Find Them Dead

96 Friday 24 May

Roy Grace had promised to take Bruno deep-sea fishing tomorrow and had chartered a small boat out of the marina for the day, with a skipper. As he walked from court back towards Police HQ, Glenn Branson strode along beside him, phone to his ear, talking to the CPS solicitor handling the Gready — and Starr — prosecutions.

Grace checked the weekend’s weather on his phone. The judge had been right, the forecast was sunny, but it was the shipping forecast that Roy was most interested in at the moment. Last time he’d gone on a fishing trip had been with a group of colleagues a few years ago, and the sea had been unpleasantly choppy. The smell of the freshly caught fish lying on the deck, exhaust fumes and the heavy swell had combined to sandbag him. After throwing up, he’d spent the next six hours on a bunk down below, his brain feeling like it was rolling around inside his skull, pretty much wishing he was dead. His only consolation had been former Detective Superintendent Nick Sloan, cheerfully telling him not to worry, that Lord Nelson used to get seasick, too.

But, despite the horrific memory, he was delighted Bruno actually wanted to do something with him — and something different from being holed-up in his bedroom playing computer games all weekend. So he had pre-armed himself with seasick tablets and a wristband that supposedly helped and was now praying for light wind, or preferably no wind at all.

To his relief, the forecast was benign. Light to moderate decreasing light; sea state calm.

‘He’s happy,’ Branson said, shoving his phone into his pocket.

‘CPS?’

‘Yep. Reckons the jury is with Cork.’

‘I thought that QC put up a spirited closing.’

Branson shrugged as they walked in past the visitors’ reception. ‘Yeah, well, these briefs have to say something to justify the money they charge,’ he quipped.

Grace smiled.

‘You off home, Roy? Fancy a quick jar?’

‘Would have loved to, but I’ve got a briefing on Op Canoe at 6 p.m. and I need to get up to speed on anything that’s happened today — although from the lack of traffic on my phone, it doesn’t seem much.’

‘That’s because you don’t have me as the SIO.’

Grace smiled again. ‘You’re full of it, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, I’m in a good mood. I scent blood, we’re going to win!’

Grace gave him a sideways glance as they headed up the hill of the sprawling Police HQ campus. ‘Just remember, it ain’t over until it’s over.’

‘Hopefully the judge’ll hammer the final nail into Gready’s coffin when he sums up on Tuesday.’

‘I don’t want to piss on your parade, matey, but two things to bear in mind while you’re all loved up with Siobhan over the weekend. First is that judges aren’t allowed to direct juries to convict — and if they are not utterly impartial, it gives the defence grounds for an appeal. Second is something you’ll learn from time in this game — juries are totally unpredictable.’

‘Want to have a bet on the result?’ Glenn asked. ‘A friendly fiver?’

As they walked in the entrance to the Major Crime suite Grace shook his head. ‘Nah, don’t want to take sweeties off a child.’

‘Yeah yeah!’

‘Have a good weekend.’ Grace bounded up the stairs, followed by Branson.

‘You know what you are?’ Branson called out. ‘You’re a born pessimist!’

Grace paused in the corridor at the top of the stairs. ‘Know the definition of a pessimist?’

Branson shook his head.

‘It’s an optimist with experience.’

Grace entered his office, logged on to his computer and stared at the screen, quickly glancing through his emails, then the day’s serials of all crimes logged, in case there was anything of significance. There wasn’t. He entered the password-protected evidence file on Operation Canoe, the investigation into the murder of Stuie Starr, and began viewing the video taken of the exterior and interior of the Starrs’ house by the CSI. He’d viewed it all before but now wanted to look at it again, to see if he could have missed anything.

First, he studied the exterior, looking at all doors and windows on both floors, as the camera tracked 360 degrees. Next was a slow panoramic sweep showing the busy main road in front of the house and the garage opposite. Cars and other vehicles streamed by. From the pathologist’s estimate and other factors, it appeared Stuie had been killed in the daytime. Someone must have seen something. Maybe a passing car — or even a cyclist — had caught something on a dash or helmet camera? But it would be a near-impossible task to find every car that had passed during the window of time in which Stuie’s killers might have been entering or leaving the house, and it would require immense resources and manpower. He made a note in his Policy Book, all the same, not wanting to rule this out. If someone had seen them, they might remember them. No matter how hard-nosed any killer was, in the immediate aftermath of having committed their crime all villains, in his experience, would be in an agitated state as they left the scene — the red mist, police called it.

But despite a public appeal by the local press and media, and his own plea for members of the public to come forward at the press conference he had given two weeks ago, so far there was nothing — and traffic coming down this road could have come from four different directions.

Next he looked at the video footage of the interior of the house. Gartrell had made a careful video record of the downstairs of the house, showing all the possible entry and exit routes. But he knew there was no sign of any forced entry.

He next viewed the sickening scene in Stuie’s bedroom. The Home Office pathologist had identified kicks to Stuie’s body made by two different-sized shoes. It was impossible to tell from the chaotic mess and destruction whether it was the work of two or even more people. He froze the image repeatedly on the wide sweep and then the different angles of close-ups and the crime scene markers laid down. He was interrupted by his phone ringing. It was Cassian Pewe.

‘Just calling for an update on Operation Canoe, Roy. Any good news for me, for the weekend?’

Grace was sorely tempted to lash into him over the promotions board, but at this point he wasn’t supposed to know that the ACC had failed to support him despite his promise. So instead he kept calm and studiously polite.

‘I’ll be able to give you more after our next briefing at 6 p.m., sir, I hope.’

‘Hope?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Hope doesn’t interest me, Roy. Come to my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow and we’ll do a complete review of the case and investigation to date.’

Grace’s heart momentarily sank. Then he decided to stand firm. ‘I’m afraid I’m taking my son fishing tomorrow, sir,’ he replied.

‘Fishing?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are the SIO of a murder enquiry and you’re taking time out to go fishing?’

‘I am, yes,’ Grace replied, calmly. ‘I will ask Acting Detective Inspector Potting, who I’ve appointed to be SIO in my absence, to meet you at 9 a.m. tomorrow and he will fully brief you.’

‘Isn’t it about time Potting was pensioned off? He’s long past his sell-by date.’

‘If you want to get rid of one of the best detectives we have, then yes, sir.’

‘He’s yesterday’s man.’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘Fishing, when you are running a murder enquiry. I think this is very bad, Roy. Not setting a good example at all.’

‘There is some good news,’ Grace replied, mischievously.

‘There is?’

‘Yes, the forecast is good.’

‘I don’t think that’s funny. Call me when you have some proper good news.’ He ended the call abruptly.

That won’t be possible, thought Grace. Because the good news will be when I can hold a press conference announcing your sudden and tragic death.