One of Us Is Dead

73 Friday 14 October 2022

‘Lee Oswald,’ Grace said, in his office, just as everyone was coming in for the morning briefing. Holding his phone to his ear and writing the name down. ‘Thanks, Mike. Anything you can remember about him — his appearance, any distinguishing features?’

There was silence for a moment. Then the electrical contractor, Mike Shaw, said, ‘He was tall, Roy, but to be honest I didn’t get a good view of his face — he had a baseball cap, dark glasses and most of his face was covered. He was very polite, well-spoken, paid me in folding.’

‘If you think of anything else about him, let me know.’

‘Of course. Has he been using it for something illegal?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mike. Let’s just say I don’t think he’s using it to provide electrical services.’

‘A bit stupid of me really, to have trusted him. I should have notified the DVLA myself.’

‘Yes, you left yourself open to any fines he racks up. I’m not an expert on this area but I’d advise you to notify the DVLA right away.’

‘I will.’

Grace ended the call.

‘Lee Harvey Oswald?’ Jon Exton questioned. ‘The man who assassinated President Kennedy?’

Potting wagged a finger in the air. ‘Might have assassinated Kennedy, Jon.’

‘Should have known you’d be a conspiracy theorist, Norman,’ Velvet Wilde said.

Ignoring them, Grace turned to Sweeney. ‘Polly, ask Jamie Carruthers to do a full check on the dark web on the name Lee Oswald, to see if it gets any hits. Luke, then you need to go through all the letting agents in the city to see if a Mr Oswald has rented in Arundel Terrace.’

Just as the researcher was about to reply, his phone rang. Glancing at the display, Stanstead said to Grace, ‘Sir, it’s one of the estate agents.’

‘Take it, Luke.’ He turned to DC Glover. ‘Will, how did you get on at Organica?’

The detective spoke up. ‘Sir, I have a section of recording from the Organica CCTV that fits with the timeline that our suspect was seen in, on September the first, two days before he made the switch. If I may play it?’

‘Go ahead.’

Will pressed the remote and overhead footage began to play. It showed a checkout counter — the same one, Grace recognized, where the mushroom switch had been made. Their suspect came into frame, dressed exactly as he had been half an hour earlier, on the CCTV footage of him walking along Chichester Terrace. He had a small hand-held Organica woven basket in which were just a few items. Two clear containers of what looked like field mushrooms. They both looked identical, to Grace, to the one where the suspect had made the switch on Barnie. A packet of nuts and what looked like a box of protein powder. He paid cash, then produced his own carrier bag from inside his coat pocket, and placed the items inside. It was green and emblazoned with the name Waitrose.

Grace made a note about checking the CCTV on local Waitrose stores as a possible line of enquiry. But he was aware there were several and it would be a big drain on resources to go back through weeks of footage in them all to see if they could spot their suspect. It was one for the back burner if all else drew blanks.

‘So,’ Branson said, ‘looks like he was doing a dummy run.’

‘They call it test purchases in retail,’ Polly Sweeney said.

‘Test purchase indeed,’ Grace said.

‘Maybe he just likes mushrooms,’ Potting said. ‘He’s a real—’

Jack Alexander’s groan stopped him in his tracks. ‘You’ve already given us all the mushroom jokes, Norman,’ he said.

‘Oh no, I haven’t — I’ve plenty more!’

‘Save them for your Christmas crackers,’ Velvet Wilde said.

Grace clocked the sudden look of sadness on Potting’s face. Velvet had unintentionally touched a raw nerve. Grace knew that after his fiancée had died, tragically, the seasoned old veteran, estranged from his four former wives and his children, had told him he’d had Christmas dinner last year on his own in a Brighton steak house. Fortunately, this year looked like it should be a far happier day for him as he and his new love, Heather, were spending Christmas together. They had booked a break in Lanzarote to meet up with her two children, who lived on either side of the globe, and Potting seemed elated to be getting more involved with her family. So far, her cancer treatment was showing only positive signs. He was pleased Potting had found a new partner and just hoped for him that it worked out.

‘So two boxes of field mushrooms,’ Potting said thoughtfully. ‘One to empty and replace with the death caps. The other to match how they are presented in the box, before he seals the death caps up?’

‘Clearly our man’s no fool,’ EJ Boutwood said.

‘Someone who charges a million pounds for a hit and gets it — if this is our man — isn’t going to be a fool,’ Grace said gravely.

‘Sir,’ Stanstead said, ending his call. ‘That was the rentals division of the estate agents Stiles Harold Williams. They handled the rental of the penthouse flat of number 118 Arundel Terrace eighteen months ago to a man called Paul Anthony.’

‘Paul Anthony?’ Grace repeated back, then wrote it down. ‘Do a Google search as well as the police national database and try to find a Paul Anthony that fits the bill. Did you get a physical description?’

‘No, sir, the agent who dealt with him has left the firm.’

‘OK, we may need to track that person down. Did you ask them about Lee Oswald?’

‘I did, sir. They don’t have anyone of that name on their books.’

Grace turned to the financial investigator. ‘Emily, see what you can come up with from the estate agents’ records. These flats in Arundel Terrace are all high-end properties. They must have taken references, a chunky deposit, and presumably a standing order for the rental payments.’

Stanstead was already tapping the name into Google. Keeping his eyes on the screen he said, ‘There are a lot of Paul Anthonys.’

‘Of course there are — if this is our man. He wouldn’t make it easy. No other rentals from anyone else, yet?’

‘Not so far, sir. I’ll ping Aiden Gilbert — in case he can help. We should get a quick answer on the dark web.’

Grace turned to Potting. ‘Any dice from the Control Room CCTV or ANPR, Norman?’

‘A double-six, I would say, chief!’

‘Really?’ He raised an intrigued eyebrow.

‘I’ve been analysing the photos of our suspects you sent from Barnie Wallace’s laptop. They were mostly clustered in the vicinity of Arundel Terrace, which coincides exactly with the timeline of his mobile phone from Charlotte Mckee. The CCTV and ANPR hits are again clustered in that area. The van has been clocked around the city, and further afield, but the majority of sightings are within half a mile of Arundel Terrace, which indicates that’s where our Mr Oswald is based.’

‘Nice work, Norman,’ he said, and looked down at his notes then looked in turn at Polly Sweeney, then Jon Exton. ‘Anything on Dermot Bryson yet? To give us any reason he might have needed a gun? For self-protection or because he was planning to shoot someone?’

‘We worked late into the night with Emily,’ Polly Sweeney said. ‘She can explain it best.’

Emily Denyer looked down at her tablet. Grace had noticed this highly efficient investigator, who wore bright red lipstick, always seemed nervous at first, blushing when she was the sudden centre of attention, but once she got into her stride, her confidence grew rapidly.

‘Until eight years ago, Dermot Bryson was just a trader on the London Metal Exchange, earning good money — around £250k annually with a bonus of up to £100k. Good money but nowhere near enough to finance his current lifestyle. He set up an offshore fund investing in a cryptocurrency start-up, which appeared to make a very substantial and rapid profit, but there was more going on that I haven’t yet got to the bottom of, but I strongly suspect an involvement in scam websites — phishing for people’s bank details then cleaning them out — but all the time washing the money through his crypto-currency dealings.’

‘Like Bitcoin, you mean?’ Nick Nicholl asked, looking a little puzzled.

‘Exactly, that kind of thing,’ she said.

‘So he could have made any number of enemies,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘Including his wife,’ Denyer said.

‘His wife?’

‘Kimberley Bryson. I ran a search on her, and she’s a piece of work,’ Denyer replied. ‘Five years before she married Dermot Bryson, Kimberley was charged with GBH after she attacked her then lover. It appears a smart brief got her off on a technicality.’

‘Did Bryson know this when he married her, Emily?’ Exton asked.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Would you have married her, knowing that?’ Nick Nicholl asked the DS.

Branson, looking pained, said, ‘Not sure I would have done.’

Polly Sweeney’s phone rang. She answered it discreetly, but, for some reason, everyone in the room sensed it was something important. Almost all eyes were on her as she politely thanked the caller and put her phone down. Then she looked at Roy Grace.

‘That was Jamie, sir. I asked him to run the searches on the dark web for the names Paul Anthony and Lee Oswald. And he’s got a result.’

‘Which is?’ Grace asked.

‘They’re the same person!’