Looking Good Dead

75

Roy Grace was on the phone non-stop as he drove in his Alfa, making one call after another: checking on Emma-Jane, then the progress of each of his team members in turn, driving them as hard as they could be pushed.

He headed east along the coast road, leaving behind the elegant Regency facades of Kemp Town for the open country, high above the cliffs, passing the vast neo-Gothic pile of Roedean girls’ school and then the art deco building of the St Dunstan’s home for the blind.

Nine fifteen tomorrow night.

The time was lasered into his consciousness; it formed part of every thought that he had. It was now 10.15 a.m., Monday. Just thirty-five hours to the broadcast – and how long before then would the Bryces be killed?

Janie Stretton had been late at the vet with her cat for a 6.30 p.m. appointment, and she hadn’t left until at least 7.40. In between then and approximately 9.15 p.m., when Tom Bryce claimed to have seen her on his computer, she had been murdered and the video of it broadcast. If the same pattern was followed now maybe they had until around 7.30 p.m. tomorrow. Just over thirty-three hours.

And still no live leads.

Thirty-three hours was no damn time at all.

Then he allowed himself just the briefest smile at the thought of Cassian Pewe in hospital. The irony of it. The incredible coincidence. And the fact that Alison Vosper had seen the funny side – showing him a rare side of herself, the human side. And the thing was – not a good thing, he knew, but he could not help it – he didn’t feel even the tiniest bit bad about it, or sorry for the man.

He was sorry for the innocent taxi driver, but not for that little shit, Cassian Pewe, who had arrived in Brighton newly promoted and with every intention of stealing his lunch. The problem hadn’t gone away, but with the man’s injuries it was at least deferred for a while.

He drove through the smart, historic, cliff-top village of Rottingdean, along a sweeping rise then dip, followed by another rise, past the higgledy-piggledy post-war suburban sprawl of Saltdean, then to Peacehaven, near where Glenn Branson lived and where Janie Stretton had died.

He turned off the coast road into a maze of hilly streets crammed with bungalows and small detached houses, and pulled up outside a small, rather neglected bungalow with a decrepit camper van parked outside.

He ended a call to Norman Potting, who seemed well advanced with his search for sulphuric acid suppliers, downed another Red Bull and two more ProPlus, walked up a short path lined with garden gnomes and stepped into a porch, past motionless wind chimes, and rang the doorbell.

A diminutive, wiry man well into his seventies, bearing more than a passing resemblance to several of the gnomes he had just passed, opened the door. He had a goatee beard, long grey hair tied back in a ponytail, wore a kaftan and dungarees, and was sporting an ankh medallion on a gold chain. He greeted Grace effusively in a high-pitched voice, a bundle of energy, taking his hand and staring at him with the joy of a long-lost friend. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace! So good to see you again so soon!’

‘And you, my friend. Sorry I’m so late.’ It was just over a week since Grace had last called on his services – when Frame had undoubtedly helped save an innocent man’s life.

Harry Frame gripped his hand with a strength that belied both his years and his size, and stared up at him with piercing green eyes. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure this time? Come in!’

Grace followed him into a narrow hallway lit by a low-wattage bulb in a hanging lantern, and decorated in a nautical theme, the centrepiece of which was a large brass porthole on the wall, and through into a sitting room, the shelves crammed with ships in bottles. There was a drab three-piece suite, the backs draped with antimacassars, a television that was switched off, and a round oak table with four wooden chairs by the window, to which Frame ushered him. On the wall, Grace clocked, as he did on each visit here, a naff print of Anne Hathaway’s cottage and a framed motto which read, ‘A mind once expanded can never return to its original dimensions.’

‘Tea?’

‘I’m fine,’ Grace said, although he could have murdered a cup. ‘I’m in a mega-rush.’

‘Life’s not a race, Detective Superintendent Grace, it’s a dance,’ Harry Frame said in a gently chiding voice.

Grace grinned. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’ll put you on my card for a slow waltz at the summer ball.’ He sat down at the table.

‘So?’ Harry said, seating himself opposite. ‘Would you be here by any chance in connection with that poor young woman who was found dead here in Peacehaven last week?’

Harry Frame was a medium and clairvoyant, as well as a pendulum dowser. Grace had been to see the man many times. He could be uncannily accurate – and on other occasions totally useless.

Grace dug his hand in his pocket, pulled out three small plastic evidence bags and laid them on the table in front of Frame. He pointed, first, to the signet ring he had taken from Janie Stretton’s bedroom. ‘What can you tell me about the owner of this?’

Frame removed the ring, clasped it in his hand and closed his eyes. He sat still for a good minute, his wizened face screwed up in concentration.

The room had a musty smell – of old furniture, old carpet, old people.

Finally, Harry Frame shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Roy. Nothing. Not a good day for me today. No connection with the spirits.’

‘Nothing at all from the ring?’

‘I’m sorry. Could you come back tomorrow? We could try again.’

Grace took the ring back, put it in the plastic bag and pocketed it. Next he pointed in turn to the silver cufflinks he had taken from a drawer in the Bryces’ bedroom and a silver bracelet he had taken from Kellie Bryce’s jewellery box. ‘I need to find the owners of these. I need to find them today. I don’t know where they are but I suspect they are somewhere in the vicinity of Brighton and Hove.’

The medium left the room, and returned quickly holding an Ordnance Survey map of the Brighton and Hove area. Moving a candle in a glass holder out of the way, he spread it out on the table and pulled a length of string, with a small lead weight attached, from his trouser pocket.

‘Let’s see what we can find,’ he said. ‘Yes, indeed, let’s see.’ He held the bracelet and the cufflinks in his left hand, then, resting his elbows on the table, he inclined his face towards the map and began to chant.

‘Yarummm,’ Frame said to himself. ‘Yarummmm. Brnnnn. Yarummm.’

Then he sat bolt upright, held the string over the map between his forefinger and thumb, and let the lead weight swing backwards and forwards, like a pendulum. After that, pursing his lips in concentration, he swung it vigorously in a tight circle, steadily covering the map inch by inch.

‘Telscombe?’ he said. ‘Piddinghoe? Ovingdean? Kemp Town? Brighton? Hove? Portslade? Southwick? Shoreham?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not being shown anything in this area, sorry.’

‘Can we try a larger scale?’ Grace asked.

Frame went out again and returned with a map covering the whole of East and West Sussex. But again, after several minutes of swinging the weight with fierce concentration, he produced no result.

Grace wanted to pick the man up and shake him. He felt so damned frustrated. ‘Nothing at all, Harry?’

The medium shook his head.

‘They’re going to die if I don’t find them.’

Harry Frame handed him back the links and the bracelet. ‘I could try again later. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘This afternoon some time?’

Frame nodded. ‘If you want to leave them with me? I’ll spend all day; I’ll keep working on it.’

‘Thank you, I’d appreciate it,’ Grace replied. He was clutching at straws, he knew, as he left with a heavy heart.