Dead Man's Grip (15 page)

Rigg was a dapper, distinguished-looking man in his mid-forties, with a healthy complexion, fair hair neatly and conservatively cut, and a sharp, public school voice. Although several inches shorter than Grace, he had fine posture, giving him a military bearing which made him seem taller than his actual height. He was dressed in a plain navy suit, a gingham shirt and a striped tie. Several motor-racing pictures adorned his walls.

He was on the phone when Grace entered, but waved him cheerily to sit at one of the two leather-covered chairs in front of the huge rosewood desk, then put a hand over the receiver and asked Grace if he would like anything to drink.

‘I’d love a coffee – strong with some milk, please, sir.’

Rigg repeated the order down the phone, to either his MSA or his Staff Officer, Grace presumed. Then he hung up and smiled at Grace. The man’s manner was pleasant but no-nonsense. Like most of the force’s ACCs, he struck Grace clearly as potential Chief Constable material one day. A position he himself never aspired to, because he knew he would not have sufficient self-control to play the required politics. He liked being a hands-on detective; that’s what he was best at doing and it was the job he loved.

In many ways he would have preferred to remain a Detective Inspector, as he had been a couple of years ago, involved on the front line in every investigation. Accepting the promotion to his current role as Detective Superintendent, and more recently taking on the responsibility for Major Crime, burdened him with more bureaucracy and politics than he was comfortable with. But at least when he wanted to he still had the option to roll his sleeves up and get involved in cases. No one would stop him. The only deterrent was the ever-growing paper mountain in his office.

‘I hear that your girlfriend’s in hospital, Roy,’ Rigg said.

Grace was surprised that he knew.

‘Yes, sir. She has pregnancy complications.’

His eyes fell on two framed photographs on the desk. One showed a confident-looking teenage boy with tousled fair hair, dressed in a rugby shirt, smiling as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and the other a girl of about twelve, in a pinafore, with long fair curls and a cheeky grin on her face. He felt a twinge of envy. Maybe, with luck, he’d have photos like that on his desk one day, too.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Rigg said. ‘If you need any time out, let me know. How many weeks is she?’

‘Twenty-six.’

He frowned. ‘Well, let’s hope all’s OK.’

‘Thank you, sir. She’s coming home tomorrow, so it looks like she’s out of immediate danger.’

As the MSA came in with Grace’s coffee, the ACC looked down at a sheet of printed paper on his blotter, on which were some handwritten notes. ‘
Operation Violin
,’ he said pensively. Then he looked up with a grin. ‘Good to know our computer’s got a sense of humour!’

Now it was Grace’s turn to frown. ‘A sense of humour?’

‘Don’t you remember that film
Some Like It Hot
? Didn’t the mobsters carry their machine guns in violin cases?’

‘Ah, yes, right! Of course. I hadn’t made the connection.’

Grace grinned. Then he felt a sudden, uncomfortable twinge. It had been Sandy’s favourite film of all time. They used to watch it together every Christmas, when it was repeated on television. She could repeat some of the lines perfectly. Particularly the very last line. She’d cock her head, look at him and say, “Well, nobody’s perfect!” ’

Then the smile slipped from the Assistant Chief Constable’s face. ‘Roy, I’m concerned about the Mafia connection with this case.’

Grace nodded. ‘The parents are over here now, to identify the body.’

‘I’m aware of that. What I don’t like is that we are not in terrain we’re familiar with. I think this has the potential to go pear-shaped.’

‘In what sense, sir?’

Immediately, Grace knew he shouldn’t have said that, but it was too late to retract it.

Rigg’s face darkened. ‘We’re in the middle of a bloody recession. Businesses in this city are hurting. Tourist trade is down. Brighton’s had an unwarranted reputation as the crime capital of the UK for seven decades and we are trying to do something about it, to reassure people this city is as safe as anywhere on the planet to visit. The last thing we need is the bloody American Mafia headlining in the press here.’

‘We have a good relationship with the
Argus
so I’m sure we can keep that aspect under control.’

‘You are, are you?’

Rigg was starting to look angry. It was the first time Grace had seen this side of him.

‘I think if we handle them carefully and give them plenty of information in advance of the national press, yes, we can, sir.’

‘So what about this reward?’

The word hit Grace like a sledgehammer. ‘Reward?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Reward. Yes.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean, sir.’

Rigg waved a hand, summoning Grace round to his side of the desk. He leaned forward and tapped on his keyboard, then pointed at his computer screen.

Grace saw the banner
THE ARGUS
in black letters underlined in red. Beneath were the words:
Latest Headlines. Updated 9.25 a.m.

MAFIA BOSS’S DAUGHTER OFFERS

$100,000 REWARD FOR SON’S KILLER

His heart sinking, he read on:

Fernanda Revere, daughter of New York Mafia Capo Sal Giordino, currently serving 11 consecutive life sentences for murder, this morning told
Argus
reporter Kevin Spinella outside the gates of Brighton and Hove City Mortuary, she is offering $100,000 for information leading to the identity of the van driver responsible for the death of her son, Tony Revere. Revere, 21, a student at Brighton University, was killed yesterday after his bicycle was in a multiple-vehicle collision involving an Audi car, a van and a lorry in Portland Road, Hove.

Police are appealing for witnesses. Inspector James Biggs of Hove Road Policing Unit said, ‘We are anxious to trace the driver of a white Ford Transit van involved in the collision, which drove off at speed immediately after. It was a callous act.’

‘You know what I particularly don’t like in this piece, Roy?’ Grace had a pretty good idea. ‘The wording of the reward, sir?’ Rigg nodded. ‘
Identity
,’ he said. ‘I don’t like that word. It worries me. The customary wording is
for information leading to the arrest and conviction
. I’m not happy about this
leading to the identity
wording here. It’s vigilante territory.’

‘It could just be that the woman was tired – and it wasn’t actually what she meant to say.’

Even before he had finished, Grace knew this sounded lame.

Rigg looked back at him reproachfully. ‘Last time we spoke, you told me you had this reporter, Spinella, in your pocket.’

At that moment, Grace could happily have killed Spinella with his bare hands. In fact a quick death would be too good for the man.

‘Not exactly, sir. I told you that I had forged a good working relationship with him, but I was concerned that he had a mole somewhere inside Sussex Police. I think this proves it.’

‘It proves something very different to me, Roy.’

Grace looked at him, feeling very uncomfortable suddenly.

Rigg went on, ‘It tells me that my predecessor, Alison Vosper, was right when she said I should keep a careful eye on you.’

Grace drove out of the police headquarters and threaded his way around the outskirts of Brighton towards the hospital, seething with anger and feeling totally humiliated.

All the goodwill he’d built up with ACC Rigg on his previous case, the hunt for a serial rapist, was now down the khazi. He had hoped the spectre of Alison Vosper had gone away for good, but now he realized to his dismay that she had left a poisonous legacy after all.

He dialled Kevin Spinella’s mobile phone number on his hands-free. The reporter answered almost immediately.

‘You’ve just blown all the goodwill you ever had with me and with HQ CID,’ Grace said furiously.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace, why – whatever’s the matter?’ He sounded a tad less cocky than usual.

‘You bloody well know what the issue is. Your front-page splash.’

‘Oh – ah – right – yeah, that.’ Grace could hear a clacking sound, as if the man was chewing gum.

‘I can’t believe you’ve been so damned irresponsible.’

‘We published it at Mrs Revere’s request.’

‘Without bothering to speak to anyone on the inquiry team?’

There was a silence for some moments, then, sounding meeker by the moment, Spinella said, ‘I didn’t think it was necessary.’

‘And you didn’t think about the consequences? When the police put up a reward it is in the region of five thousand pounds. What do you think you are going to achieve with this? Do you want the streets of Brighton filled with vigilantes driving around in pick-up trucks with gun racks on their roofs? It may be the way Mrs Revere does things in her country, but it’s not how we do it here, and you’re experienced enough to know that.’

‘Sorry if I’ve upset you, Detective Superintendent.’

‘You know what? You don’t sound at all sorry. But you will be. This’ll come back to bite you, I can promise you that.’

Grace hung up, then returned a missed call from Glenn Branson.

‘Yo, old-timer!’ the Detective Sergeant said, before Grace had a chance to get a word out. ‘Listen, I just realized something.
Operation Violin
– that’s well clever! Kind of suitable for something involving the New York Mafia!’

‘
Some Like It Hot
?’ Grace said.

Branson sounded crestfallen. ‘Oh, you’re there already.’

‘Yep, sorry to ruin your morning.’ Grace decided not to spoil his rare moment of one-upmanship on films with his friend by revealing his source. Then rapidly changing the subject, he asked, ‘What’s happening?’

‘We got doorstepped outside the mortuary by that shit Spinella. I imagine there’ll be something in the
Argus
tonight.’

‘There’s already something in the online edition,’ Grace said.

Then he told him the gist of the piece, his dressing-down from ACC Rigg and his conversation just now with the reporter.

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t do anything, boss. He was right outside the mortuary, knew exactly who they were and took them aside.’

‘Who tipped him off?’

‘Must have been dozens of people who knew the parents were coming over. Not just in CID – could have been someone in the hotel. I’ll say one thing about Spinella, he’s a grafter.’

Grace did not reply for a moment. Sure, it could easily have been someone at the hotel. A porter getting the occasional bung for tipping off the paper. Perhaps that’s all it was. But there was just too much consistency about Spinella always being in the right place at the right time.

It had to be an insider.

‘Where are the parents now?’

‘They’re with Bella Moy and the Coroner’s Officer. They’re not happy that the body’s not being released to them right away – that it’s up to the Coroner. The defence may want a second postmortem.’

‘What kind of people are they?’ Grace asked.

‘The father’s creepy but he’s pretty sensible. Very shaken. The mother’s poison. But, hey, she identified her dead son, right? That’s not a good place to judge anyone, so who can tell? But she wears the trousers, for sure, and I’d say she’s the bitch queen from hell. I wouldn’t want to tangle with either of them.’

Grace was heading west on the A27. Coming up on his right was the campus of Sussex University. He took the left slip, heading to Falmer, passing part of Brighton University on his right, where the dead boy had attended, and the imposing structure of the American Express Community Stadium where the local football team, the Albion, would soon be moving to, a building he was beginning to really like as it took shape, even though he wasn’t a football fan.

‘The wording Spinella used about the reward. Do you see anything sinister behind that – about paying money for the van driver’s identity rather than his arrest and conviction?’

His question was greeted with silence and Grace realized the connection had dropped. He leaned forward and redialled on the hands-free.

When Glenn answered, Grace told him the ACC’s concerns.

‘What does he mean by
the potential to go pear-shaped
?’ Branson queried.

‘I don’t know,’ Grace answered truthfully. ‘I think a lot of people get nervous at any mention of the word
Mafia
. The Chief Constable’s under pressure to get rid of Brighton’s historic image of a crime-ridden resort, so they want to keep the Mafia connection as low key as possible, I’m guessing.’

‘I thought the New York Mafia had been pretty much decimated.’

‘They’re not as powerful as they used to be, but they’re still players. We need to find that white van fast and get the driver under arrest. That’ll take the heat off everything.’

‘You mean get him into protective custody, boss?’

‘You’ve seen too many Mafia movies,’ Grace said. ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’

‘One hundred grand,’ Glenn Branson replied, putting on an accent mimicking
The Godfather
, sounding as if he had a mouth full of rocks. ‘That’s gonna be an offer someone can’t refuse.’

‘Put a sock in it.’

But, Grace thought privately, Branson could well be right.

Lou Revere didn’t like it when his wife drank heavily, and these past few years, since their three kids had gotten older and left home, Fernanda hit the bottle hard most evenings. It had become the norm for her to be tottering unsteadily around the house by around 8 p.m.

The drunker she was, the more bad-tempered she became, and she would start blaming Lou for almost anything that came into her head that she was not happy about. One moment it was the height at which a television was fixed to the wall, because it hurt her neck to watch. The next might be because she didn’t like the way he’d left his golf clothes on the bedroom floor. But the most consistent of her tirades was blaming him for their younger son, Tony, on whom she doted, going to live with that piece of trash in England.