Not Dead Yet

115

Roy Grace wondered why, whenever Glenn Branson got behind the wheel of a car, he drove it as if he had just hot-wired it although he now had a legitimate reason. Glenn was weaving through the thinning rush hour, on blues and twos, and Grace spent much of the journey fearing for his life, or the life of anyone who stepped into their path. To distract himself, he phoned and updated first the Chief Constable, via his Staff Officer, and then ACC Rigg.

At 6.30 p.m., just seven minutes after leaving Sussex House, they tore into the Pavilion grounds and pulled up behind a black Range Rover. Grace was a little relieved to see that already the police presence here was markedly increased from yesterday.

As they walked up to the front entrance, two uniformed security guards, each wearing earpieces, blocked their path. ‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ said one of them. ‘No one’s allowed in, they’re about to start shooting.’

Grace fished out his warrant card and held it up.

The same guard shook his head. ‘Sir, you don’t understand, they’re about to do a take. There has to be absolute silence. I can’t let you in until they’ve finished this scene.’

‘We’ll be quiet,’ Grace said. ‘This is an emergency.’

‘I’m afraid they’ve already lost almost an hour tonight. Madam’s been in a particularly tricky mood, if you get my drift,’ one guard said. He had a nicotine-stained moustache, a stocky but bolt-upright posture, and exuded the officious, no-nonsense air of a former army Sergeant-Major.

She’s damned lucky to still be alive, if you get mine, Grace nearly retorted. ‘I’m sorry, we need to go in the building.’

‘Phones off?’

‘No, we’re not turning our phones or radios off.’

‘Then I’m afraid you can’t go in until the end of this scene, gentlemen.’

‘How long will that be?’

‘Depends how many takes Madam requires to get her lines right.’ Both officers noted the sarcasm in his voice.

Grace decided not to push the point, turned and walked a few steps away, followed by the DS.

‘Sodding jobsworth!’ Glenn Branson said. ‘I’d love to see some of the filming.’

‘I’d like to see the finished result, knowing that we kept Gaia alive,’ Grace replied grimly.

There were a good 200 members of the public lined up along the wall, watching. He saw Glenn warily scanning their faces. Was Eric Whiteley among them? A man who was prepared to pay more than £27,000 for a suit worn once by his idol. A loner, with nothing in his life but his doomed-to-be-unrequited – and unreciprocated – passion for an icon. A loner who had been spurned by her, probably humiliatingly for him, in the front entrance of The Grand Hotel.

Was he so desperate for anything belonging to his idol, that he had killed and butchered his rival bidder for that suit?

What was next on Whiteley’s agenda, after destroying his entire collection of Gaia memorabilia?

Destroying the icon herself?

Which would, of course, instantly make him almost as famous.