Dead Man's Grip

which had been pushed up through the roof of his wide-open jaw and was protruding just below his left eye, like a foul-hooked fish.
    It was the expression of shock on the man’s face – his bulging, terrified eyes – that was the worst thing of all.
    The icy air continued to pump out. It carried the strong smell of smoked fish, but also those of urine and excrement. The poor man had both wet and crapped himself. Hardly surprising, Grace thought, continuing to stare at him, thinking through the first pieces of information he had been given. One of the smokehouses had been broken into as well. Had the poor sod been put in there first, and then in here to be finished off by the cold?
    The mix of smells was making him feel dangerously close to retching. He began, as a pathologist had once advised him, to breathe only through his mouth.
    ‘You’re not going to like what I have to tell you, Roy,’ Tracy Stocker said breezily, seemingly totally unaffected.
    ‘I’m not actually liking what I’m looking at that much either. Do we know who he is?’
    ‘Yes, the boss here knows him. He’s a lorry driver. Makes a regular weekly delivery here from Aberdeen. Has done for years.’
    Grace continued to stare back at the body, fixated. ‘Has he been certified?’
    ‘Not yet. A paramedic’s on the way.’
    However dead a victim might appear, there was a legal requirement that a paramedic attend and actually make the formal certification. In the old days it would have been a police surgeon. Not that Grace had any doubt about the man’s condition at this moment. The only people who looked more dead than this, he thought cynically, were piles of ash in crematorium urns.
    ‘Have we got a pathologist coming?’
    She nodded. ‘I’m not sure who.’
    ‘Nadiuska, with any luck.’ He looked back at the corpse. ‘Hope you’ll excuse me if I step out of the room when they remove the hook.’
    ‘I think I’ll be stepping out with you,’ she said.
    He smiled grimly.
    ‘There’s something that could be very significant, Roy,’ she said.
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘According to Mr Harris, the guv’nor here, this is the driver involved in our fatal in Portland Road. Stuart Ferguson.’
    Grace looked at her. Before the ramifications of this had fully sunk in, the Crime Scene Manager was speaking again.
    ‘I think we ought to get a bit closer, Roy. There’s something you need to see.’
    She took a few steps forward and Grace followed. Then she turned and pointed to the interior wall, a foot above the top of the door.
    ‘Does that look familiar?’
    Grace stared at the cylindrical object with the shiny glass lens.
    And now he knew for sure that his worst fears were confirmed.
    It was another camera.

68
    Carly greeted the woman who entered her office with a smile as she ushered her into a seat. The appointment was late, at 4.45, because her whole day was out of kilter. At least it was her last client, she thought with relief.
    The woman’s name was Angelina Goldsmith. A mother of three teenagers, she had recently discovered that her architect husband had been leading a double life for twenty years and had a second family in Chichester, thirty miles away. He hadn’t actually married this woman, so he wasn’t legally a bigamist, but he sure as hell was morally. The poor woman was understandably devastated.
    And she deserved a solicitor who was able to focus a damned sight better than Carly was capable of doing at the moment, Carly thought.
    Angelina Goldsmith was one of those trusting, decent people who was shocked to the core when her husband dumped her and went off with another woman. The woman had a gentle nature, she was a nice-looking brunette with a good figure, and had given up her career as a geologist for her family. Her confidence was shattered and she needed advice urgently.
    Carly gave her sympathy and discussed her options. She gave her advice that she hoped would enable her to see a future for herself and her children.
    After the client had left, Carly dictated some notes to her secretary, Suzanne. Then she checked her voicemail, listening to a string of messages from clients, the final one from her friend, Clair May, who had driven Tyler to school and back home again. Clair said that Tyler had been crying all the way home, but would not tell her why.
    At least her mother was there to look after him, until she got home. He liked his gran, so hopefully he’d cheer up. But his behaviour was really troubling