Not Dead Enough

122

Back-issue after back-issue of the Argus newspaper sped past Roy Grace’s eyes. He sat hunched in front of the microfiche unit in the Brighton and Hove Reference Library, scrolling through the film containing the 1964 editions, slowing down occasionally to check the dates. April . . . June . . . July . . . August . . . September.

He stopped the machine halfway through the 4 September 1964 pages, then slowly cranked forwards. Then he stopped again when he reached the front page of the 7 September edition. But there was nothing of significance. He read through each of the following news pages carefully, but still could find nothing.

The splash of 8 September was a local planning scandal. But then, two pages on, a photograph leapt out at him.

It was of three tiny babies, lying asleep in a row inside the glass casing of an incubator. Inset next to this was a photograph of a small, mangled car. Above was the caption: Miracle Babies Survive Horror Death Crash. And there was another photograph, of an attractive, dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties. Grace read every word of the article straight through, twice. His eyes went back to the picture of the babies in the incubator, to the woman’s face, to the car, then he read the words again, cutting through the sensational adjectives, just picking up the facts.

Police were investigating why the Ford Anglia veered across the A23, in heavy rain early on the evening of 6 September into the path of a lorry . . . Eleanor Jones, single mother, science teacher . . . thought she was carrying twins . . . had been undergoing treatment for depression . . . Eight and a half months pregnant . . . kept on life support in intensive care after they were delivered prematurely by Caesarean section . . . mother died during the operation . . .

He stopped the machine, removed the microfiche, replaced it in its container and handed it to the librarian. Then he almost ran to the exit.

Grace could barely contain his excitement as he drove back to Sussex House. He was longing to see everyone’s faces in the briefing meeting this evening, but most of all he was looking forward to telling Cleo. Telling her that they had got the right man, for sure.

But first he wanted speak to the helpful post-adoption counsellor, Loretta Leberknight, and ask her one question, just as a double-check. He was dialling her number on the hands free when his phone rang.

It was Roger Pole, the SIO for the attempted murder of Cleo, thanking him for the information about the discovery of the MG TF workshop manual in Norman Jecks’s garage and informing him they were now making Jecks the prime suspect.

‘You won’t be needing to look any further,’ Grace told him, pulling over and stopping. ‘Out of interest, how’s the poor scumbag who tried to steal the car?’

‘He’s still in intensive care at East Grinstead, with 55 per cent burns, but they are expecting him to live.’

‘Maybe I should send him some flowers for saving Cleo’s life,’ he said.

‘From what I hear, a bag or two of heroin would be more appreciated.’

Grace grinned. ‘How’s the officer from the Car Crime Unit?’

‘PC Packer? OK. He’s been released from hospital, but he has quite severe burns on his face and hands.’

Grace thanked him for the information, then called Loretta Leberknight. When he told her what had happened she laughed sympathetically. ‘I’ve known that before,’ she said.

‘There’s one thing that’s bothering me, though,’ Grace said. ‘His first two names, Norman John. When we spoke originally, you told me that adoptive parents change their names, or perhaps move the birth name to a middle name. In this instance he has both names. Is there any significance?’

‘None,’ she said. ‘Most parents change but some don’t. Sometimes if a child isn’t adopted for a while they go to a care home – foster parents – and then they’ll probably end up keeping their birth Christian names.’

Grace bumped straight into Glenn Branson as he headed across to his office.

‘What you looking so pleased about, old-timer?’ Branson asked.

‘I’ve got some good news. And hey, you’re in a pretty sunny mood yourself today,’ Grace said.

‘Yeah, well, I’ve got some good news too.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You first.’

Grace shrugged. ‘You remember that nasty social worker in the adoption services?’

‘The one with the pink hair and bright green glasses? Face like roadkill?’

‘The very one.’

‘Got a date with her, have you? She’d be well fit. So long as you take a paper bag to put over her head.’

‘Yes, I have got a date with her. And her boss. At three o’clock this afternoon. Remember I told her that if she was withholding information that could be helpful to us, I would hang her out to dry?’

Branson nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to hang the bitch out to dry.’

‘Not that you’re a vengeful sort of person.’

‘Me? Vengeful? Nah!’ Grace looked at his watch. ‘I’ve just had an interesting time down at the town hall and the reference library. You’re going to like this a lot. I think we are game, set and match on Norman Jecks. Fancy a lunchtime jar, and I’ll tell you about it?’

‘I would – but I have to dash out.’

‘So what’s your good news?’

The DS beamed. ‘Actually, you know what, it’s probably good news for you too.’

‘The suspense is killing me.’

His beam broadening into the happiest smile Grace had seen on his friend’s face in many months, Glenn Branson said, ‘I’ve gotta go see a man about a horse.’