Dead Man's Grip

99

As he climbed into his car, Grace instructed Sue Carpenter to get the phone checked immediately for finger- and footprints, then get it straight to the High-Tech Crime Unit. He told her he wanted it in their hands, having been dusted for prints, within the next thirty minutes. Getting the contents of the phone analysed was more important to him at this stage than getting forensic evidence from it.

Then, as he drove out and turned left down the steep hill, he said to Branson, who was listening to the Ops-1 instructions on his radio, ‘I’m still struggling to get my head around the motive here. Did the perp take this boy as a substitute because his mother was unavailable?’

‘Because she’d unexpectedly gone to New York, so the boy was the next best thing? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes,’ Grace replied. ‘Or was taking the boy his plan all along?’

‘What’s your sense?’

‘I think he plans everything. He’s not someone who takes chance opportunities. My view is that probably, by going to the States, Carly Chase made seizing the boy a little easier for him.’

Branson nodded and looked at his watch. ‘Just over six hours until she lands.’

‘Maybe we’ll be able to greet her with good news.’

‘I promised I’d get a message to her on the plane as soon as we have any.’

‘With a bit of luck, that could be any minute now.’

Grace gave Branson a wistful smile, then glanced at the car clock. It was half past two. He should eat something, he knew, but he didn’t have any appetite, and he didn’t want to waste valuable time stopping anywhere. He fished in his suit jacket pocket and produced a Mars bar in a very crumpled wrapper that had been there for some days.

‘Haven’t had any lunch. You hungry?’ he said to Branson. ‘Want to share this?’

‘Boy, you know how to give someone a good time!’ Branson said, peeling off the wrapper. ‘A slap-up, no-expenses-spared lunch with Roy Grace. Half an old Mars bar. This been in your pocket since you were at school?’

‘Sod off!’

Branson tore the chocolate bar in two and held out the slightly larger portion to Grace, who popped it in his mouth. ‘You ever see that film about-’

Grace’s phone rang. As he wasn’t driving at high speed, he stuck it into the hands-free cradle and answered. Both of them heard the voice of Chief Inspector Trevor Barnes, the newly appointed Silver Commander. An experienced and methodical Senior Investigating Officer, Barnes, like Roy Grace, had handled many major crime investigations.

‘Roy,’ he said, ‘we’ve just stopped the Toyota Yaris on the M23, four miles south of the Crawley interchange.’

Grace, his mouth full of chewy chocolate and toffee, thumped the steering wheel with glee.

‘Brilliant!’ Branson replied.

‘That you, Glenn?’ Barnes asked.

‘Yeah, we’re in the car. What’s the situation?’

‘Well,’ Barnes said, his voice somewhat lacking in enthusiasm, although he always spoke in a considered, deadpan tone, ‘I’m not sure that we have the right person.’

‘What description can you give us, Trevor?’ Grace asked, the Silver’s words now making him uneasy.

He halted the car at a traffic light.

‘Well, I’m assuming your hit man is not eighty-four years old.’

‘What do you mean?’ Grace had a sinking feeling.

‘Toyota Yaris, index Yankee Delta Five Eight Victor Juliet Kilo? Is that the correct one?’

Grace pulled out his notebook and flipped to the right page. ‘Yes. Those are the plates that were taken from a car at Newport Pagnell that we believe our suspect is using.’

‘The driver of this Yaris is eighty-four years old and has his wife who is eighty-three with him. It’s their car, but it’s not their registration number.’

‘Not their registration?’ Grace echoed.

The lights changed and he drove on.

‘The licence plates on the car aren’t theirs, Roy. The driver may be old, but he has all his marbles, I’m told. Knew his registration number off by heart. Sounds like someone’s nicked his plates and replaced them with different ones.’

‘Where’s he come from?’ Grace asked, but he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

‘They’ve been in Brighton. They enjoy the sea air, apparently. Like to take their dog for a walk between the piers. It’s their regular constitutional. They have fish and chips at some place on the front.’

‘Yep, and let me guess where they parked. The Regency Square car park?’

‘Very good, Roy. Ever thought of going on Mastermind?’

‘Once, when I had a brain that worked. So, give us their index that’s been stolen.’

Branson wrote it down.

Grace drove in silence for some moments, thinking about the killer with grudging admiration. Whoever you are, you are a smart bastard. What’s more, you clearly have a sense of humour. And just in case you don’t know, right at this moment I have a major sense-of-humour failure.

His phone rang again. This time it was Nick Nicholl in MIR-1, sounding perplexed.

‘Chief, I’m coming back to you on the vehicle owner check you asked me to do, on Barry Simons.’

‘Thanks. What do you have, Nick?’

‘I’ve just spoken to him. I sent someone round to his house and they asked a neighbour who knew where he worked – and I got his mobile phone number from his company.’

‘Well done.’

The Detective Constable sounded hesitant. ‘You asked me to check if it was him driving his car first east on King’s Road, then west past the junction between Kingsway and Boundary Road this morning? Index Golf Victor Zero Eight Whisky Delta X-Ray?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he’s a bit baffled, chief. He and his wife are lying on a beach in Limassol in Cyprus at the moment. They’ve been there for nearly two weeks.’

‘Could anyone they know be driving this car while they’re away?’

‘No,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘They left it at the long-term car park at Gatwick Airport.’

Grace pulled over to the side of the road and stopped sharply.

‘Nick, put a high-act marker on that index. Get on to the Divisional Intelligence Unit – I want to know every ANPR sighting from the day Barry Simons’s car arrived at Gatwick to now.’

‘To double-check, chief, index Golf Victor Zero Eight Whisky Delta X-Ray.’

‘Correct.’

Grace switched on the car’s lights and siren, then turned to Glenn Branson.

‘We’re taking a ride to Shoreham.’

‘Want me to drive?’ Branson asked.

Grace shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll be of more help to Tyler Chase alive.’