in the USA. I haven’t had a chance to start checking the one found in the cold store at Springs yet, but it looks identical.’

As the meeting ended, Glenn Branson received a call on his radio. It was from one of the security officers, Duncan Steele, on the front desk.

He thanked him, then turned to Roy Grace. ‘Mrs Chase is downstairs.’

Grace frowned. ‘Here, in this building?’

‘Yep. She says she needs to see me urgently.’

‘Maybe she’s come to her senses.’