Dead Man's Grip

immediate family of his girlfriend. On a third was a list of names and contact numbers of principal witnesses.
    There was an air of intense concentration, punctuated by the constant warbling of phones, which the members of his expanding team answered haphazardly.
    He saw Norman Potting on the phone, making notes as he spoke. He still had not spoken to him since the two attempted calls in his car. He sat down at an empty workstation and placed his notes in front of him.
    ‘Right!’ he said, as Potting ended his call, raising his voice to get everyone’s attention. ‘The time is 6.30 p.m., Saturday 24 April. This is the seventh briefing of Operation Violin , the investigation into the death of Tony Revere.’ He looked at the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Tracy, I understand you have a development?’
    There was a sudden blast of house music. Embarrassed, PC Alec Davies quickly silenced his phone.
    ‘Yes, chief,’ Stocker replied. ‘We’ve had a positive ID of the van type back from Ford, from their analysis of the serial number on the wing mirror. They’ve confirmed it was fitted to the ’06 model. So,
considering the time and location where the mirror-casing fragment was found, I think we can say with reasonable certainty it belonged to our suspect Ford Transit.’ She pointed up at the whiteboard. ‘Vehicle 1 on the diagram.’
    ‘Do we know how many of these vans were made in that year?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Stocker answered. ‘Fifty-seven thousand, four hundred and thirty-four Ford Transit vans sold in the UK in 2006. Ninety-three per cent of them were white, which means fifty-three thousand, four hundred and thirteen vans fit our description.’ She smiled wryly.
    Sergeant Paul Wood of the Collision Investigation Unit said, ‘One line that would be worth pursuing would be to contact all repair shops and see if anyone’s brought a Transit in for wing mirror repair. They get damaged frequently.’
    Grace made a note, nodding. ‘Yes, I’ve thought of that. But he’d have to be pretty stupid to take the van in for repairs so quickly. More likely he’d tuck it away in a lock-up.’
    ‘Ewan Preece doesn’t sound like the sharpest tool in the shed,’ Glenn Branson chipped in. ‘I don’t think we should rule it out, boss.’
    ‘I’ll put it down as an action for the outside inquiry team. Perhaps we can put a couple of PCSOs on it.’ Then he turned to Potting. ‘Norman, do you have your update from Ford Prison?’
    Potting pursed his lips, taking his time before answering. ‘I do, chief,’ he said finally, in his rich rural burr.
    In another era, Grace could have envisaged him as a bloody-minded desk sergeant plod in some remote country town. Potting spoke slowly and methodically, partly from memory and partly referring to his notebook. Every few moments he would squint to decipher his handwriting.
    ‘I interviewed Senior Prison Officer Lisa Setterington, the one you spoke to, chief,’ Potting said.
    Grace nodded.
    ‘She confirmed that Preece appeared to be a model prisoner, determined to go straight.’
    Potting was interrupted by a couple of snorts from officers who’d had previous dealings with the man.
    ‘So if he was a model prisoner,’ asked Bella Moy sarcastically,
‘how come he was driving a van twenty-five miles away from where he was supposed to be on Wednesday morning?’
    ‘Exactly,’ Potting said.
    ‘Model prisoners don’t go over the wall either,’ she added tartly.
    ‘They don’t, Bella, no,’ he agreed condescendingly, as if talking to a child.
    Grace eyed both of them warily, wondering if they were about to have another of their regular spats.
    ‘Now the good news is,’ Potting went on, ‘that word of this reward has spread around the prison, as you might imagine. Several inmates who’ve had contact with Preece have come forward to the Governor, offering suggestions where he might be, and I’ve got a list of six addresses and contact names for immediate follow-up.’
    ‘Good stuff, Norman,’ Grace said.
    Potting allowed himself a brief, smug smile and took a swig from his mug of tea before continuing, ‘But there’s some bad news too. Ewan Preece had a friend in Ford Prison, another inmate – they go back years.’ He checked his notes. ‘Warren Tulley – had about the same amount of form as Preece. They were thick together inside. The officer had arranged for Tulley to talk to me. Someone went to fetch him to bring him over to the