Not Dead Enough (17 page)

To the casual visitor, Brighton became Hove at the only part of the border that was actually marked, by a rather fine statue on the promenade of a winged angel holding an orb in one hand and an olive branch in the other: the Peace Statue. Grace, in the passenger seat of the Ford Mondeo, stared at it over to his left, out of the window, silhouetted against the steadily darkening sky.

On the opposite side of the road, two lines of traffic streamed into Brighton. With the windows down, he could hear every car. The blam-blam of show-off exhausts, the boom-boom-boom of in-car woofers, the stuttering rasp of tuc-tuc tricycle taxis. Hell was Friday night in central Brighton. Over the coming hours, the city would explode into life, and the police would be out in force, mostly down West Street – Brighton’s answer to the Las Vegas strip – doing their best, as they did every Friday night, to stop the place turning into a drug-fuelled war zone.

From memories of his own time as a beat copper here, he did not envy the uniform crews out tonight one bit.

The light changed to green. Branson put the car in gear and moved forward in the slow stream of traffic. Regency Square was passing by on their right. Grace peered past Branson’s bulk at the fine square of cream-painted eighteenth-century facades, with gardens in the middle, marred by signs for an underground car park and various letting agencies. Then Norfolk Square, a cheap-rent area. Students. Transients. Hookers. And the impoverished elderly. On Grace’s left now was coming up a part of this city he loved the most, the Hove Lawns, a large expanse of neatly mown grass behind the seafront promenade, with its green shelters and, a short distance further on, its beach huts.

In daytime you could spot the old codgers out in force. Men in blue blazers, suede brogues, cravats, taking their constitutionals, some steadied by their walking sticks or Zimmer frames. Blue-rinse dowagers with chalky faces and ruby lips, exercising their Pekinese, holding their leads in white-gloved hands. Stooped figures in white flannels, moving in slow motion around the bowling greens. And nearby, ignoring them as if they were all already long dead, were the clusters of iPodded kids who now owned the promenade on the far side of the railings, with their roller blades and skateboards, and games of volleyball, and their sheer, raw youth.

He wondered, sometimes, if he would make old bones. And what it would be like. To be retired, hobbling along, confused by the past, bewildered by the present and with the future mostly irrelevant. Or being pushed along in a wheelchair, with a blanket over his knees, another one over his mind.

Sandy and he used to joke about it sometimes. Promise me you’ll never drool, Grace, no matter how gaga you get? she used to say. But it had been a comfortable joke, the kind of banter engaged in by two people content together, happy at the prospect of growing old as long as they are able to make that journey together. Another reason he just could not fathom her disappearance.

Munich.

He had to go. Somehow, he had to go there, and quickly. He desperately wanted to get on a plane tomorrow, but he couldn’t. He had responsibilities to this case, and the first twenty-four hours were crucial. And with Alison Vosper breathing down his neck . . . Perhaps, if things went well tomorrow, he could go over there on Sunday. Over and back in one day. He might be able to get away with that.

There was just one more problem: what was he going to say to Cleo?

Glenn Branson was holding his mobile phone to his ear, despite the fact that he was driving. Suddenly, glumly, he switched it off and placed it back in his top pocket. ‘Ari’s not picking up,’ he said, raising his voice above the music that was playing on the car’s stereo. ‘I just want to say goodnight to the kids. What do you think I should do?’

The Detective Sergeant had selected a local pop station, Surf, on Grace’s car radio, shunning his own music collection. A God-awful rap song from some group Grace had never heard of was belting out, far more loudly than was comfortable for him. ‘You could turn the bloody music down for starters!’

Branson turned it down. ‘Do you think I should go round there – after we’re done, I mean?’

‘Jesus,’ Grace said. ‘I’m the last person on the planet to ask about marital advice. Look at the fuck-up of my life.’

‘Well, it’s different. I mean, like, I could go home, yeah?’

‘It’s your legal right.’

‘I don’t want a scene in front of the kids.’

‘I think you should give her space. Leave it a couple of days, see if she calls.’

‘You sure you’re OK about me crashing with you? I’m not cramping your style or anything? You’re cool about it?’

‘Totally,’ Grace said, through gritted teeth.

Branson, picking up on the absence of enthusiasm in his voice, said, ‘I could check into a hotel or something, if you’d rather?’

‘You’re my mate,’ Grace said. ‘Mates look after each other.’

Branson turned right into a wide, elegant street, lined on both sides with once-grand Regency terraced houses. He slowed down, then pulled over in front of the triple-fronted portals of the Lansdowne Place Hotel and killed the engine, mercifully, thought Grace, silencing the music. Then he switched off the lights.

Not long back, the place had been a tired old two-star dump, inhabited by a handful of geriatric resident guests and a spattering of drab trippers on budget seaside package tours. Now it had been transformed into one of the city’s latest hip hotels.

They climbed out of the car and went inside, to a riot of purple velour, chrome and gilded kitsch, and walked up to the front desk. A female receptionist, tall and statuesque in a black tunic and a Bettie Page black fringe, greeted them with an efficient smile. Her gold lapel badge read Greta.

Grace showed her his police warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace of the Sussex CID. My colleague and I would like to have a word with a guest who checked in a short while ago – Mr Brian Bishop.’

Her smile assumed the motions of a deflating balloon, as she looked down at her computer screen and tapped on her keyboard. ‘Mr Brian Bishop?’

‘Yes.’

‘One moment, gentlemen.’ She picked up a phone and pressed a couple of buttons. After half a minute or so, she replaced the receiver. ‘I’m sorry, he doesn’t seem to be picking up.’

‘We are concerned about this person. Could we go up to his room?’

Looking totally thrown now, she said, ‘I need to speak to the manager.’

‘That’s fine,’ Grace replied.

And five minutes later, for the second time in the past hour, he found himself entering an empty hotel bedroom.

36

Skunk was always in his office on Friday nights, when the richest pickings of the week were up for grabs. People out for a good time were carefree – and careless. By eight o’clock, the city centre car parks were filling to near capacity. Locals and visitors jostled along Brighton’s old, narrow streets, packing the pubs, bars and restaurants, and later on, the younger ones, high and drunk, would be starting to queue outside the clubs.

A large Tesco carrier bag swung from his arm as he progressed slowly through the teeming throng, squeezing his way at times past packed outdoor tables. The warm downtown air was laced with a thousand scents. Colognes, perfumes, cigarette smoke, exhaust fumes, olive oil and spices searing on cooking pans, and always the tang of salt in the air. His mind elsewhere, he tuned out the chatter, the laughter, the clack-clack-clack of high heels tripping along on paving stones, the boom of music from open doors and windows. Tonight he only vaguely clocked the Rolex watches on tanned wrists, the diamond brooches, necklaces and rings, the tell-tale bulges in men’s jackets where a plump wallet sat for the taking.

Tonight he had bigger fish to fry.

Heading down East Street, he felt like he was pushing through an incoming tide. Forking right, past the Latin in the Lane restaurant, behind the Thistle Hotel, he then turned right along the seafront, stepping around a teenage girl having a screaming, tearful row with a spiky-haired boy, and made his way past the Old Ship, the Brighton Centre, the smart Grand and Metropole hotels – neither of which he had ever been inside. Finally, sticky with sweat, he reached Regency Square.

Avoiding the exit/entrance, where an NCP attendant sat, he walked up to the top of the square, then down concrete steps which stank of urine, into the centre of the second level of the car park. With the cash he was going to get from this job, he would buy himself another bag of brown, and then anything else that might come his way later on tonight at one of the clubs. All he had to do was find a car that matched the one on the shopping list folded in his trouser pocket.

Inside his carrier bag was a set of number plates, copied from the model he had seen earlier. When he found the right car, a new-shape Audi A4 convertible, automatic, low mileage, metallic blue, silver or black, he would simply put those plates on it. That way, if the owner reported it stolen, the police would be looking for a car with different plates.

There was almost bound to be something suitable here. If not, he’d try another car park. And if the worst came to the worst, he’d find one on the street. It was a rich bitch’s car, and there was no shortage of rich, peroxided, nip-and-tucked bitches in this city. He wouldn’t mind an Audi convertible himself. He could see himself, in some parallel universe, driving Bethany along the seafront, on a warm Friday night, the music up loud, the heater on his feet and the smell of new leather all around him.

One day.

One day, things would be different.

He found a car within minutes, at the back of the third level. A dark shade of opalescent blue or green – it was hard to tell in the shitty light down here – with a black roof and cream leather seats. Its licence plate indicated it was less than six months old, but when he reached the car and noticed the smell of freshly burnt oil rising from it, he realized, to his joy, it was brand new. Not a mark on it!

And the owner had very conveniently parked it nose in, close to a pillar.

Checking carefully there was no one around, he walked up the side of the car and put his hand on the bonnet. It felt hot. Good. That meant it must have just recently been driven in here; so, with luck, it would be some hours before its owner returned. But just as a precaution he still removed the two sets of licence plates from his carrier bag and stuck them, with double-sided tape, over the originals.

Then from his bag he removed what would look, to any police officer who stopped him, like a Sky TV remote control. He aimed it, through the driver’s window, at the dash panel, punched in the code he had been given and then the green button.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. The red light showed on the remote but nothing else happened.

Shit. He looked around again, more nervously now, then went up to the front of the car and knelt by the right headlamp. Shielded by the car and the pillar, he relaxed a little. It was easy. He’d done this before; at least a dozen Audis. A five-minute job, max.

Removing a screwdriver from the plastic bag, he began unscrewing the front right headlight-restraining rim. When he had finished, he eased out the sealed headlamp unit and let it dangle on its flex. Then, taking a pair of pliers, he reached his arm through the empty headlight socket, felt around until he found the wire to the horn and cut it. Next he groped about, cursing suddenly as he accidentally touched the hot engine casing, burning his knuckles, until he located the auto locking mechanism. Then he cut through the wires, disabling it.

He replaced the headlamp, then opened the driver’s door, setting off the headlamp flashers – all that the crippled alarm system now had left in its armoury. Moments later he plucked the fuse for the flashers out of the box and dropped it into his bag. Then he popped the bonnet and bridged the solenoid and the starter motor. Instantly, the engine roared sweetly into life.

He slipped into the driver’s seat and gave the steering wheel a hard wrench, snapping the lock. Then he saw to his joy that he was going to make himself a little bonus tonight. The owner had graciously left the car-park ticket on the passenger seat. And Barry Spiker, the tight bastard he did these jobs for, who had given him twenty-seven quid to cover the all-day parking charge penalty to get the car out of the NCP, would be none the wiser!

Two minutes later, having forked out just two pounds to the attendant, he drove the car gleefully up the ramp, already twenty-five pounds in profit. He was in such a good mood that he stopped at the top of the ramp, turned the music up loud, and lowered the roof.

It was not a smart move.

37

‘How are you?’ Sophie asked imploringly. ‘What’s happened? How—?’

‘Try it on,’ he said sharply, putting the package on the tray, ignoring her questions.

Out in the falling dusk, a siren wailed, momentarily drowning out the faint, low, four-beat boom-boom-boom-boom of dance music that was getting increasingly tiresome.

Sophie, astonished – and uneasy at his behaviour – meekly untied the bow, then peered into the gift box. All she could see for the moment was tissue paper.

Out of the corner of her eye, on the television screen, she saw Chris Tarrant mouth the words, ‘Final answer?’

The geeky-looking guy in big glasses nodded.

A yellow flashing light encircled the name Morocco.

Moments later, on the screen, a flashing green light encircled Tunisia.

Chris Tarrant’s eyebrows shot several inches up his forehead.

The lady in the wheelchair, who had looked earlier as if she was about to be hit by a cricket bat, now looked as if she had been hit by a sledgehammer. Meanwhile, her husband seemed to shrink in his seat.

Sophie lipread Tarrant saying, ‘John, you had sixty-four thousand pounds . . .’

‘You want to watch television or open the gift I’ve bought you?’ he said.

Swinging her tray of food on to her bedside table, she said, ‘The gift, of course! But I want to know how you are. I want to know about—’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. Open it!’ he said in a tone suddenly so aggressive it startled her.