Not Dead Yet

77

‘The time is 8.30 a.m., Monday, June the thirteenth. This is the seventeenth briefing of Operation Icon,’ Roy Grace said to his team in the Conference Room. ‘Does anyone have any progress to report since our briefing of yesterday morning?’

Annalise Vineer raised her hand. ‘Yes, chief. I’ve been going through the list of members of the West Sussex Piscatorial Society supplied to me by their secretary, and the list of all people who had any involvement with this club. I’ve found someone with a link to Stonery Farm.’

‘You have?’ Grace said. ‘Well done – tell us!’

‘I don’t know if it’s of any significance, but Stonery Farm and the West Sussex Piscatorial Society use the same firm of Brighton accountants, Feline Bradley-Hamilton. There’s one name in particular that’s common to both, which is an auditor employed by this firm, a man by the name of Eric Whiteley. He has carried out the annual audit for both the farm and the club for several years.’

Grace wrote the name down. ‘I’m not familiar with how auditors work,’ he said. ‘Would he have been to the premises of both?’

‘Well, he goes to the office at Stonery Farm each year. The Piscatorial Society secretary was unable to tell me whether Whiteley has ever actually been to the lake that the Piscatorial Society own. But he is their principal contact.’

‘How many employees are there at these accountants, Feline Bradley-Hamilton?’ Grace asked.

‘Fourteen, sir,’ Annalise Vineer replied. ‘There are four partners, the rest are employees.’

‘So anyone from this firm would have access to information about Stonery Farm and the Piscatorial Society, presumably?’ Grace quizzed.

‘Presumably, sir, yes,’ she replied.

Grace felt excited; at last he had something concrete to work on now. And his instincts were telling him that while the perpetrator was not necessarily part of this accountancy firm, there was the possibility of a lead coming from here. ‘So we can’t be sure Eric Whiteley would be the only one in the firm who knows where the lake is?’

‘No, sir. But certainly he’s the only one who visits Stonery Farm on a regular basis.’

‘And that’s the only match you have? The only person common to both?’

‘Yes, it is, sir.’

‘Is the club secretary able to tell you anything about this Eric Whiteley?’

‘Not much, sir. Says he’s a quiet, unassuming man who just turns up at the secretary’s house every year, by appointment, to get the paperwork signed off. He doesn’t talk much, apparently.’

‘Okay, first things first, we should interview everyone in the firm who’s been there more than six months. I want two trained interviewers – ’ He looked at the faces around him.

Glenn raised a hand. ‘Boss, I’d like to suggest Bella and I do the interview. Big if, but, if this Eric Whiteley, or anyone else at the accountancy firm, should turn out to be the perp, he might react – and be thrown a bit – by having seen us on Crimewatch.’

Grace nodded assent. Both detectives were trained Cognitive Suspect Interviewers. ‘He doesn’t sound a very likely candidate, but the link between the two places is interesting.’

He looked down at his notes, then at Norman Potting. ‘Myles Royce, Norman? You’re expecting DNA results back from the lab later today?’

‘I am indeed, boss.’

‘Let me know as soon as you hear.’

‘I will indeed.’

Glenn Branson stared at Potting, still trying to figure out what on earth Bella Moy could see in the man. Twenty years her senior, charmless and, despite his recent makeover, not in any way physically appealing. At least not in his view. Although to be fair, he had been married four times, so presumably he had something that was not immediately apparent.

David Green, the Crime Scene Manager, reported on the progress that SOCOs and the Specialist Search Unit were making, looking for the missing head in the area around the West Sussex Piscatorial Society. Or rather, the lack of progress. This morning he had instructed them to widen the search parameters.

That was not good news, Grace thought. Although, from experience, he knew that there was always the possibility that the head, if buried on dry land, could have been carried off by a fox or a badger. Perps often spent hours digging deep graves for their victims. But these tended to preserve the bodies quite well. It was shallow graves that caused much bigger problems for murder investigation teams, because all kinds of animals would carry the remains away, for food and nests, dispersing them over a wide area.

He drew a circle on his pad around the name Eric Whiteley. So far their only suspect. He looked forward to the interview report.

After the meeting ended he headed back to his office and phoned Victoria Somers, the mother of his god-daughter, wondering if Jaye might like to play with Gaia’s son. She was a few years older than Roan Lafayette, but from the tone of her mother’s voice, that did not matter remotely. She sounded thrilled to bits.

One very small problem sorted.

And brownie points for himself all round.