You Are Dead

34

Friday 12 December

The Black Lion pub in Patcham had a background, which Roy Grace liked — more than he actually liked the pub itself. In 1976 Barbara Gaul, wife of a shady property developer she was in the middle of divorcing, was shot in the Black Lion’s car park, and subsequently died from her wounds. It became one of the most notorious cases in all of Brighton’s dark history, with links to the Krays, the famous London gangster family, and to two of the biggest sex scandals of post-war Britain, the Profumo and Lambton affairs.

A shame, Grace thought, that such a colourful but tragic background could not be better reflected in the themed interior of the pub, for a long time now part of the Harvester chain — bright and corporate. But it was convenient for Sussex House.

He sat in a booth in a quiet corner, while Glenn Branson stood at the crowded bar, towering head and shoulders over most of the figures there. Grace was on the phone to Cleo, trying to plan a combined house-warming and New Year’s Eve party at their new house. As he spoke to her he glanced down at the thick buff envelope Branson had left on the table.

‘I think we should have the same yummy Ridgeview sparkling wine we had at our wedding — and nice to support a local producer.’

‘Yes, great thinking! We’d better order fast. How many people are you thinking of?’ he asked.

‘Oh my God!’ Cleo suddenly said, with laughter in her voice.

‘What?’

‘Noah’s just put his hand in Humphrey’s bowl and taken some food out! Humphrey’s just standing there. Amazing! Hang on, I’d better rescue your son!’

‘Great!’ he said. ‘We can save a fortune if we wean him on dog food!’

‘Yes, good idea,’ she said, sounding distracted. ‘Text me when you’re leaving, and I’ll get your dinner ready.’

‘So long as it’s not from the dog’s bowl!’

‘That, Detective Superintendent Grace, will depend on how late you are.’

He grinned. ‘I love you.’

‘Love you,’ she said but a little more coldly than usual. Again he felt the slight distance in her tone.

‘Look, I know I’m not being much help at the moment. I’m sorry.’

‘I get it, Roy,’ she replied. ‘I know it’s not easy for either of us.’

Grace looked up to see Glenn holding their drinks. He blushed and said to Cleo, ‘Have to go!’ He blew her a kiss, but did not get one back.

Branson sat down, shaking his head. ‘You’ll get over it, mate, one day.’ He handed Grace a Diet Coke, then sipped the white, creamy head of his Guinness.

‘I don’t think so,’ Grace replied.

‘You will, trust me.’

‘You’re such a cynic.’

‘Yeah,’ Branson said. Then gave a sad shrug.

‘So you and that Argus reporter? Siobhan Sheldrake?’

Branson suddenly looked coy. ‘What about her?’

‘You fancy her, don’t you?’

‘Rubbish!’

‘I’ve known you too long.’ Grace sipped his drink. ‘You play with fire sometimes. I could see you were attracted to that Red Westwood on our last case. Just be careful, mate. I’d love to see you with a nice lady but—’

‘But?’

‘Police and the press make a dangerous combination.’

Branson shrugged. ‘I’m having a drink with her tomorrow evening.’ He shrugged again. ‘She’s cool. She and I go back a while, actually — before she joined the Argus. We were just good friends — then after Ari died we became closer, but we’ve been keeping it low key.’

Grace gave him a quizzical look. ‘Just remember that old nautical expression, “Loose lips sink ships”.’

‘Ever see that fantastic submarine movie, Das Boot?’

Grace nodded. ‘I seem to remember it sank.’

Branson grinned. ‘Yeah? That’s your memory? I think your brain’s a bit addled these days.’

‘Just make sure yours isn’t in your dick.’ He gave him a cautioning look. ‘Be careful with Siobhan Sheldrake.’

‘I’ll wear protection.’

Grace smiled and shook his head. ‘So, you’ve dragged me away from my investigation because you have a development — tell me?’

‘You came to the mortuary earlier — remember that, or is it too long ago for your tired old brain?’

‘Very funny!’

‘Those words on the dead woman’s skull?’

‘U R DEAD?’

‘Yeah.’ The Detective Inspector tapped the bulky envelope on the table. ‘Take a look at this.’

‘Where’s it from?’

‘Lucy Sibun dated the age of the dead woman at around twenty years old, and estimated she died approximately thirty years ago. Yeah?’

‘So I understand.’

‘I had my researchers check the files on all mispers and cold cases five years either side of that date estimate, on females of that approximate age. This is what they found. Fill your boots.’ He took a large gulp of his drink.

‘I’m impressed, you’ve been moving fast.’

‘On it like a car bonnet, mate.’

‘Like a what?’ Grace looked at his friend quizzically, then picked up the unsealed envelope, which had a musty smell, and pulled out the contents. It contained a batch of documents, with several photographs at the back, held together by two large elastic bands. Handwritten in black marker pen on the outside was Operation Yorker.

The first document was a Home Office pathologist’s report, headed CATHERINE (KATY) JANE MARIE WESTERHAM. Aged nineteen, she was an English Literature student at Sussex University, residing in Elm Grove, Brighton. She had been reported missing in December 1984, and the young woman’s remains had been found in Ashdown Forest in April 1985 by a man walking his dog.

Roy Grace reflected, ironically, just how big a debt homicide detectives around the globe owed to people walking their dogs. He’d often thought, if he had the time, of one day doing some research on the percentage of bodies discovered in this manner.

He speed-read through the document. The body was decomposed at the time it was found, with some bones missing, presumed taken by animals. Fragments of lung tissue and the findings of the pathologist indicated death had been by asphyxiation. But there was insufficient material remaining to provide a conclusive cause of death.

Grace then removed the photographs from the paperclip holding them. The first one was a portrait photograph of an attractive girl with long brown hair, unrecognizable from the remains. He stared hard at it for some moments. There was a striking resemblance, more in the hair than anything else, but also the face itself, to Emma Johnson. And she was a dead ringer for Logan Somerville, who had disappeared yesterday.

He removed several more photographs, which showed her entire decomposed body, in situ, each with a ruler in the frame. Then various close-ups of her skull, her rib cage, and other bones that remained.

Then he pulled out the last photo and froze.

It was again a close-up, marked ‘forehead’. The pathologist’s ruler, included in the picture, showed the length, of just over two inches, of what looked like tattooed letters on a fragment of flesh.

They were considerably more distinct than on the remains that had been discovered at Hove Lagoon. But they read the same: