Dead Man's Grip

breathe, and he took a deep gulp, while the air still jetted at him from the capsule.
    Tooth watched the boy’s eyes closing, then turned and continued down the ramp, lowering his window, then removing the handkerchief from his face. He carried on winding down to the car park’s lowest level, which was deserted apart from one vehicle. His rental Toyota, with new licence plates.
    He reversed into the bay alongside it.

87
    At 11.25 a.m. Roy Grace was seated at his desk, making some last-minute adjustments to his press statement, which he was due to read out at midday.
    So far nothing seemed to be going his way in this investigation, and to make matters even more complicated, the trial of snuff-movie merchant Carl Venner was starting in just over two weeks’ time. But for now he had no time to think about anything other than Operation Violin .
    There had been no progress reported on any of the lines of enquiry at this morning’s briefing meeting. The Outside Inquiry Team had not found anyone who had sold the cameras that had filmed Preece’s and Ferguson’s demise. No one so far had witnessed anything unusual outside Evie Preece’s house. The West Area Major Crime Branch Team had had no breakthrough yet in their investigation into Warren Tulley’s murder in Ford Prison.
    So many people had bought tubes of superglue in shops around the city during the past week that it made any follow-up a resourcing nightmare. Despite that, the team members had collected all available CCTV footage from inside and outside each of the premises that was covered by it. If – and when – they were able to put a face to the suspect, then they’d begin a trawl through these hundreds of hours of video.
    His phone rang. It was his Crime Scene Manager, Tracy Stocker, calling from Newport Pagnell Services.
    ‘Roy, we’ve found one item of possible interest so far. The stub of a Lucky Strike cigarette. I can’t tell you if it is significant, but it’s a relatively unusual brand for the UK.’
    As a smoker, albeit an occasional one, Grace knew a bit about cigarette brands. Lucky Strikes were American. If, as he surmised, the killings of Preece and Ferguson were the work of a professional, it was a distinct possibility that a hit man known to the Reveres and
trusted by them had been employed. He could be an American, sent over here. He felt a beat of excitement, as if this small item did have the potential to be interesting – although he knew, equally, its presence could have a totally innocent explanation.
    ‘Did you manage to get a print from it, Tracy?’ he asked.
    Getting fingerprints from cigarette butts was difficult and depended to some extent on how they had been held.
    ‘No. We can send it for chemical analysis, but we may have more luck with DNA. Do you want me to fast-track it?’
    Grace thought for a moment. Fast-tracking could produce a result within one to two days. Otherwise it would take a working week or longer. The process was expensive, at a time when they were meant to be keeping costs down, but money was less of an issue on murder inquiries.
    ‘Yes, fast-track definitely,’ he said. ‘Good work, Tracy. Well done.’
    ‘I’ll ping you the photos of it,’ she said.
    ‘Any luck with shoe prints or tyre prints?’
    ‘Not so far. Unfortunately the ground’s dry. But if there is anything, we’ll find it.’
    He smiled, because he knew that if anyone could, she would. He asked her to keep him updated. Then, as he hung up, his phone rang again. It was Duncan Crocker, sounding as if he had been up all night.
    ‘Boss, we’ve had two possible hits on cars at Newport Pagnell that arrived at the same time as Stuart Ferguson. One is a Vauxhall Astra and the other is a Toyota Yaris – both of them common rental vehicles,’ the Detective Sergeant said. ‘We’ve eliminated the Astra, which was being driven by a sales rep for a screen-printing company. But the Yaris is more interesting.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘You were right, sir. It’s a rental car – from Avis at Gatwick Airport. I put a marker on it and it pinged an ANPR camera on the M11 near Brentwood at 8 a.m. this morning. A local traffic unit stopped it. It was a twenty-seven-year-old female driver who lives in Brentwood, on her way to work.’
    Grace frowned. Was Crocker being dim?
    ‘It doesn’t sound like you got either of the right vehicles, Duncan.’
    ‘I think it may do when you hear this, sir. When the young lady got out of the car, she