Looking Good Dead

59

The family liaison officer who took over from Linda Buckley was a thin, overly-polite young PC in his mid-twenties, called Chris Willingham. He carried a small suitcase in which he claimed to have everything he needed for his night’s vigil, and within minutes was happily installed in the living room with an iPod headset plugged into his ears and a copy of the Rough Guide to Croatia open on his lap.

Glenn Branson had rung to say he was coming over again in an hour, making Tom wonder if he had any information. He was also determined to ask the detective why, when he had obviously recognized Reginald D’Eath as the dickhead on the train, he had not revealed this to him this afternoon at the CID headquarters.

Tom left Chris Willingham with a black coffee and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits and retreated to the sanctuary of his den with the Sunday Times, which he had not yet opened. Normally, on a Sunday evening, he and Kellie would flop out on the sofa in the living room with all the sections of the Sunday Times and Mail on Sunday strewn around the carpet. He always started with the business pages, looking for high-profile companies to target as potential customers. Kellie began with the Mail’s You magazine.

But it was a waste of time even looking at a paper tonight; all he saw was a blur of newsprint. He felt so alone, so afraid. So totally lost and scared.

Scared witless for Kellie.

Reginald D’Eath, the dickhead on the train, the man who had left behind the CD, had been found murdered in his home. Strangled in his bath.

By?

By the same people who had threatened to kill his own family? Tom wondered.

On the news it had been reported that D’Eath – who had changed his name to Ron Dawkins – had done a deal with the prosecution in the forthcoming trial of a paedophile ring. So was it a professional hit? Or a revenge killing by a parent of a child he had abused?

Or, he speculated wildly, the coil of fear in his stomach darkening all the time, was it punishment for losing the disk? The same punishment he and his family were threatened with because he had found it?

Twenty-four hours ago they had been drinking champagne in the drawing room of Philip Angelides’ house. Not a great evening, but at least life had been normal. Now he just did not know what to do. He was trying to get his head around tomorrow, Monday, but was finding it hard to think more than a few minutes ahead. He couldn’t cancel the presentation to Land Rover and supposed he would have to delegate one of his team to do it for him – which would mean paying one of the two salesmen commission on the order if it came through, yet again reducing his margins and his ability to quote competitively. But at this moment that was the least of his worries.

Then he experienced a sudden flash of resentment towards Kellie. Irrational, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. How can you bloody do this to me at a time like this?

Almost immediately he felt guilty for even thinking that.

Christ, my darling, where the hell are you? He buried his face in his hands, trying hard to think clearly through the fog of this nightmare and hating himself for being so damned helpless.

It was over an hour later a blue saloon pulled up outside the house. Looking out of his den window, Tom saw Glenn Branson climb out of the driver’s door and another man – white, in his late thirties, with close-cropped hair, who looked every inch a copper – get out of the other side.

He raced downstairs, before they rang the bell and disturbed the kids, and opened the door. Lady came bounding out into the hallway, but he managed to calm her and stop her barking. She’d obviously recovered from the bug – or attempted poisoning.

‘Good evening again, Mr Bryce. We’re sorry to disturb you.’

‘No. Thanks. I’m glad to see you.’

‘This is Detective Superintendent Grace, the Senior Investigating Officer on this case,’ Branson said.

Bryce stared briefly at the Detective Superintendent, surprised that he was so casually dressed, but then all he knew about the police was gleaned from the occasional episode of Morse or Dalziel and Pascoe or CSI, and, thinking about it, detectives on those shows were often very casually dressed, too. The man had a strong, pleasant face with laser-sharp blue eyes and a convincing air of authority.

‘Thank you for coming over,’ Tom Bryce said, showing them in, then leading them through to the kitchen.

‘No developments, Mr Bryce?’ Glenn Branson asked, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table.

‘One, but I think you know that already. The man on the train was the paedophile who was found murdered today. Reginald D’Eath? I recognized his face on the news.’

Grace gave the room a quick sweep, absorbing the children’s drawings on the wall, the swanky fridge with the built-in television, the expensive-looking units, then he sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom Bryce’s. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife, Kellie, Mr Bryce. I’d just like to ask you a few questions, to help us do all we can to assist in locating her.’

‘Of course.’

Watching Tom Bryce’s eyes like a hawk, he asked, ‘Can you tell me when you bought the Audi that was found burned out?’

The man’s eyes swung immediately to the right. ‘Yes, in March.’

‘From a local dealer?’

Again the eyes went to the right, establishing his memory was on the right side of his brain. Which meant if his eyes swung left in response to a question, he would be accessing the creative side of his brain, and would be in construct mode. Lying. But at this moment he was telling the truth. ‘Yes – from Caffyns.’

Grace pulled out his notebook. ‘I’d like to start with some chronology. Can we run through the events leading up to the time when Kellie disappeared?’

‘Of course. Can I offer you something to drink? Tea or coffee?’

The SIO opted for a black coffee, and Glenn Branson for a glass of tap water. Tom switched on the kettle and began to talk through in detail the events of yesterday evening.

When he had finished, Grace asked, ‘You and your wife didn’t have a row or anything, either before you went out or on the way home?’

‘Not at all,’ Tom replied, his eyes briefly darting right again. He thought back again to the drive home last night from the Angelideses. Kellie had been in a slightly strange mood, but she’d had plenty of those before and hadn’t vanished afterwards.

‘Can I ask a rather personal question?’ Grace said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Do you have a good marriage? Or are there any problems in your relationship?’

Tom Bryce shook his head. ‘We don’t have a good marriage.’ Then he said, emphatically, ‘We have a terrific marriage.’

The kettle started boiling. Tom was starting to stand up when Grace’s next question nailed him back down to his chair. ‘Is everything all right with your finances, Mr Bryce?’

From the look in those laser eyes, Tom could tell Grace knew something about his problems. ‘Actually they’re not great, no.’

‘Did you have any life insurance cover on Mrs Bryce?’

Tom stood up angrily. ‘What the hell are you getting at?’

‘I’m afraid I will have to ask you some very personal questions, Mr Bryce. If you would be more comfortable having a solicitor present, or if there are any you don’t want to answer without one being present, that is your right.’

As the kettle switched itself off, Tom sat back down. ‘I don’t need anyone present.’

‘OK, thank you,’ Roy Grace said. ‘So can you tell me if you have any life insurance cover on Mrs Bryce?’

The man’s eyes darted again to the right. ‘No. I had some on both of us – for the children’s sake – but I had to cancel it a few months ago because of the cost.’ He stood up and went to make the coffee, and run Branson a glass of water. Grace waited until he had sat back down, and he could see his face clearly once more.

‘Have you noticed any change in Mrs Bryce’s behaviour in recent months?’

And now Grace saw the flickering hesitation in Tom Bryce’s eyes; they darted very definitely to the left, to construct mode. He was about to lie to them. ‘No, not at all.’

Then immediately after Tom had said this, he wondered whether it was time to come clean and tell them about the vodka. And about her strange Kellie moments?

But he was scared that if he did they might lose interest. So what the hell was the point in telling them?

Grace picked up his coffee cup, then set it down again without bringing it to his lips. Again fixing on Bryce’s eyes, he asked, ‘Do you have any concerns that Kellie might be having an affair?’

Eyes securely right again. ‘Absolutely none. We have a strong marriage.’

Roy Grace continued with his questions for another half an hour, at the end of which Tom felt the Detective Superintendent had expertly and thoroughly – and at times more than a little unpleasantly – filleted him.

He felt drained as he finally closed the door on them at almost eleven o’clock, and also uncomfortable. It seemed from the DS’s questions – and the way he had reacted to Tom’s answers – that he was to the police a prime suspect. This was something he wanted to change, quickly, because all the time they were suspicious of him, they would be focusing their energies in the wrong direction. And he realized he had forgotten to ask DS Branson why he had kept quiet about the dickhead’s identity this afternoon.

Tom popped his head round the living room door, to see the FLO engrossed in his book. He told him to help himself to anything he fancied in the kitchen, and apologized for not having a spare bed. DC Willingham told him he had had some sleep during the day and planned to stay up all night.

Then Tom climbed upstairs to his den, far too keyed up to contemplate sleep. He had some important emails to write about the morning’s presentation and somehow had to find the strength to concentrate on them.

He tapped the return key on his laptop, to wake it up. Moments later a load of emails downloaded. Twenty, thirty, forty. The junk-mail filter picked up most of them, leaving just half a dozen. Three were from friends, no doubt containing jokes. One was from Olivia, his ever-efficient secretary, listing the week’s appointments and reminding him what he needed for the presentation in the morning. One was from Ivanhoe, the Web-doctor site he subscribed to, but rarely had time to read properly.

The last one was from postmaster@scarab.tisana.al. The header read simply: Private and confidential.

He double-clicked to read the email. The text was brief and unsigned.

Kellie has a message for you. Remain online.