One of Us Is Dead

40 Monday 3 October 2022

Jamming his sopping wet umbrella in the rack in the entrance hall of the main building, the original Malling House itself, Grace climbed the handsome staircase — which always smelled freshly polished — to the top floor, where the chief constable, deputy CC and the ACCs had their offices. It all felt very different to him, in a good way, ever since the arrest and departure of his nemesis, Assistant Chief Constable Cassian Pewe.

Being summoned to a meeting by Pewe had always felt like a scary summons to the headmaster’s office, taking him right back to his early trembling schooldays. But no longer. Coming here was now as it should be — he was going to report to his senior officer and have a constructive discussion with him.

He rapped on the panelled door facing the top of the stairs, and heard the faintly gruff voice of ACC Downing call for him to come in. Stocky and muscular with a boxer’s physique and short hair, he had a no-nonsense, straightforward air about him.

He stood and shook Grace’s hand warmly, with a powerful grip. Then he frowned. ‘Blimey, Roy, you’ve been in the wars.’

‘It’s a long story, sir, for another time,’ Grace replied. Downing offered him tea or coffee, which he declined, then the ACC indicated for him to take a seat in one of the elegant chairs in front of his desk, and sat back down.

Grace reflected for an instant on the many past occasions he’d sat in this chair, getting a grilling from Cassian Pewe, sharp but fair ACC Peter Rigg, and before him an antagonistic ACC, Alison Vosper.

Downing really was different, a breath of fresh air, in Grace’s opinion. He had the sense that, having only been very recently promoted, replacing a temporary ACC who had gone on to an ACC role in another county, he was still feeling his way, as well as preferring to be a team player rather than superior boss.

The room was as grand as ever, with its fine view out over the front lawn and the gently sloping silhouette of the South Downs beyond, but it somehow felt lighter, airier, more welcoming.

Downing, jacket off, in his white shirt, with epaulettes bearing crossed tipstaves inside a laurel wreath, and black tie, smiled. ‘So, Roy, the Chief is anxious for an update on Operation Meadow.’ He spoke with a broad Scottish accent. ‘People in the area are shunning mushrooms in shops and stores and market stalls, not helped by what the Argus and the Sussex Express and other people are saying — and there was an alarmist piece on the Danny Pike show on the radio this morning. Do you have any suspects — a prime suspect perhaps? Are you anywhere close to an arrest?’

These were the first questions Grace knew he would be asked; he’d been prepping for them on the short walk over, through the rain. ‘At the moment, sir, our prime suspect is a dead man.’

Downing looked predictably puzzled. ‘Would you like to elaborate?’

Grace told him all he knew so far.

‘So a blind man is captured on CCTV walking with his guide dog towards the front entrance of the Organica supermarket and is not seen again for twenty minutes. During that same twenty minutes, a person in a hoodie and dark glasses is picked up on the supermarket’s internal security cameras. This person leaves the store and vanishes into thin air, and then, hey presto! Our blind man and dog reappear. Is that about the size of it?’

‘It is, sir, yes.’

‘And you have opinions from the Met Facial Recognition Team, corroborated by the forensic gait analyst, that this person in the checkout queue and this blind man could be Rufus Rorke, who might not be so dead after all?’

‘Yes, that’s correct, sir.’

‘Despite the convincing evidence that Rufus Rorke drowned at sea two years ago.’

‘No body was ever recovered,’ Grace replied.

‘Remains of a jacket containing his DNA, as well as a distinctive pen his wife had given him, I understand? Bite marks on the fabric consistent with a shark attack? You’ve interviewed the yacht captain yourself as well as the crew member who was near him when he went overboard. Correct?’

‘Correct, sir.’

‘Is there any part of their stories you have doubts about?’

‘Not their stories, no.’

‘I’ve read the Barbados coroner’s report — it’s pretty conclusive,’ the ACC said.

‘It is a thorough report, sir. If indeed Rorke had been attacked by a shark in the water — and the remains of his jacket found by the fisherman is evidence of this — then his body would be unlikely to ever be recovered. But if we follow the science — and we have two separate areas of forensic science, Facial Recognition and Gait Analysis — both indicate that Rorke may indeed still be alive.’

Downing looked at him, puzzled. ‘Are you saying the Barbados coroner is wrong, Roy?’

‘Someone is wrong or someone is lying, sir. We know from past experience working with Professor Kelly that the way everyone walks is as unique as their DNA.’

‘You’re saying no two people have an identical way of walking, Roy?’

‘That’s right.’

Downing looked sceptical. ‘I would say that’s a bit of an exaggeration.’

‘Not in my experience so far, sir, no. But even so, we have two other factors to add in — the Facial Recognition, and that shortly before Rorke disappeared, he was the prime suspect in Operation Stenographer, the investigation into the murder of lottery winner Pauline Ormonde.’

‘I recall that case.’

Grace nodded. ‘At the time, Rorke was on the National Crime Agency’s radar as well as Europol’s. It was suspected he was supplying 3D printed weapons, among a range of other services, via the dark web, and then he was linked to Mrs Ormonde’s murder.’ He paused to let this sink in before continuing. ‘It was a very convenient time to disappear.’

Downing scratched the back of his neck. ‘You’ve not convinced me yet, Roy, but I hear what you’re saying.’

That was a lot more than he’d ever have got from Pewe, Grace thought.

‘So, Roy, where do you take the investigation from here?’

‘I intend to contact DC Carruthers, who is working undercover on the dark web, to follow up all this information and see where it takes us. I also would like your support to my decision to put twenty-four-hour surveillance on Rorke’s “widow”, Fiona.’ He indicated quote marks with his fingers as he said the word widow.

Downing reacted with a predictable frown. ‘That kind of surveillance is a big ask.’

‘I know, sir. But I think we might have a John Stonehouse situation — that Rorke’s disappearance might not be what it seems. Remember John Darwin? The man who faked his death by drowning after his canoe capsized — and later turned up in a photograph with his wife, Anne, in Panama? He was another one. It’s worth exploring — to see if Fiona Rorke might just lead us to her husband. And if she doesn’t perhaps their children might.’

To be effective, surveillance required three teams of eight people around the clock. Sussex Police only had capacity for a maximum of three such operations at the same time, and they were always in demand. As well as there being a major budget issue to contend with.

‘And your rationale is?’

‘From our intel, Rorke and his very posh wife had a pretty toxic relationship in the months before his apparent death.’

‘So they went on an expensive, idyllic private cruise in an attempt to patch things up, perhaps?’ Downing suggested.

‘I have a different hypothesis, sir. Rufus Rorke and his wife shared a love of two things: money and their twin boys, but not in equal proportions. She loved money and he loved the boys. From what I’ve learned about Fiona Rorke, money was the number-one priority, the children came second. If her husband had been arrested — and subsequently convicted — she would have potentially faced losing all the wealth she enjoyed, under the Proceeds of Crime Act. So my hypothesis is that they hatched a plan to fake his disappearance.’

‘And all this is based on the findings of your forensic gait analyst and the Met Facial Recognition Team?’

‘So far, but I need more, sir. Which is why I want you to sanction flying one of my team to Barbados to interview the fisherman, John Baker, who found the remains of Rorke’s jacket.’

‘What do you think one of your officers will get from this Mr Baker that the Barbados Police and coroner failed to get?’

‘The truth,’ Grace said, levelly.

‘What reason would the fisherman have to lie?’

‘My dad was a deep-sea fisherman for a few years after retiring from Brighton Police. I used to go out with him and know from experience the ocean is a very big place. The word is that Rorke allegedly went overboard in the early hours of the morning, in a force seven gale, five miles off the coast of Barbados. He’s attacked by a shark, which rips an arm and part of the shoulder off his white dinner jacket. Two days later, the rest of the jacket winds itself around one of the ropes of a fishing net, a few nautical miles from the yacht’s known position at the time Rorke went overboard. The probability of that jacket wrapping around that rope is infinitesimally small, even if John Baker happened to be fishing in the vicinity of where Rorke went overboard. But there’s something that bothers me even more — something I’ve been thinking about a lot that I don’t think anyone has properly considered.’

‘Which is?’ Downing asked.

‘I don’t know about you, sir, but, if I fell off the back of a yacht into the oggin and I was wearing a jacket, that jacket would severely restrict me from swimming. I’d want to get it off, along with my shoes, as quickly as possible.’

‘What about if the shark attacked him almost immediately, before he’d had the chance to remove it?’ the ACC posited.

‘That gives me another problem. So the shark bites off his arm and part of his shoulder — even if it didn’t touch him again, those injuries would be fatal, he’d bleed out very quickly and lose consciousness almost instantly.’

‘I agree.’

‘Is he really going to take his jacket off before he does lose consciousness? Bearing in mind he’s now in agony, being tossed around in a raging sea? I don’t think so.’

Downing was staring at him and Grace could see the penny had dropped. ‘You’re saying how can the jacket have come off his body?’

‘Exactly, sir. He would either have suffered more bites from the shark, or passed out and died from loss of blood, or drowned first. So how did the jacket come away from his body? Surely it would have gone down with him.’

Downing nodded. ‘How do you explain the blood on the jacket?’

Grace smiled. ‘I can’t — maybe John Baker can.’

‘If he’s not told the Barbados Police, why would he tell one of your team?’

Grace smiled again. ‘Maybe they didn’t ask him the right questions. I know someone on my team who will — and has the best chance of getting honest answers.’

The ACC nodded slowly. ‘I see where you’re coming from, Roy. But it’s still a big ask.’

‘I’m going to need you to trust me on this, sir.’

Nigel Downing stared at him for some moments. ‘Do I have an option?’

‘You can say no, sir.’

‘And why would I want to do that?’

‘So that you don’t look an idiot if I’m wrong.’

Downing smiled back. ‘So don’t be wrong.’