Not Dead Yet

95

Roy Grace, almost home, was hunting for a parking space near Cleo’s house when Jason Tingley phoned him to tell him what had happened.

He listened intently, all his instincts telling him this was not coincidence, and he said he was on his way. It was only a few minutes’ drive from here to the Pavilion. Moments after the DI hung up his phone rang again. As he answered he heard the nasal James Cagney voice of Gaia’s security adviser Andrew Gulli.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’

‘Yes, how are you?’

‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Detective Grace?’

‘I’m actually on my way to find out myself.’

‘I understand that Gaia’s kid was almost killed just now. This is not an acceptable situation.’

‘How is he?’

‘He’s fine. But Gaia’s pretty distressed.’

‘If you want to meet me at the Pavilion-’

‘I’m already there,’ Gulli cut him short. ‘I need to know what’s going on. Is your goddamn building falling down, or is there someone behind this? I have to make decisions regarding my client’s security. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Meet me at the front entrance in five minutes.’

‘I’m there.’

Grace hung up and immediately phoned Cleo, warning her he didn’t know what time he would be home now. She told him she understood – not something Sandy had said to him very often.

Then his phone rang yet again. It was the Chief Constable. ‘Roy, what information do you have about this incident at the Pavilion?’

‘I’m on my way there now, sir.’

‘I don’t like the sound of it at all.’

‘No, sir. I can call you back and give you an update after I get there.’

‘Yes, please do.’

A few minutes later he drove into the Pavilion grounds, which were ablaze with blue flashing lights. A large crowd of onlookers was gathered along the far side of the perimeter wall, camera flashes popping intermittently. Two PCSOs were busily cordoning off the entire Royal Pavilion building, and another was already in situ as a scene guard. A dozen bewildered-looking people, film crew he supposed, were milling around on the lawn beneath the darkening sky which was threatening rain, some making phone calls, some smoking. A police van, laden with uniformed officers, siren wailing, turned into the archway as he got out of his car.

Andrew Gulli was standing beside the scene guard. As Grace approached he said, ‘This goddamn officious bastard won’t let me through.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. ‘Until we’ve established what happened, we’re treating this whole building as a crime scene; I can’t allow you in. My advice would be to get Gaia and Roan back to the safety of their hotel.’

Gulli shook his head. ‘The director’s asked her to wait – they may shoot some exterior footage tonight.’

‘In that case keep a very close eye on her. Put her security guards around her trailer.’

‘That’s already in place.’

Grace signed the log, ducked under the tape, and hurried through the front of the building. A security guard directed him to the Banqueting Room and Tingley greeted him as he entered. He observed several fire officers working around the edges of the huge, fallen chandelier, and two paramedics on their stomachs in the middle of the debris. He heard the whine of hydraulic cutting gear. Three police officers seemed to be taking down details of the people in the room. ‘What’s the latest?’ he asked.

‘The victim’s died, sir,’ Tingley said, quietly.

‘Shit. What information do we have about him?’ He looked up, then back at the DI. ‘Was he part of the film crew?’

‘Not from what I’ve been able to find out so far. Two of the security guards said he appeared from a part of the building not open to the public, in panic. He punched one of the guards who tried to apprehend him in the corridor, ran into this room and pushed Gaia’s son clear seconds before the chandelier came down.’

‘What was the boy doing in here?’

‘Playing, while his mother was in make-up.’

‘He’s safe and unhurt?’

‘Yes, he’s back with his mother.’

‘This man – show me where he came from.’

Tingley pointed to the corridor Grace had just walked along.

A voice from behind startled them. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t believe this.’

Both detectives turned to see a tall, elegant man in his fifties, in a chalk-striped suit, come into the room. He was looking ashen. ‘This was King George’s worst nightmare. I can’t believe it.’ Then he looked at them both. ‘I’m David Barry, the Curator of this building.’

Grace and Tingley introduced themselves.

Barry looked up at the ceiling. ‘This is isn’t possible. I’m sorry, it’s just not possible. Oh God. Oh my God! There’s someone trapped underneath – what is the poor man’s condition?’

‘The paramedics say he’s died, I’m afraid,’ Tingley responded.

‘This is terrible. Unbelievable.’ He looked at the two men. ‘You have to understand, you must believe me when I tell you this is simply not possible!’

Jason Tingley pointed at the wreckage and said, pragmatically, ‘I’m finding that a little hard to accept at this moment, sir.’

Roy Grace found it a little hard to accept, too. The man had punched a security guard in the corridor and then run into this room. It was impossible to see the chandelier from the corridor. So what did the man know – whoever he was – and how?

‘Was this chandelier checked regularly?’ Grace asked Barry. ‘Does someone carry out safety checks on the fixings?’

The Curator raised his arms, helplessly and bewildered. ‘Well, I mean, every five years the entire thing is cleaned. All fifteen thousand lustres – it takes about two months.’

‘Could it be metal fatigue?’ Jason Tingley said.

‘We carry out safety checks regularly on everything,’ Barry said. ‘Queen Victoria had the original shaft replaced with aluminium. We never had any reason to change it. You have to believe me – this just could not happen. It couldn’t!’

Grace was trying to recall who it was who said, The moment the world ends, the last sound you will hear is the voice of an expert explaining why it could not happen. ‘I’d like to have a good look around the building,’ he said. ‘Can you take me up to the space above the ceiling?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Can I help in any way here before we do that?’

‘There’s nothing anyone can do here – we have to stop all work now until the Coroner’s Officer arrives,’ Tingley said.

Grace told Tingley to stay in the room, then followed the Curator out of the Banqueting Room, along the corridor, past a sign to the toilets, and in through a door in the main hallway. ‘We have a bit of a climb up a spiral staircase,’ David Barry said. ‘Can I ask you not to put your hand on the railings – they are very unstable – this is why we don’t let the public in here.’ He pulled out a torch.

Grace followed him up a steep, winding spiral staircase that seemed never-ending. Halfway up, Grace stopped and touched the handrail. It felt extremely wobbly, with a long drop beyond it into darkness. He stepped away and moved as close to the wall as he could get, hugging it as he climbed; heights had never been his strong point.

Finally, both men puffing, they reached the top and entered what looked to Grace like a derelict bedroom, mostly covered in dust sheets over angular shapes. Even in the waning light of the June evening, he could see ancient, mottled wallpaper, with graffiti scrawled over much of it, and oval leaded-light windows overlooking the Brighton skyline.

David Barry decided they could see well enough without his torch. He spoke with a pleasant, cultured voice. ‘This was where the king’s senior household staff had their quarters, back in Prinny’s day. I don’t know how much you know about the history of this palace, Detective Superintendent, but during the First Wold War it was used as a hospital for wounded Indian soldiers – hence the graffiti. It’s been derelict since that time, largely because the stair rail is in such dangerous condition. Oh, and – er – please be careful where you tread, we have a lot of dry rot up here.’

To his unease, Roy Grace saw that he was standing on a large trapdoor secured by two rusting bolts. It felt decidedly unsafe and he quickly stepped aside and off it.

‘That trapdoor opens downwards on to a forty-foot vertical drop to a store room above the kitchen scullery. There used to be a dumb waiter for hauling meals up to the residents here from the kitchen.’ He pointed upwards to reveal a primitive block and tackle fixed to the ceiling, with rope wound around it. Grace looked down at the floor again. At the large sign which read: DANGER – STEEP DROP BELOW. DO NOT STAND ON DOOR.

Suddenly he saw something glint on the floor beneath a dust sheet hanging over the bed, and knelt down. It was a chocolate wrapper. A Crunchie bar. ‘Did they have these in King George’s day?’ he asked.

The Curator smiled, looking sinister in the shadows. ‘I’m afraid there have been a few unofficial visitors up here in more recent times. We’ve had a number of break-ins. It’s almost impossible to maintain one hundred per cent security in a building of this size.’

‘Of course.’ Grace stared again at the chocolate bar wrapper, as the Curator walked across the room. Putting on a pair of gloves, Grace picked up the wrapper and sniffed it, expecting it to smell stale. But to his surprise it seemed fresh, as if it had been opened very recently. Then he noticed a tiny smear of lipstick where the front of it was folded back.

He put it down carefully where he had found it in order that it could be photographed by a SOCO officer, and followed the Curator out on to the roof, ducking through a small door that was barely bigger than a serving hatch. The sky had turned ominously dark, as if it were about to rain. Barry strode ahead, along a narrow steel platform, with a sheer drop to the ground to his left, and Grace followed gripping the handrail, trying not to look down. Ahead of him and all around was a spectacular view across the roofs of the Pavilion, with its onion domes and minarets. Down below he could hear sirens and see more blue flashing lights of vehicles pulling up.

‘That’s the dome of the Banqueting Room, right ahead,’ David Barry pointed. They scaled a short, metal ladder, then went along another narrow walkway. Then they climbed a long, steep ladder, Roy Grace nervously clinging on tightly as the Curator, above him, clambered as confidently as a mountain goat.

Grace hauled himself on his knees on to a narrow platform, with the dome curving majestically skywards above him. And now he really did not dare look down.

Then his phone rang.

He debated for a moment whether to answer it, then very carefully pulled it out of its cradle. ‘Roy Grace,’ he said.

It was ACC Peter Rigg, and he sounded anxious. ‘Roy,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I gather there’s a bit of an incident at the Royal Pavilion.’

‘Er – yes, sir, I have.’

‘I think you’d better get there PDQ.’

Grace looked out across the city rooftops. ‘I am actually here, sir.’

‘Good, excellent! Anything to report?’

‘Yes, sir, I have a great view.’

‘View?’

He saw Barry was crawling through a tiny inspection hatch door.

‘Can I call you back in a few minutes, sir?’

‘Please. The Chief Constable’s fretting.’

‘Yes, I know, sir.’ He ended the call and followed Barry through the hatch, having to ease himself in backwards, into almost total darkness and the musty smell of old wood, and something acrid and deeply unpleasant.

‘This is the second skin of the building,’ the Curator said, shining his torch beam around. ‘Outside you have the visible bottle-shaped shell of the dome. This is the wooden framework supporting it.’ Both men coughed. Grace’s eyes were stinging. He could see wooden slats, like a primitive ladder, rising above him and getting increasingly narrow.

The Curator shone the beam upwards, illuminating a wooden cross beam, with a severed metal shaft suspended from it. It looked, to Roy Grace, the same diameter as the shaft sticking out of the top of the fallen chandelier. Wisps of smoke or steam were curling upwards from it. Grace frowned, then coughed again. Then he looked down, and through a small hole, a large section of the Banqueting Room was visible beneath. He could see the two paramedics still on all fours, in the wreckage of the chandelier.

The Curator swung the torch beam down and something glinted in the light. It looked like a metal bottle cap. Then Roy Grace noticed a discarded San Pellegrino bottle. Near it were fragments of broken plastic.

‘Bloody litter louts!’ the Curator said, reaching for the bottle.

Grace grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t touch it – it could be a crime exhibit and it might contain acid.’

‘Acid?’

Grace guided the beam up the severed shaft again. ‘What do you suppose that is?’

Barry stared at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

Then they both saw the rucksack wedged between two slats, a short distance above them. Grace took the torch and climbed up to it, then shone the beam inside. He saw an opened all-day-breakfast pack of sandwiches, a can of Coke, a bottle of water, a Kindle, a battered leather wallet, and what looked like an iron tyre lever.

Tucking the torch under his chin, he again pulled a pair of protective gloves from his pocket and snapped them on. Then he took out the wallet and opened it. Slotted in one pocket he saw a photograph of a small boy in a baseball cap, and a plastic Grand Hotel room key jammed in another. He put the wallet into a plastic evidence bag and slipped it into his pocket.

Then he coughed again, just grabbing the torch before it fell. He shone the beam back on the shaft. The end of it, with wisps of smoke still rising, had melted into a bulbous shape that reminded him of mercury in a thermometer. ‘What do you know about chemistry?’ he called down to the Curator.

‘Never my strong subject,’ David Barry said, staring up at the end of the shaft.

‘That makes two of us,’ Roy Grace said. ‘But I can tell you one thing. Your chandelier didn’t fall by accident.’

‘I don’t know if I’m happy to hear that or not.’

Grace barely heard him. He was thinking about Gaia’s son Roan, who had apparently been sitting beneath the chandelier seconds before it fell. Had the boy been the intended target?

No. He did not think so. His immediate hypothesis was that Gaia was the target. Something had gone wrong in the assailant’s plans. Timing? The appearance of Roan?

Who was the man crushed beneath the chandelier? The perpetrator? Or a heroic innocent bystander?

He did not think the latter. Innocence didn’t play any part in what had just happened.