Find Them Dead

60 Thursday 16 May

At 8.30 a.m., Roy Grace sat with his team around the conference table in the Major Crime suite. A series of photographs were stuck to a fourth whiteboard behind him. They showed a replica set-up, outside the Starrs’ Chichester house, of the crime scene that had been there the previous week. The cordons, scene guard, a high-visibility police vehicle and a number of police officers.

‘One week on from the anniversary of when we believe Stuie Starr was murdered, we set up a facsimile of the scene,’ he informed them. ‘A team of officers were deployed to the area to stop and question all vehicle drivers and pedestrian passers-by, to establish if they had been there on the previous Wednesday and Thursday and had seen anything. DC Alldridge led the operation. What do you have to report, John?’

The DC replied, ‘Boss, we spoke to a number of people who had been in the area, and logged their names and contact details, which I have here.’ He tapped a document in front of him. ‘Unfortunately, none of them were able to provide any useful information at this stage.’

Grace thanked him. ‘I sat down with Alex Call last night and we’ve agreed a number of further submissions to the forensic lab, and hopefully we should get some results in the next few days. Nothing fresh has come up from the press and media appeal or house-to-house last week, nor from a CCTV and ANPR trawl. We’ve also drawn a blank on our drugs intelligence sweep. So, at the moment we are struggling to find any witnesses. But someone must have seen something. We believe at least two people carried out the attack. Someone must have seen them arrive and enter the property or leave it.’

At the end of the briefing, Grace returned to his office. Shortly after, Norman Potting appeared at his door.

‘Brief update for you, chief,’ Norman Potting said, walking into Roy Grace’s office. ‘About our one-eyed monster.’

The Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team had moved buildings three times in as many years, firstly from Sussex House into a former dormitory building at Police HQ, and then to another building close by. At least, Grace thought gratefully, he now had his own desk, in his own private room, and a conference table, albeit one that could just about fit four very slim people around it. ‘One-eyed monster? You’ve lost me, Norman.’ He sipped his second strong coffee of the morning, although it was only just after 9 a.m.

‘Dr Crisp.’

‘Ah.’ Grace understood now. ‘Tell me? But first, how are you?’ Grace realized he hadn’t spoken to him since he had finished his treatment for prostate cancer.

Potting waggled a finger in the air. ‘All working tickety-boo — the winky action! Just need a new lady in my life now, and I think I may have found her.’

‘Really?’

Sitting down, Potting said, ‘I’ve met this fantastic lady and I think I might be in love again, Roy.’

‘That’s great news!’ Grace smiled, albeit a little dubious. During the ten years he had worked with Norman, he had come to greatly respect his abilities as a homicide detective, but somewhat less so as a man able to judge potential life partners — with one tragic exception, a wonderful detective on his team who was just the kind of down-to-earth, caring person Norman deserved. But she had died, heroically but tragically, whilst off-duty, when she had gone into a blazing building to attempt to rescue a trapped girl and a dog.

Before her, much of Norman Potting’s love life had, in Grace’s opinion, been a total train crash, due to his choosing completely the wrong women. The worst of them was a Thai con artist the detective had met online, who had rinsed him. But he was glad to hear him sounding so happy — Norman had been grieving for a long while and it was good he was now able to move forward. ‘Tell me about her?’

Norman Potting gave him a dreamy look. ‘She’s Swedish, Roy. Her name is Kerstin Svenson and she’s gorgeous and very witty. Amazing, I never thought at my age I’d meet someone like her!’

‘And she’s how old?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Punching above your weight, aren’t you?’ Roy asked him, quizzically.

Potting beamed. ‘Maybe just a little!’

‘How many times have you been out with her?’

Potting shook his head and reddened a fraction. ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult because she lives in Sweden — a town called Sundsvall.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘Ah.’ Potting suddenly looked evasive and reddened again. ‘Well, we haven’t actually met yet, Roy — I mean physically.’

‘So, who introduced you?’

‘We met online.’

‘On a dating site?’

Potting looked sheepish. ‘Yes.’

Alarm bells were clanging inside Grace’s head. ‘OK, when are you going to physically meet?’

Again, Potting looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, we should have met last Friday — she was coming over to see me — but she was in a car crash on her way to the airport — some senile idiot pulled out in front of her. It’s made a pretty good mess of her car, apparently.’

‘Really?’ Grace was doing his best not to sound sceptical, but it was hard. ‘So, the car belongs to her elderly mother and it’s her only means of transport? And Kerstin discovered she’s not on the insurance policy, right?’

‘It’s not like that, chief.’

‘WAKEY WAKEY, NORMAN!’ His voice was so loud it startled the DS. ‘Operation Lisbon? Does that ring any bells?’

Potting looked at him. ‘Last October, the internet romance fraudsters we busted, you mean?’

‘Yep.’

‘This is different, honestly. Kerstin’s the real deal. I’m not Johnny Fordwater.’

Potting was referring to a former army major who he had been sent to see at Gatwick Airport. The man, a widower in his late fifties, was in the Arrivals lounge, waiting for the love of his life, a German woman, to come through after landing from Munich. Potting had had to break the news to the man that this woman did not actually exist. Tragically, Fordwater had sent her over £400,000, every penny he had in the world.

‘Really?’

‘Really, chief. Even if she asked, which she hasn’t, I wouldn’t lend her one penny until we’ve met. She’s flying over this weekend.’

Grace looked at him in despair. ‘Fine, good luck. But just stick to your guns and don’t send her a penny until you’ve met her and made sure. OK?’

Potting agreed, but with the dreamy eyes of a man besotted.

‘So, you said you have news about our one-eyed monster?’

‘Yes. The officers at Lewes Prison thought it was a fellow inmate who’d stabbed him in the eye, but the inmate’s denying that vigorously, and now they’ve got CCTV to back that up. Crisp attacked the man himself, for no good reason, and at some point during the fight, Crisp pulled out a ballpoint pen and stabbed himself in the eye with it.’

Grace frowned. ‘Has he gone mental or something?’

Potting shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. There’s been talk of moving him to a maximum-security prison. If he’d got wind of that, knowing his past history as an escape artist, I’m guessing this is all part of a plan. I understand they want to keep him in hospital in London until the end of this week, at least. My suggestion is that we should increase the guard on him.’

Grace nodded. ‘Good thinking, Norman.’ He grinned, mischievously. ‘Tell you what, you go and put that request to ACC Pewe.’

‘Would you suggest I do that, chief?’

‘Definitely.’

Potting glanced at his watch. ‘Got to go now, chief, got to ring my Swedish lady.’ He hurried from the room, closing the door behind him. Leaving Grace shaking his head in bewilderment and drawing a large intake of breath.

No more than a few seconds later the door burst open and he saw a huge beaming smile on Norman’s face. ‘By the way, chief, I’m only joking about Kerstin... she’s not my next lover! I’m working with her on a romance fraud case that the Swedish police are dealing with. You should’ve seen your face, I had you going there for a minute, didn’t I!’

Roy picked up a magazine and hurled it at him as Potting ducked behind the door and slammed it shut.