Not Dead Yet

97

Grace hurried back across the Pavilion lawns towards his car with a spring in his step. Despite his worries, he felt he was walking on air. He’d never imagined the day might come when he was kissed by an icon!

‘What are you smiling about, chief?’ Jason Tingley greeted him, standing by his car. ‘You look like you just won the lottery!’

‘Gaia’s kid’s okay, thank God. I’m relieved, that’s all.’

‘You sure that’s all it is?’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’ Grace grinned at him. Tingley was a sharp detective who missed nothing.

The DI looked at his watch. ‘That was a long five minutes. Get lucky in there, did you?’

‘It was a purely professional visit.’

‘Oh yes?’

Ignoring the innuendo, Grace climbed into the car and pulled his seat belt on. Tingley sat in the passenger seat. ‘None of my business, of course,’ he said.

There was a rap on Grace’s window. He lowered it to talk to the tall woman with long fair hair who was holding a reporter’s notepad.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’ she queried. ‘Sorry to bother you. Iona Spencer, from the Argus.’

Shit, Grace thought, cursing silently. He should have known that Spinella would be replaced pretty smartly. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Is there anything you could tell me about what’s happening in the Pavilion? I gather there’s been a fatality.’

‘There’ll be a press conference in the morning,’ he said, politely. ‘It would appear at the moment that a maintenance worker has been fatally injured in an industrial accident.’

‘Are any of the cast of the film involved?’

‘No, I can assure you of that. I’m sorry, we are in a hurry, but I will have more information for you tomorrow.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

As he drove off, Tingley commented, ‘Well, at least she’s better looking than Spinella.’

‘And better mannered,’ Grace said, inserting his phone into the hands-free cradle, then calling the Chief Constable’s number.

Five minutes later Grace pulled the car up on the driveway in front of The Grand Hotel, and they went inside and straight up to the front desk. Grace was aware that, strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be doing this kind of legwork they were embarking on, and should have delegated it to a much lower rank – a DC or DS. But, having been given overall responsibility for Gaia’s security, at this moment he wanted to be hands on. Equally importantly, he genuinely loved real, old-fashioned detective work – the slog to find clues and unravel tiny parts of the puzzle. If he let it, his work would keep him permanently desk-bound, and he never wanted that to happen.

He showed his warrant card to a young woman on duty on reception, then handed her the plastic room key he had retrieved from the wallet inside the rucksack in the Pavilion’s roof space.

‘We need to identify someone who has been fatally injured in an accident, and we found this in what we believe are his belongings. Could you tell us who this room is registered to, please.’

She inserted the key into her computer and moments later said, ‘Room 608, Mr Jerry Baxter. I have an address for him in New York.’

Tingley jotted it down.

‘Can we see the room, please?’ Grace asked.

‘I’ll phone the duty manager – actually, the General Manager is here, I’ll call him.’

Andrew Mosley had, it seemed to Grace, all the qualities required of a consummate hotelier. Smart appearance, a charming manner, an efficient air and impeccable manners. He took them up in the lift, along the corridor then knocked, dutifully, on the door of room 608 and waited some moments. Then he knocked again. When he was satisfied no one was answering, he inserted the key and pushed the door open, calling out a cautious ‘Hello?’ before switching on the lights.

The two detectives entered the small room, which was furnished with twin beds, an armchair, a round table on which sat a copy of Sussex Life magazine and Absolute Brighton, a side table, and a desk fixed to the wall, littered with receipts. There was a window overlooking an internal courtyard, and another door, ajar, leading through to the bathroom.

A suitcase lay open on the floor, and on the top of the clothes inside it lay a dark-blue passport bearing a crest and the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Grace pulled on a pair of gloves; Tingley followed suit. Then Grace picked up the passport and opened it, flicking rapidly through the pages until he came to the identification one.

There was a typically poor quality, photo-booth image of a hostile-looking man, in his forties when it was taken, he calculated from the date of issue, with greying hair brushed forward in a pageboy fringe. It gave his name as Drayton Robert Wheeler, and date of birth, 22 March 1956, which put him at fifty-five years old. His place of birth was New York City, USA.

‘I think this could be our man,’ Tingley said, staring at a receipt. ‘This is from Halfords. Receipt for a car battery and a tyre lever. You said there was a tyre lever in the rucksack, right?’

Grace nodded. ‘Odd things for a tourist to buy.’

‘Not as odd as six thermometers, paint stripper and chlorine,’ the DI said, looking at some of the other receipts. ‘Were you any good at chemistry at school?’

‘Not much. I thought you did a CRBN course a few years back?’ CRBN was training for Chemical, Radiological, Biological and Nuclear incidents.

‘I did, but I’d need to go online to check what could be made with this lot. Mercury is used sometimes in bomb-making.’

Grace turned to the hotel manager. ‘How’s your chemistry knowledge?’

Mosley shook his head. ‘Only very rudimentary, I’m afraid. Stink bombs at school were about my limit!’

Tingley was frowning at another receipt. ‘A baby monitor from Mothercare?’

Grace stared at the receipt. Then realized what the broken plastic fragments he had seen up above the chandelier were. Had Drayton Wheeler been listening to the Banqueting Room from up above?

Then the DI said urgently, ‘Look at this, chief!’

It was a receipt from an internet café, Café Conneckted, dated yesterday, Monday.

Grace looked at it. It was for one hour’s connection, coffee, mineral water and carrot cake. Ten pounds. ‘Do you know this place?’

‘Yes,’ Tingley said. ‘Top of Trafalgar Street.’

Grace’s mind was whirring. Thinking about the threatening email that had been sent last night.

The two detectives looked at each other. ‘Shall I send someone over there?’ Tingley asked.

Grace shook his head. ‘No, you and I are going there. I want to find out for myself.’

Tingley walked through into the bathroom. On the shelf above the sink was a row of plastic medication tubs. Grace followed him. There were six of them, each labelled with a New York pharmacy prescription band. Grace read them all.

‘This guy was some sort of junkie,’ Tingley commented.

Grace shook his head. ‘No, he was ill.’

‘How ill?’

Grace stared at one label in particular. ‘It looks to me like he had cancer. I recognize this – my father died of bowel cancer and was taking this medication, too.’ He thought for a moment. ‘That rude guy, the producer. Do you have his phone number?’

The Detective Inspector fished out his notebook and flicked through several pages. ‘Yes, I have his mobile number here.’

Grace keyed it in. He got Larry Brooker’s voicemail and left a message for him to call back urgently.