One of Us Is Dead

66 Wednesday 12 October 2022

Shortly before 7 a.m., Grace, holding a mug of coffee in his hand, stood in the conference room of the Major Crime suite. He’d not had much sleep after calling ACC Downing last night to inform him that the deaths of Dermot Bryson and Tracey Dawson were being treated as murder and of his suspicions about Rufus Rorke, giving him reason to put this investigation under the same Operation Meadow umbrella as the Barnie Wallace inquiry.

He’d lain awake in bed, his brain racing, thinking about everything he needed to do today on the dual investigation. And on the way in this morning, he’d called Aiden Gilbert and left a message.

He was now studying the association chart for Dermot Bryson, which was pinned on a whiteboard next to the one for Barnie Wallace. Two men murdered in ways that made their deaths look like accidents. The MO of the perhaps not-so-deceased murder suspect, Rufus Rorke?

The death of Brighton University professor Bill Llewellyn was also on the radar for this same inquiry, having been brought to his attention by both a Sussex coroner and Cleo as another unusual death. But Grace didn’t feel, at this stage, that he had enough to connect it to these two, and that for the moment it might be a distraction.

Barnie Wallace had a clear link to Rufus Rorke, through their schooldays. But there was nothing at all, so far, to link Wallace to Bryson — nor to Bryson’s girlfriend, Tracey Dawson. He sat down and began making a number of updates to the agenda for the 8.30 a.m. briefing he had called for Operation Meadow. But, just as he started, Glenn Branson came into the room, wearing the kind of shouty suit, shirt and tie combination that, Grace thought, was more appropriate for a 1950s seaside spiv. ‘Morning, early bird,’ the DI said chirpily.

Grace looked up at him then covered his eyes in mock horror.

‘Dazzled by my brilliance?’ Branson asked.

‘Glad to see your tailor hasn’t lost his sense of humour, matey.’

Branson looked mock-offended. ‘My tailor is a man of the ultimate taste and discernment. And now I wouldn’t be seen in any other suit than a Gresham Blake one.’

Grace shook his head. ‘Do you need me to remind you again why detectives wear suits, with shirt and tie and clean shoes?’

‘So we give a respectable image when we turn up to people’s homes or business premises.’

‘Precisely. In order to give them confidence. Not make them feel that you’re about to produce a string of dodgy watches from your inside pocket.’

‘So you don’t like my threads?’

‘It’s a very nice whistle, suit, threads, whatever you want to call it. But you’re a detective. You need to be just a tad more discreet — in my humble opinion.’

Branson, stroking the front of his jacket, looked hurt. ‘I actually thought this was discreet — respectful, like, it’s mostly black, yeah?’

‘Maybe if you put a flashing purple lightbulb on your head, you might look a little more discreet.’

Just as Branson frowned, Grace’s job phone rang. It was Aiden Gilbert. Grace put him on loudspeaker.

‘Roy, good news, we’ve broken the encryption on Barnie Wallace’s computer and accessed more photographs from his phone.’

‘Nice work, Aiden.’

‘Most of the credit goes to Charlotte Mckee — she broke the phone first, and then she found the password to the computer hidden on the phone — winner winner, chicken dinner!’

Grace laughed.

‘I think we’ve got quite a lot of stuff, but I don’t know what’s going to be helpful to you and what isn’t.’

Grace looked at his electronic diary. As was normal in the early stages of a murder inquiry, his PA — shared with several other Major Crime Team detectives — had cancelled all his non-urgent meetings. ‘I can be with you in half an hour, Aiden.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’