One of Us Is Dead

38 Monday 3 October 2022

Roy Grace sat at his desk, his lunch, a tuna and cucumber sandwich, lying in front of him in its unopened packaging. Glenn Branson sat opposite, crumbs from his massive blueberry muffin littering much of his side of the desk. Even more fell, like a snow flurry, as he took another bite and talked at the same time, but he didn’t seem to notice. He glanced at his watch — it was just gone 2 p.m.

‘You’re looking a lot better, less bruised, but dare I say... a bit glum, matey?’ Branson said.

Grace shook his head, then gave a wry smile. ‘Got Cleo’s uncle and auntie arriving for a few days — their annual visit to their nephew and niece.’

‘Nice,’ Branson said. Then sensing Grace’s mood added, ‘Nice — not?’

‘He’s eighty-seven, deaf as a post and refuses to wear a hearing aid because he says it makes him look old.’

‘Aren’t you entitled to look old when you’re eighty-seven?’

‘He’s a stubborn bugger, and he knows everything — everything about everything.’

‘Handy.’

‘Not when you have to listen to how he would reform the police before, during and after every meal. He’s a right pedant — used to be a building inspector and tells me everything that’s wrong in our house.’

‘And the auntie?’

‘Five minutes with her ailments and doom-mongering and you’re done.’

‘Sounds like you’re in for a party! Want to come and kip at our place? I owe you!’

‘I wish.’

Focusing back on work, Branson said, ‘So Norman and Will haven’t found our blind man yet?’

Grace shook his head. ‘They’ve got a ton of CCTV footage from premises along Preston Street, but no sign of our blind man and his dog. A few taxis, and a couple of illegally parked cars. They’ve put out an appeal to all local taxi firms, for drivers who might either have picked him and his dog up, or alternatively were in the vicinity of Preston Street around that time and might have picked him up on their dashcams. The Argus are going to show one of the CCTV images of our blind man and his dog walking along Western Road in tomorrow’s print version, and it’s going to go up online before then.’

Branson took another bite, delivering another flurry of crumbs onto the desk, oblivious to Grace’s frown.

‘You know you’re eating pure sugar, don’t you?’ the detective superintendent said.

‘Got blueberries in it — one of my five-a-day.’

‘Dream on,’ Grace said. ‘Heart attack on a plate — or in your case, on my desk.’

‘So you think your tuna sandwich is the healthier option? Know how much mercury and plastic is in that tuna? Did it say sustainably caught on the package? Because that’s bollocks too.’

‘Is there anything we can actually eat?’ Grace asked with a smile. ‘Eggs are bad, even free-range ones because they force hens to keep ovulating. Plants are sentient, according to the latest thinking, so it’s cruel to eat them.’

‘Muffins!’ Branson said, with a triumphant grin and a final spray of crumbs.

‘Of course. Shall we focus? I’ve got a meeting at half past with the ACC, who’s anxious to know progress on Operation Meadow.’

Branson grinned and opened his arms expansively. ‘All hail, Assistant Chief Constable Nigel Downing. Who’s never done a day’s honest coppering in his life! He was a Highways Planner, for God’s sake, Roy! He’s a seagull manager.’

‘A what?’

‘You’ve not heard the expression? Seagull managers are the ones who fly in, cause mayhem, crap all over everything, then fly away again.’

The ACC had been a so-called Direct Entry police officer. People brought in from outside the force, usually at middle-management level, to help bring a broader outlook into the police, and better management skills. Their introduction had long been a source of controversy within the force, but Grace’s view was that, so long as they understood the limits of their actual operational policing expertise, there was a lot of value to the scheme. ‘Yadda... yadda... yadda...’ he said. ‘We agree to disagree, Glenn, now focus!’

‘I’m all ears.’

Grace, who always tried to keep his desk tidy, frowned again as his colleague leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head, clearly having no intention of clearing up the mess on his desk. Ignoring his sandwich, although he was hungry, he said, ‘Disappearing.’

‘Disappearing? Natural selection?’ Branson frowned.

He shook his head. ‘I’m thinking about Rufus Rorke. Haydn Kelly is convinced he’s both the man in the supermarket and that he’s the blind man. So let’s go with that for the moment. When you’re in a court of law, smart barristers, for both the prosecution and defence, constantly bring up previous cases as setting legal precedents. I can think of a number of cases where villains have faked their own disappearance to avoid justice. One of the most famous was the MP John Stonehouse. He ended up with long sentences, right?’

‘He did. So Rufus Rorke was declared dead after seemingly vanishing overboard from a yacht off the coast of Barbados, while on holiday with his wife. Yet he has now been positively identified by Haydn Kelly on two occasions. Kelly is an expert witness with a highly dependable track record. Could we have another John Stonehouse situation here? He faked his death on a beach in Miami and was found living in Australia with his mistress. Perhaps his Achilles heel was his love life?’

‘So how do we find him?’

‘I have an idea. Fancy a trip to Barbados?’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Let’s see if our Highways Planner buys it.’