You Are Dead

48

Sunday 14 December

‘Shit, man, that’s the oldest trick in the book,’ Glenn Branson said in his tiny office, cradling a can of Diet Coke in his massive hand.

‘What do you mean?’ Roy Grace asked.

‘I’ve been thinking about Martin Horner. I reckon he’s taken a dead man’s identity.’

Roy Grace should have gone home this lunchtime, he knew, to work on his eulogy for tomorrow morning. But Bella would have understood. If there was the remotest possibility of saving Logan Somerville — and now possibly Ashleigh Stanford — she would have hated that her death in any way hindered the speed of the investigation.

He sipped a small apple juice and, ravenous, munched on an all-day breakfast sandwich of egg and bacon, complemented by a packet of sour cream and red onion flavoured crisps, both of which he had just bought at the Asda superstore across the road. He was glad Cleo was not around — she would have been furious to see him eat what she would have considered to be such an unhealthy meal. But the apple juice, he felt, was arguably the one healthy option that salved his conscience.

Like those fortunate enough to be in a career where they actually had weekends off, Monday-morning gloom loomed tomorrow for him, too, but for other reasons. ‘I’ve been wondering the same thing,’ he replied.

‘Day of the Jackal. Ever see that movie?’

‘James Fox?’

‘Nah, his brother, Edward Fox. Plays a hitman hired to shoot President de Gaulle of France. He gets a fake passport after going to a graveyard and finding the name of a dead, small boy who would never have had a passport. He uses the dead boy’s name to get a phoney passport. It’s a top movie.’

‘Never saw it,’ Grace said, sipping more of his juice, then munching on his sandwich. He pushed the crisps towards Branson, who shovelled out half the contents in one handful.

Through a mouthful he said, ‘You know your problem? You’re an uncultured philistine. How the hell did you ever get to make such a top copper?’

‘By not associating with dickheads like you.’ Roy Grace grinned and gave his best friend a hug. ‘Actually, I read the novel, years ago.’

‘It was a novel?’

Grace looked at him. ‘By Frederick Forsyth.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Way before it was a movie. You didn’t know that? You never read it?’

‘Nope.’

‘Now who’s the philistine?’

‘You’re a tosser.’ Glenn Branson shrugged. ‘But, you know, so far as tossers go, you’re up there among the good ones.’

‘Thanks a million.’

To Grace’s dismay, seemingly oblivious to the fact this was his lunch, Branson tipped the rest of the packet of crisps out and ate them noisily.

‘How are you feeling about the funeral?’

‘I’ll be glad when it’s over.’ Grace sipped his juice. ‘So update me on Operation Mona Lisa. Are you any closer to identifying Unknown Female?’

‘Yes, we might be. As you know, Lucy Sibun has estimated her death to have occurred about thirty years ago and she was in her early twenties. I used the parameter you set to look at all the mispers in the county aged between eighteen and twenty-five, who are still missing, from twenty to thirty-five years ago, that fit our description. We’ve been able to eliminate some from their hair colour. We’ll have a computer e-fit face tomorrow and we know she had long brown hair. When we have that we should be able to come up with a probable victim. Then we’ll have to hope we can trace family members. If we can, there’ll be a chance of checking dental records, or getting DNA.’

Grace nodded, thinking about Sandy’s disappearance. ‘A lot of families who have a member disappear, particularly a child, keep their bedroom as a kind of shrine. There’s a good chance there’ll be a hairbrush, or toothbrush, or something else to get DNA from.’

‘We have one development that may be significant,’ Branson said. ‘I showed you the file on Friday on Catherine Westerham, the body from Ashdown Forest?’

‘Yes, she was nineteen and had the same U R DEAD branding. As well as similar looks.’

‘You’ve gone very pale,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Grace nodded. ‘That’s how I’m feeling. I have a very bad feeling about this, mate. These killings have to be linked. The marks, the hair, the age range, the victim profile — there are so many similarities.’

‘It was all a long time ago.’

‘A long time ago, in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.’

‘What?’ Branson frowned.

‘Christopher Marlowe.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He wrote that in 1590 — am I still a philistine?’ Grace finished his sandwich and his juice, patted his friend on the back and stood up. ‘I have to go, see you on parade in the morning.’

But Glenn Branson did not reply. He was studiously tapping Christopher Marlowe into Google on his iPhone.

Grace thought to himself that as soon as the girl from the Lagoon was identified they might be able to establish what the link between the two young women was. Suddenly, Grace felt his phone vibrating. It was DC Liz Seward in MIR-1.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I’ve just taken a call from someone who wants to speak to the SIO. An elderly-sounding man who says he has some information that might be of interest. I tried to get him to tell me, but he was adamant he would only speak to you. Can I give you his name and number?’