Dead Man's Grip

64

Grace was still seething at the thought of his conversation with Kevin Spinella as he entered Peter Rigg’s office punctually at 3.30 p.m. The ACC, looking dapper in a chalk-striped blue suit and brightly coloured polka-dot tie, offered him tea as he sat down, which he accepted gratefully. He hoped some biscuits might come along with it, as he’d had no lunch. He’d been working through the day, trying to gather some positive scraps of information to give his boss about Operation Violin, but he had precious little. In his hand he held a brown envelope containing the latest exhibits list, which he had taken away from the exhibits meeting an hour earlier.

‘So how are we doing, Roy?’ Rigg asked chirpily.

Grace brought him up to speed on his team’s three current lines of enquiry, as well as their growing involvement in the investigation into the murder of Warren Tulley at Ford Prison. Then he handed him a copy of the exhibits list and ran through the key points of that with him.

‘I don’t like the camera, Roy,’ the ACC said. ‘It doesn’t chime.’

‘With what, sir?’

Rigg’s MSA brought in a china cup and saucer on a tray, with a separate bowl of sugar and, to Grace’s delight, a plate of assorted biscuits. A bonus he never had in the days of the previous ACC. Rigg gestured for him to help himself and he gulped down a round one with jam in the centre, then eyed a chocolate bourbon. To his dismay his boss leaned across the table and grabbed that one himself.

Speaking as he munched it, Rigg said, ‘We’ve seen plenty of instances of low-life filming their violent acts on mobile phone cameras, happy slapping, all that. But this is too sophisticated. Why would someone go to that trouble – and, more significantly, that expense?’

‘Those are my thoughts too, sir.’

‘So what are your conclusions?’

‘I’m keeping an open mind. But I think it has to have been done by someone after that reward. Which brings me on to something I want to raise. We have a real problem with the crime reporter from the Argus, Kevin Spinella.’

‘Oh?’

Rigg reached forward and grabbed another biscuit Grace had been eyeing, a custard cream.

‘I had a call from him earlier. Despite all our efforts at keeping from the press, at this time, that Ewan Preece’s hands were glued to the steering wheel of the van, Spinella has found out.’

Grace filled him in on the history of leaks to the reporter during the past year.

‘Do you have any view on who it might be?’

‘No, I don’t at this stage.’

‘So is the Argus going to print with the superglue story?’

‘No. I’ve managed to persuade him to hold it.’

‘Good man.’

Grace’s phone rang. Apologizing, he answered.

It was Tracy Stocker, the Crime Scene Manager, and what she had to say was not good news.

Grace asked her a few brief questions, then ended the call and looked back at his boss, who was studying the exhibits list intently. He eyed once more a chocolate digestive on the plate, but all of a sudden he’d lost his appetite. Rigg put down the list and looked back at him quizzically.

‘I’m afraid we have another body, sir,’ Grace said.

He left the office, then hurried across the Police HQ complex to his car.