You Are Dead

83

Friday 19 December

Ten minutes after leaving the Church Street car park, Roy Grace turned left up a steep hill opposite the Nuffield Hospital, and drove a short distance looking at the house numbers. It was 3.30 p.m. and already it was starting to get dark. Christmas lights sparkled in most of the downstairs windows, and two adjacent houses had garish light displays in their gardens. He pulled up outside No. 82. A small people carrier with a blue Disabled badge was parked on the driveway.

He stepped up to the porch and rang the bell. Moments later he was ushered inside by Gilbart’s wife, Hilary, who was a tiny, sprightly lady nudging eighty, with a twinkling face and neat white hair. ‘I’m afraid he has trouble hearing as well as speaking, Detective Superintendent,’ she forewarned him.

The house felt like a sauna, and there was a faint smell of roasting meat. Much of the tiny hall was taken up by a trophy cabinet filled with silver cups, and a team photograph of rugby players standing in their midst. ‘Ron’s rugby and golf trophies!’ she said proudly. ‘He played for the police rugby and golf teams for years — right up until his stroke, really.’

A male voice called out, slurred and slightly aggressive. The words were just about decipherable. ‘Schlooo ish it? Warrer they want? Make shure they show shere identity.’

‘It’s the police officer, darling, the one who phoned a little while ago. Detective Superintendent Roy Grace. The friend of David Rowland.’

‘Urr.’

A few moments later, seated on a sofa in front of a blazing gas fire, feeling himself beginning to perspire, Grace was almost deafened by the television. On the wall behind it hung a framed Sussex Police Commendation. He watched the former Detective Inspector, in his recliner armchair, Zimmer frame beside it, grapple with the remote, struggling to mute the television which was showing a cricket match somewhere overseas. Gilbart was a large man, with massive shoulders and thinning grey hair on his liver-spotted head. He gave Grace an expression that could have been a smile or a leer. ‘Yurnknowd-d-d-david-rowla?’

‘Yes, I’ve known David for years,’ Grace said. ‘I was just admiring your trophies out in the hall — I’m President of the Sussex Police Rugby Team.’

‘I carplaynymore,’ he said, and looked so sad.

Hilary Gilbart came back into the room with a cup of tea for Grace and a piece of shortbread in the saucer, then she sat on the sofa. ‘I’ll help translate,’ she said.

Grace thanked her, then turned to the retired detective. ‘Ron,’ he said, ‘do the names Mandy White or Edward Denning ring a bell at all? Mandy’s body was found in Hove Lagoon in December 1976, when you were the Duty Inspector.’

Staring straight ahead at the silent television, watching a bowler begin his run, Gilbart said, ‘Lord Denning. Bloodyyud j-j-judge.’

‘I don’t think Detective Superintendent Grace was referring to Lord Denning, my love,’ Hilary said. ‘It was Edward Denning he asked you about.’ She turned to Grace. ‘If you give me a few moments, I will get Ron’s scrapbook — I am sure there’s some information on that case in it.’

Gilbart again stared at the screen. The ball was returned to the bowler by a fielder, and he walked away from the crease, pacing out his next run. After several moments, Grace was beginning to wonder if the old man had fallen asleep, when suddenly he spoke, quite vehemently, his voice raised.

‘Lil shit!’

‘Little shit?’ Grace prompted. ‘Edward Denning?’

‘Lil shit.’

‘In what way?’

‘Couldvsave — couldvsave — her — gl— gl— gl—’

‘Could have saved the girl?’ his wife checked, coming back into the room. ‘Is that what you’re trying to say, my love?’

He nodded.

‘Why didn’t he, Ron? Why didn’t he save her?’ Grace asked.

Gilbart’s mouth dropped open, and he stared again at the cricket match, his head nodding for some moments. ‘Becar — becarl — becarl ye lilled her.’