Looking Good Dead

60

At 11.15 p.m. Emma-Jane Boutwood and Nick Nicholl were still at their desks at the workstation. The rest of the team had left, heading home to their lives, one by one, with the exception of Norman Potting, who was just getting to his feet now, straightening his tie and pulling on his jacket.

A handful of people remained at the other two stations. The surfaces were littered with empty coffee cups, soft-drink cans, food cartons, and the waste bins were overflowing. The room was always fresh first thing in the morning, Emma-Jane thought, and by late evening it smelled like an institutional canteen: a faintly sickly confection of aromas – onion bhajis from the deli counter of the Asda supermarket across the road, pot noodles, potato soup, microwaved burgers and fries, and coffee.

Potting gave a long yawn, then burped. ‘Ooops,’ he said. ‘Pardon me. Them Indian things always do that to me.’ He hesitated for a moment, getting no reaction. ‘Well, I’m off then.’ Then he lingered where he was. ‘Either of you care for a quick jar? One for the road on the way home? I know a place that will serve us.’

Both shook their heads. Nick Nicholl was engrossed in what appeared to be, at least to Emma-Jane, a difficult personal call on his mobile. From the few words she had caught it sounded as if he was trying to pacify his wife, who was upset about something. Probably that her husband was still at work at this hour on a Sunday. In a way, although she missed having a boyfriend – it was a year since she had broken up with Olli – Emma-Jane was relieved that she had no one in her life at the moment. It meant she could concentrate on her career and not have to feel guilty about the crazy hours she put in.

Ignoring the fact that Nicholl was talking, Potting leaned closer to his face and asked, ‘Don’t suppose you heard the cricket score? I was trying to find it on the net.’

Nicholl glanced up at him, shook his head then focused on his call again.

Hesitating again, Potting dug his hands in his trouser pockets and repeated, ‘Well, I’m off then.’

Emma-Jane raised a hand. ‘Bye, have a nice evening.’

‘Just about time to get home and back before tomorrow,’ he growled. ‘See you at eight thirty.’

‘Look forward to it!’ she said, a touch facetiously. Taking a sip of mineral water from a bottle, she watched him walk across the room, a shapeless man in a badly creased suit. Although she found him gross, in truth she felt a little sorry for him because he seemed so desperately lonely. She resolved to try to be nicer to him tomorrow.

She screwed the cap back on the bottle, then resumed working her way through the statements from Reggie D’Eath’s neighbours, which had been taken down earlier today by the house-to-house enquiry team. She was also working on trying to find out more information about the white Ford Transit van that had been clocked outside his house the previous night by one of the dead man’s neighbours.

Even though the D’Eath murder enquiry was being run by a different team, Grace believed it had enough relevance to Operation Nightingale for his team to be fully up to speed on all aspects of the enquiry at this stage.

On her desk was the licence number GU03OAG. Its registered owner was a company called Bourneholt International Ltd, with an address, a PO box number, that she would not be able to check out until the morning. When she’d shown it to Norman Potting, earlier, he’d told her that more than likely it was nothing more than an accommodation address. That seemed likely as nothing came up for the name in a search on the internet.

One of the phones on the workstation started ringing. Nick was still hunched over his desk talking into his mobile so E-J picked up the receiver. ‘Incident Room,’ she said.

The voice at the other end sounded brisk but courteous. ‘Hi, it’s Adam Davies here from Southern Resourcing Centre. Could you put me on to Detective Superintendent Grace?’ Southern Resourcing was the call handling centre where all non-emergency calls were answered and assessed by trained handlers like Davies.

‘I’m afraid he’s out at the moment. Can I help you?’

‘I need to speak to someone on Operation Nightingale.’

‘I’m DC Boutwood, part of the Operation Nightingale team,’ she replied, feeling proud at saying it.

‘I have a gentleman by the name of Mr Seiler on the line phoning about a white van. I ran a registration check on the number he gave me, and it came up on the system that DS Grace has put a PNC marker on this vehicle. I thought he might want to speak to the gentleman.’

‘Is he the owner of it?’

‘No, apparently it’s parked outside his flat. He made a complaint earlier this evening – it was logged at six forty p.m.’

‘It was?’ Emma-Jane said, surprised, wondering why this hadn’t been picked up by anyone. ‘Please put him on.’

Moments later she was talking to an elderly, irate man with a guttural Germanic accent. ‘Hello, yes. You are not the police officer I am speaking with earlier?’ he asked.

Jamming the phone against her ear with her shoulder, the young Detective Constable was tapping the keyboard furiously. Seconds later she found the 6.40 p.m. entry, logged by a Detective Sergeant Jon Rye of the High Tech Crime Unit.

War Driving. Sergeant Rye attended by phone.

What on earth did that mean?

‘I’m afraid it is Sunday night, sir; a lot of people have gone home.’

‘Yes, and the man in the white van is outside my apartment again, stealing my internet. It would be good if he went home.’

Stealing my internet? she thought. What on earth did that mean? But at this moment she was more interested in the van. ‘Can you read the registration number of the vehicle to me, sir?’

After a moment, and agonizingly slowly, he said, ‘G for golf, U for – ah – umbrella. Zero, three. O – Oscar, A for alpha, G for golf.’

She wrote it down.

GU03OAG

Suddenly, adrenalin coursing, Emma-Jane was on her feet. ‘Sir, let me have your number and I’ll call you straight back. Your address is Flat D, 138 Freshfield Road?’

He confirmed that it was and gave her the phone number. She tapped it straight into her mobile. ‘Please don’t go outside or frighten him off. I’ll be with you in just a few minutes. I’m going to hang up and I will call you back in two minutes.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you, thank you so very much.’

Nick was still engrossed in his call, and ignored her frantic gesticulations. In desperation she physically pulled his phone away from his ear. ‘Come with me!’ she said. ‘NOW!’