Dead Man's Grip

29

Grace drove out of the police headquarters and threaded his way around the outskirts of Brighton towards the hospital, seething with anger and feeling totally humiliated.

All the goodwill he’d built up with ACC Rigg on his previous case, the hunt for a serial rapist, was now down the khazi. He had hoped the spectre of Alison Vosper had gone away for good, but now he realized to his dismay that she had left a poisonous legacy after all.

He dialled Kevin Spinella’s mobile phone number on his hands-free. The reporter answered almost immediately.

‘You’ve just blown all the goodwill you ever had with me and with HQ CID,’ Grace said furiously.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace, why – whatever’s the matter?’ He sounded a tad less cocky than usual.

‘You bloody well know what the issue is. Your front-page splash.’

‘Oh – ah – right – yeah, that.’ Grace could hear a clacking sound, as if the man was chewing gum.

‘I can’t believe you’ve been so damned irresponsible.’

‘We published it at Mrs Revere’s request.’

‘Without bothering to speak to anyone on the inquiry team?’

There was a silence for some moments, then, sounding meeker by the moment, Spinella said, ‘I didn’t think it was necessary.’

‘And you didn’t think about the consequences? When the police put up a reward it is in the region of five thousand pounds. What do you think you are going to achieve with this? Do you want the streets of Brighton filled with vigilantes driving around in pick-up trucks with gun racks on their roofs? It may be the way Mrs Revere does things in her country, but it’s not how we do it here, and you’re experienced enough to know that.’

‘Sorry if I’ve upset you, Detective Superintendent.’

‘You know what? You don’t sound at all sorry. But you will be. This’ll come back to bite you, I can promise you that.’

Grace hung up, then returned a missed call from Glenn Branson.

‘Yo, old-timer!’ the Detective Sergeant said, before Grace had a chance to get a word out. ‘Listen, I just realized something. Operation Violin – that’s well clever! Kind of suitable for something involving the New York Mafia!’

‘ Some Like It Hot?’ Grace said.

Branson sounded crestfallen. ‘Oh, you’re there already.’

‘Yep, sorry to ruin your morning.’ Grace decided not to spoil his rare moment of one-upmanship on films with his friend by revealing his source. Then rapidly changing the subject, he asked, ‘What’s happening?’

‘We got doorstepped outside the mortuary by that shit Spinella. I imagine there’ll be something in the Argus tonight.’

‘There’s already something in the online edition,’ Grace said.

Then he told him the gist of the piece, his dressing-down from ACC Rigg and his conversation just now with the reporter.

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t do anything, boss. He was right outside the mortuary, knew exactly who they were and took them aside.’

‘Who tipped him off?’

‘Must have been dozens of people who knew the parents were coming over. Not just in CID – could have been someone in the hotel. I’ll say one thing about Spinella, he’s a grafter.’

Grace did not reply for a moment. Sure, it could easily have been someone at the hotel. A porter getting the occasional bung for tipping off the paper. Perhaps that’s all it was. But there was just too much consistency about Spinella always being in the right place at the right time.

It had to be an insider.

‘Where are the parents now?’

‘They’re with Bella Moy and the Coroner’s Officer. They’re not happy that the body’s not being released to them right away – that it’s up to the Coroner. The defence may want a second postmortem.’

‘What kind of people are they?’ Grace asked.

‘The father’s creepy but he’s pretty sensible. Very shaken. The mother’s poison. But, hey, she identified her dead son, right? That’s not a good place to judge anyone, so who can tell? But she wears the trousers, for sure, and I’d say she’s the bitch queen from hell. I wouldn’t want to tangle with either of them.’

Grace was heading west on the A27. Coming up on his right was the campus of Sussex University. He took the left slip, heading to Falmer, passing part of Brighton University on his right, where the dead boy had attended, and the imposing structure of the American Express Community Stadium where the local football team, the Albion, would soon be moving to, a building he was beginning to really like as it took shape, even though he wasn’t a football fan.

‘The wording Spinella used about the reward. Do you see anything sinister behind that – about paying money for the van driver’s identity rather than his arrest and conviction?’

His question was greeted with silence and Grace realized the connection had dropped. He leaned forward and redialled on the hands-free.

When Glenn answered, Grace told him the ACC’s concerns.

‘What does he mean by the potential to go pear-shaped?’ Branson queried.

‘I don’t know,’ Grace answered truthfully. ‘I think a lot of people get nervous at any mention of the word Mafia. The Chief Constable’s under pressure to get rid of Brighton’s historic image of a crime-ridden resort, so they want to keep the Mafia connection as low key as possible, I’m guessing.’

‘I thought the New York Mafia had been pretty much decimated.’

‘They’re not as powerful as they used to be, but they’re still players. We need to find that white van fast and get the driver under arrest. That’ll take the heat off everything.’

‘You mean get him into protective custody, boss?’

‘You’ve seen too many Mafia movies,’ Grace said. ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’

‘One hundred grand,’ Glenn Branson replied, putting on an accent mimicking The Godfather, sounding as if he had a mouth full of rocks. ‘That’s gonna be an offer someone can’t refuse.’

‘Put a sock in it.’

But, Grace thought privately, Branson could well be right.