Dead Man's Grip

28

Malling House, the headquarters of Sussex Police, was a fifteen-minute drive from Grace’s office. It was on the outskirts of Lewes, the county town of East Sussex, and much of the administration and key management needed for the 5,000 officers and employees of the force was handled from this complex of modern and old buildings.

As he pulled the silver Ford Focus up at the security barrier, Roy Grace felt the kind of butterflies in his stomach he used to get when summoned to the headmaster’s study at school. He couldn’t help it. It was the same each time he came here, even though the new ACC, Peter Rigg, to whom he now reported, was a far more benign character than his predecessor, the acidic and unpredictable Alison Vosper.

He nodded at the security guard, then drove in. He made a sharp right turn, passing the Road Policing Unit’s base and driving school, and pulled into a bay in the car park. He tried to call Glenn Branson for an update, but his phone went straight to voicemail. He left a message, then tried Bella Moy’s, again without success. Finally, he strode across the complex, head bowed against the steady drizzle.

Peter Rigg’s office was on the ground floor at the front of the main building, a handsome Queen Anne mansion. It had a view through a large sash window out on to a gravel driveway and a circular lawn beyond. Like all the rooms, it contained handsome woodwork and a fine stuccoed ceiling, which had been carefully restored after a fire nearly destroyed the building some years back. So far, since the ACC had taken over at the start of this year, Grace knew he had made a good impression. He rather liked the man, but at the same time he always felt he was walking on eggshells in his presence.

Rigg was a dapper, distinguished-looking man in his mid-forties, with a healthy complexion, fair hair neatly and conservatively cut, and a sharp, public school voice. Although several inches shorter than Grace, he had fine posture, giving him a military bearing which made him seem taller than his actual height. He was dressed in a plain navy suit, a gingham shirt and a striped tie. Several motor-racing pictures adorned his walls.

He was on the phone when Grace entered, but waved him cheerily to sit at one of the two leather-covered chairs in front of the huge rosewood desk, then put a hand over the receiver and asked Grace if he would like anything to drink.

‘I’d love a coffee – strong with some milk, please, sir.’

Rigg repeated the order down the phone, to either his MSA or his Staff Officer, Grace presumed. Then he hung up and smiled at Grace. The man’s manner was pleasant but no-nonsense. Like most of the force’s ACCs, he struck Grace clearly as potential Chief Constable material one day. A position he himself never aspired to, because he knew he would not have sufficient self-control to play the required politics. He liked being a hands-on detective; that’s what he was best at doing and it was the job he loved.

In many ways he would have preferred to remain a Detective Inspector, as he had been a couple of years ago, involved on the front line in every investigation. Accepting the promotion to his current role as Detective Superintendent, and more recently taking on the responsibility for Major Crime, burdened him with more bureaucracy and politics than he was comfortable with. But at least when he wanted to he still had the option to roll his sleeves up and get involved in cases. No one would stop him. The only deterrent was the ever-growing paper mountain in his office.

‘I hear that your girlfriend’s in hospital, Roy,’ Rigg said.

Grace was surprised that he knew.

‘Yes, sir. She has pregnancy complications.’

His eyes fell on two framed photographs on the desk. One showed a confident-looking teenage boy with tousled fair hair, dressed in a rugby shirt, smiling as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and the other a girl of about twelve, in a pinafore, with long fair curls and a cheeky grin on her face. He felt a twinge of envy. Maybe, with luck, he’d have photos like that on his desk one day, too.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Rigg said. ‘If you need any time out, let me know. How many weeks is she?’

‘Twenty-six.’

He frowned. ‘Well, let’s hope all’s OK.’

‘Thank you, sir. She’s coming home tomorrow, so it looks like she’s out of immediate danger.’

As the MSA came in with Grace’s coffee, the ACC looked down at a sheet of printed paper on his blotter, on which were some handwritten notes. ‘ Operation Violin,’ he said pensively. Then he looked up with a grin. ‘Good to know our computer’s got a sense of humour!’

Now it was Grace’s turn to frown. ‘A sense of humour?’

‘Don’t you remember that film Some Like It Hot? Didn’t the mobsters carry their machine guns in violin cases?’

‘Ah, yes, right! Of course. I hadn’t made the connection.’

Grace grinned. Then he felt a sudden, uncomfortable twinge. It had been Sandy’s favourite film of all time. They used to watch it together every Christmas, when it was repeated on television. She could repeat some of the lines perfectly. Particularly the very last line. She’d cock her head, look at him and say, “Well, nobody’s perfect!” ’

Then the smile slipped from the Assistant Chief Constable’s face. ‘Roy, I’m concerned about the Mafia connection with this case.’

Grace nodded. ‘The parents are over here now, to identify the body.’

‘I’m aware of that. What I don’t like is that we are not in terrain we’re familiar with. I think this has the potential to go pear-shaped.’

‘In what sense, sir?’

Immediately, Grace knew he shouldn’t have said that, but it was too late to retract it.

Rigg’s face darkened. ‘We’re in the middle of a bloody recession. Businesses in this city are hurting. Tourist trade is down. Brighton’s had an unwarranted reputation as the crime capital of the UK for seven decades and we are trying to do something about it, to reassure people this city is as safe as anywhere on the planet to visit. The last thing we need is the bloody American Mafia headlining in the press here.’

‘We have a good relationship with the Argus so I’m sure we can keep that aspect under control.’

‘You are, are you?’

Rigg was starting to look angry. It was the first time Grace had seen this side of him.

‘I think if we handle them carefully and give them plenty of information in advance of the national press, yes, we can, sir.’

‘So what about this reward?’

The word hit Grace like a sledgehammer. ‘Reward?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Reward. Yes.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean, sir.’

Rigg waved a hand, summoning Grace round to his side of the desk. He leaned forward and tapped on his keyboard, then pointed at his computer screen.

Grace saw the banner THE ARGUS in black letters underlined in red. Beneath were the words: Latest Headlines. Updated 9.25 a.m.

MAFIA BOSS’S DAUGHTER OFFERS

$100,000 REWARD FOR SON’S KILLER

His heart sinking, he read on:

Fernanda Revere, daughter of New York Mafia Capo Sal Giordino, currently serving 11 consecutive life sentences for murder, this morning told Argus reporter Kevin Spinella outside the gates of Brighton and Hove City Mortuary, she is offering $100,000 for information leading to the identity of the van driver responsible for the death of her son, Tony Revere. Revere, 21, a student at Brighton University, was killed yesterday after his bicycle was in a multiple-vehicle collision involving an Audi car, a van and a lorry in Portland Road, Hove.

Police are appealing for witnesses. Inspector James Biggs of Hove Road Policing Unit said, ‘We are anxious to trace the driver of a white Ford Transit van involved in the collision, which drove off at speed immediately after. It was a callous act.’

‘You know what I particularly don’t like in this piece, Roy?’ Grace had a pretty good idea. ‘The wording of the reward, sir?’ Rigg nodded. ‘ Identity,’ he said. ‘I don’t like that word. It worries me. The customary wording is for information leading to the arrest and conviction. I’m not happy about this leading to the identity wording here. It’s vigilante territory.’

‘It could just be that the woman was tired – and it wasn’t actually what she meant to say.’

Even before he had finished, Grace knew this sounded lame.

Rigg looked back at him reproachfully. ‘Last time we spoke, you told me you had this reporter, Spinella, in your pocket.’

At that moment, Grace could happily have killed Spinella with his bare hands. In fact a quick death would be too good for the man.

‘Not exactly, sir. I told you that I had forged a good working relationship with him, but I was concerned that he had a mole somewhere inside Sussex Police. I think this proves it.’

‘It proves something very different to me, Roy.’

Grace looked at him, feeling very uncomfortable suddenly.

Rigg went on, ‘It tells me that my predecessor, Alison Vosper, was right when she said I should keep a careful eye on you.’