Picture You Dead

100

Saturday, 16 November

‘You know, it seems to me, darling,’ Cleo said, looking up from The Times Magazine, ‘that some criminals are born with a self-destruct gene.’

Grace gave her a wry smile. ‘Yep, very fortunately for us.’

‘Like your Robert Kilgore. He might have got clean away if it hadn’t been for – what – his temper?’

He leaned forward on the sofa and stroked Humphrey, who had snuggled up to his feet, still a bit damp from their long morning run over the fields. ‘Sometimes it’s almost as if they get to a point where they think they’re invincible, and then something happens and they lose the plot. If he hadn’t, he could well have got away. Fugitives can still disappear in South America – certainly if they have money, and it looks like he had plenty.’

‘What an idiot,’ she said.

He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness as he stared at the mobile phone on the coffee table in front of him.

Outside it was pelting with rain, but inside their cottage, with a fire roaring in the wood-burning stove, it was toasty warm. Noah was sitting on the floor, a fireguard and the closed doors of the stove keeping him safe, as he studiously put pieces of Playmobil together.

Showered and changed after his run, Grace was feeling healthier. And the events of the past week had left him feeling much better, having produced a real result for his new ACC on their first case together.

Stuart Piper’s burnt body was formally identified both by DNA and by his dental records. The Briggs twin brothers had been arrested in London and were now remanded in custody on a raft of charges including kidnap, aggravated burglary and, most seriously, which would ensure they would not be released on bail before their trial, the murder of Porteous. They had both rolled over during interview and gave their account that they were following orders given by Kilgore and Piper.

Piper’s death might possibly have remained a classic locked-room mystery had it not been for Kilgore’s subsequent erratic behaviour – the self-destruct gene, as Cleo had said. The Fire Investigators had not been able to find the key to the steel door, though they had established the seat of the fire had been literally a seat – one of the sofas in the Hidden Salon, set alight by a candle. But the key to the door, probably brass, could not be found. Tony Kent’s Fire Investigation Team said that brass could melt in a fire but it did not look like the intensity of the heat in the room would have been sufficient.

Then their attention had been brought to Robert Kilgore by the actions of an alert Border Force officer at the airport. A passenger on a flight bound for Buenos Aires had pinged the alarm going through Security. No big deal, that happened all the time. But this one, Donald Saville, had kicked off when asked to go through the X-ray machine, shouting that he was a decorated hero from Vietnam and it was shrapnel in his body from that war that had set the alarm off.

Border Force officers had been summoned to handle the irate Donald Saville. An anomaly in his passport had been detected by one, and Saville was detained. It hadn’t taken long for his real identity, Robert Kilgore, to be established. Nor had it taken long for it to be ascertained that this man was wanted by Sussex Police.

It wasn’t a big leap for Grace’s team from there. The index of a Tesla, registered in Robert Kilgore’s name, was fed into the ANPR and two hits came up for the night of Piper’s death. The first was travelling in the general direction of Bewlay Park at around 10 p.m. and the second was heading towards Brighton at around 11.30 p.m. the same night. Further checks put the Tesla, possibly, in the vicinity of the Kiplings’ home earlier that same evening.

The car was seized and its electronic monitoring systems, as well as its satnav, analysed. It revealed the entire journey of the car that evening, from Kilgore’s apartment in Brighton, first to Bewlay Park, then to the Kiplings’ house, then back to Bewlay Park. From there it had headed back to Brighton, but two miles from Bewlay Park it had stopped for several minutes. The exact location where it had stopped was identified as a lay-by on the edge of a forest.

Why, Grace had wondered, had Kilgore stopped there – and for several minutes? To have a pee? But surely he would have done that at Bewlay Park before driving off. Unless in a hurry, of course.

Or unless he had another reason. Such as disposing of something? Such as a key?

Unlike the battle for resources he would have faced with Cassian Pewe, Hannah Robinson sanctioned his request for a full search team in seconds.

On the second day they’d found a large brass key, which fitted the lock to the Hidden Salon, in a waterlogged ditch. And despite its immersion in water, Robert Kilgore’s DNA was found on it. He was now on remand in custody, charged with all the same offences as the Briggs twins, with the additional charge of the murder of Stuart Piper.

‘Bump’s busy,’ Cleo said.

Grace laid a hand on her belly and could feel the movement. He grinned. ‘Probably wants to get out and help Noah with his construction project!’

‘Yep, well, the sooner the better now.’ Then she focused back on the magazine.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

‘Trying to get ideas for your Christmas presents,’ she said, giving him a mischievous smile.

‘Really?’

‘No, this is really interesting: a large article on criminality in the dog breeding world – illegal puppy farming and puppy smuggling.’

‘It’s becoming big business,’ he said. ‘I was talking to some of the Rural Crime team – some gangs are making more money out of it than drugs.’ He hesitated. ‘Actually, in terms of Christmas presents, I did wonder about getting a companion for Humphrey.’

She looked dubious. ‘Another dog? They’re not just for Christmas.’

‘I know, of course. I thought maybe a rescue one?’

‘You’re planning a busy Christmas – a new baby, both our families coming, and now a dog?’

‘Maybe we should wait?’

‘I think so. Plus, we still have our dear little Reggie here until there’s a decision about where he will go.’

‘OK, good point. Not while Reggie’s here. It wouldn’t be fair.’

As she resumed reading, Grace leaned forward and picked up the iPhone from the table. It was Bruno’s phone, the one he had been looking at while crossing the road and fatally hit by a car. After the accident it had been seized by the Roads Policing Unit, and just returned to him yesterday via Aiden Gilbert. He’d spent much of last night looking through it, trying to understand what had so distracted his son that he’d walked out into the road in front of a car.

It seemed, from what Gilbert had told him, that at the moment of the collision, Bruno had been looking at a genealogy site. What was that about?

There was also a mystery text on the phone. It said:

It was from an unknown number. Probably nothing significant, he thought – hoped. Perhaps he should find out.

Cleo closed the magazine and put it down on the table, alongside their copy of The Week. ‘Interesting piece,’ she said. ‘I just looked at the forecast for tomorrow – it’s looking lovely. Shall we do something? Have an outing? I don’t think I can walk too far, but would be good to have a break while I still can.’

‘Sure, what are you thinking?’

‘A pub lunch, perhaps? How about the Ram at Firle or Rose Cottage at Alciston?’

‘Either would be great. Maybe take in a car boot sale first? We’ve not been to one in ages – we might find a few Christmas presents and some decorations for the tree; and Humphrey’s destroyed all his toys – we might pick up a few new ones for him to rip to bits!’

She beamed. ‘Sure, great idea. But let’s not buy a painting, eh?’