A suitcase lay open on the floor, and on the top of the clothes inside it lay a dark-blue passport bearing a crest and the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
Grace pulled on a pair of gloves; Tingley followed suit. Then Grace picked up the passport and opened it, flicking rapidly through the pages until he came to the identification one.
There was a typically poor quality, photo-booth image of a hostile-looking man, in his forties when it was taken, he calculated from the date of issue, with greying hair brushed forward in a pageboy fringe. It gave his name as
Drayton Robert Wheeler
, and date of birth, 22 March 1956, which put him at fifty-five years old. His place of birth was New York City, USA.
‘I think this could be our man,’ Tingley said, staring at a receipt. ‘This is from Halfords. Receipt for a car battery and a tyre lever. You said there was a tyre lever in the rucksack, right?’
Grace nodded. ‘Odd things for a tourist to buy.’
‘Not as odd as six thermometers, paint stripper and chlorine,’ the DI said, looking at some of the other receipts. ‘Were you any good at chemistry at school?’
‘Not much. I thought you did a CRBN course a few years back?’ CRBN was training for Chemical, Radiological, Biological and Nuclear incidents.
‘I did, but I’d need to go online to check what could be made with this lot. Mercury is used sometimes in bomb-making.’
Grace turned to the hotel manager. ‘How’s your chemistry knowledge?’
Mosley shook his head. ‘Only very rudimentary, I’m afraid. Stink bombs at school were about my limit!’
Tingley was frowning at another receipt. ‘A baby monitor from Mothercare?’
Grace stared at the receipt. Then realized what the broken plastic fragments he had seen up above the chandelier were. Had Drayton Wheeler been listening to the Banqueting Room from up above?
Then the DI said urgently, ‘Look at this, chief!’
It was a receipt from an internet café, Café Conneckted, dated yesterday, Monday.
Grace looked at it. It was for one hour’s connection, coffee, mineral water and carrot cake. Ten pounds. ‘Do you know this place?’
‘Yes,’ Tingley said. ‘Top of Trafalgar Street.’
Grace’s mind was whirring. Thinking about the threatening email that had been sent last night.
The two detectives looked at each other. ‘Shall I send someone over there?’ Tingley asked.
Grace shook his head. ‘No, you and I are going there. I want to find out for myself.’
Tingley walked through into the bathroom. On the shelf above the sink was a row of plastic medication tubs. Grace followed him. There were six of them, each labelled with a New York pharmacy prescription band. Grace read them all.
‘This guy was some sort of junkie,’ Tingley commented.
Grace shook his head. ‘No, he was ill.’
‘How ill?’
Grace stared at one label in particular. ‘It looks to me like he had cancer. I recognize this – my father died of bowel cancer and was taking this medication, too.’ He thought for a moment. ‘That rude guy, the producer. Do you have his phone number?’
The Detective Inspector fished out his notebook and flicked through several pages. ‘Yes, I have his mobile number here.’
Grace keyed it in. He got Larry Brooker’s voicemail and left a message for him to call back urgently.
Larry Brooker called back just as they pulled up outside Café Conneckted.
‘Does the name Drayton Wheeler mean anything to you, Mr Brooker?’ Grace asked him, then immediately put his phone on loudspeaker.
‘Drayton Wheeler?’ the American said. ‘Um, right, well, yes.’
Grace could detect the unease in the American’s voice.
‘He’s just an asshole – trying to make a claim on our story. That kind of thing happens every time you make a high-profile movie. There’s always some creep comes crawling out the woodwork claiming it was their idea and you stole it.’
‘Might he have had a genuine grievance against you, or your production?’ Grace asked, glancing at Tingley.
‘Oh sure, he was threatening to sue us. No big deal – I told him to contact our lawyers.’ Then, sounding distinctly edgy, suddenly he asked, ‘Has he been in contact with you, or something?’
‘We think he might be the man lying under the chandelier.’
There was a long silence. ‘You’re serious?’
‘I won’t know for certain until we’ve formally identified him.’
‘Is there anything I can do from my end?’
‘Not at the moment. If we make positive identification, then we’ll need to interview you tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you been able to do some filming outdoors tonight? The weather seems to be holding, just.’
‘We are. Your officers here are being very co-operative. We’ll be shooting until around midnight.’
‘Good.’
Grace then rang Andrew Gulli, to ask him if to his knowledge a Drayton Wheeler or Jerry Baxter had ever sent any obsessive or threatening messages to Gaia.
Gulli was certain he had never heard either name.
Grace ended the call and they went into the café, which was almost empty. A heavily pierced woman in her twenties, in jeans and a baggy blouse, stood behind the bar counter, working an espresso machine. There was a lounge seating area to the left, and an archway beyond the bar, through to what looked like a larger area at the rear. On the right was a row of ten workstations, each with a computer terminal. Two were occupied, one by a ponytailed man in his twenties, the other by two teenage girls, one standing looking over the other’s shoulder, both of them giggling.
Grace looked up at the ceiling and noticed a CCTV camera covering the row of terminals. They walked up to the bar. The woman finished making the coffee, gave them a cursory nod, acknowledging their presence, then took the coffee across to the ponytailed man.
When she returned, Grace showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace from Sussex CID Major Crime Branch and Detective Inspector Tingley from Brighton CID.’
She looked a tad bewildered. ‘Yes – er – how can I help you?’
Grace held out a cellophane evidence bag containing Drayton Wheeler’s passport, which was open at the page showing his photograph. ‘Do you recognize this man?’
She studied it carefully for some moments, then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, no I don’t.’
‘He hasn’t been in here?’
‘Not while I’ve been here, I’m sure.’
‘We believe he was here yesterday evening and paid for one hour’s internet access.’
‘Ah, right, I wasn’t here last night.’
‘Who was here?’
‘The owner and his wife, but they’re off today.’
‘Can you contact them?’
She looked at her watch. ‘They’ve gone to a George Michael concert in London. I shouldn’t think they’ll hear the phone. But they’ll be here all day tomorrow. I can try, if you like?’
‘We’ll come back tomorrow,’ Grace said.
Jason Tingley pointed up at the CCTV camera. ‘Is that working?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘How long is the footage kept before it gets wiped?’
‘I’m not certain – I believe it’s a week.’
‘Do you know how to replay footage on it?’ Grace asked.
‘No, and I wouldn’t dare touch it!’
‘Okay, what time do you open tomorrow?’
‘Ten.’
‘Right, now this is really important,’ Grace said. ‘Can you please ask the owners, or leave a message for them, to make absolutely sure all footage from yesterday is retained?’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ she said.
Grace gave her his card, then they left.
As they climbed back into the car, Jason Tingley said, ‘We have a motive. The Café Conneckted receipt puts Drayton Wheeler in a place where he could have sent that email last night. In my view we could start making some assumptions.’
‘I hate that word, Jason,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘As I’ve often said, in my experience
assumptions
are the mother and father of all cock-ups. I prefer to stick with
hypotheses
.’
The DI grinned. ‘Okay,
hypotheses
. Drayton Wheeler believes he has been screwed by Larry Brooker – or his company. So he decides to hit back by sabotaging the production? By killing the leading lady?’
‘Why didn’t he just sue?’ Grace replied. ‘Presumably it was money he was after?’
Tingley tapped the side of his head. ‘Dealing with a crazy?’
Grace was thinking about the vials of medication in the bathroom. Was this some kind of desperate act by a dying man? But with what aim? ‘Did you ever hear that expression, “The more I do this job, the less I know?”’ he asked.
Tingley smiled. ‘No, but I understand it.’
Grace nodded. ‘Please God it was Drayton Wheeler who sent that email last night, and that he’s the guy under the chandelier. That would be a rather tragic but very elegant solution.’
‘Beware of assumptions, didn’t you say, chief?’ the DI remarked with a cheeky grin.
Roy Grace, deep in thought, did not respond. He was thinking hard what he needed to do to step up the security for Gaia and her son, regardless of cost, until they could be sure that the threat to her was over.
And he had a nagging doubt. Some of it stacked up, but not all of it. Not enough.
It was late when he finally got home to Cleo. She was lying, half-asleep in bed, with an old Miss Marple episode playing on the television.
Murder At The Vicarage
, he recognized after a few moments.
‘How are you feeling?’ He kissed her forehead.
‘I’m okay. But Bump’s training for the Olympics!’ She guided his hand to her stomach, and he could feel their baby zapping around as if on a trampoline. He smiled, proudly and lovingly. It was such an amazing sensation. Their child. His and hers. Alive inside her.
He lay beside her for some minutes, just holding her tightly and feeling the baby’s exertions. Then he kissed her. ‘God, I love you so much,’ he said.
‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘But it’s no good you coming to bed on an empty stomach – I don’t want to lie here listening to it rumble all night!’ She kissed him. ‘There’s a Marks and Sparks fish pie on the worktop. Give it a few minutes in the microwave – it says how many on the pack. And there are some peas in a saucepan – just bring them to the boil.’
‘You spoil me!’
‘You’re worth spoiling. So, did you save the world tonight?’
‘Probably.’
‘That’s what I love about you, Detective Superintendent Grace. Your modesty.’
He kissed her again. ‘It sort of comes naturally!’
‘Oh yes? By the way, Humphrey refused to go out. He needs to do his business – if we don’t want a prezzie on the carpet in the morning!’
‘I’ll take him for a walk. Do you still want the telly on?’
‘You can turn it off, please, I’m going to try to sleep, if I can convince Bump! Don’t forget about that Gaia documentary I recorded.’
‘I had forgotten – thanks for reminding me.’
He went downstairs, clipped the lead on Humphrey’s collar with some difficulty, while the overjoyed creature kept jumping up and down licking his face. Then he took a plastic bag from under the kitchen sink, crammed it into his pocket and led the dog out of the front door.
Humphrey squatted the moment they were in the cobbled courtyard.
‘Wait!’ Grace hissed.
The dog took no notice, defecating firmly and proudly, as a neighbour wheeled his bicycle past. ‘Hope you’re going to pick that up,’ the man mumbled.
Grace scooped it up, dearly tempted to push it through the rude cyclist’s letterbox. Then he threaded his way with Humphrey through the narrow streets of the North Laine district of Brighton, heading for his favourite part of the city, the seafront itself, and the promenade beneath the Arches. He deposited the bag in a designated bin, relieved that at least now the dog had performed, he would be able to let it off the lead.
As he walked, he was deep in thought. Thinking about the email. Was the man under the chandelier the sender? He read it again on his BlackBerry.
I still cannot believe how you cut me dead. I thought your whole point in coming to England was to see me. I know you love me, really. You’re going to be sorry you did that. Very sorry. You made me look a fool. You made people laugh at me. I’m going to give you the chance to apologise. You are soon going to be telling the whole world how much you love me. I will kill you if you don’t.
It chimed but it didn’t fit. ‘I thought your whole point in coming to England was to see me.’ That did not make sense in the context: ‘You made people laugh at me. I’m going to give you the chance to apologise. You are soon going to be telling the whole world how much you love me.
I will kill you if you don’t.
’
Drayton Wheeler’s actions were just not consistent with that. These weren’t the words of a man who believed his story or his script had been ripped off. Unless he was a totally confused crazy. Also, from what he knew, an American would have spelled
apologise
with a
z
not an
s
.