Looking Good Dead

clearly had not occurred to either of them.
    ‘What the fuck is going on?’
    Glenn Branson, trying to calm him down, said, ‘Roy, I didn’t know how far we were supposed to go keeping tabs on him. Chris was just here to help him cope and to offer protection.’
    ‘Yes, and if we circulate a description of the bloody vehicle he’s in, we can get him even more protection – from every damned patrol car that’s out there.’ Which wasn’t very many at this time of night, he knew.
    ‘Shall I tell Nick to call out the rest of the team?’
    Grace thought for a moment. The temptation to haul Norman Potting out of his bed was almost irresistible, but he had a feeling it was going to a very long day today. He would let as many of them as possible have a night’s sleep, so at least he would have some fresh, alert people at the eight thirty briefing.
    He needed to organize a replacement for Emma-Jane, he realized. And how was Alison Vosper going to react to yet another road traffic accident caused by a police pursuit? The taxi driver was in hospital with various minor injuries, his passenger, who hadn’t been wearing a seat belt, had a broken leg. An Argus reporter was already down at the hospital, and they would be all over this story like a rash.
    Fuck, fuck, fuck.
    ‘One problem – I don’t know the registration of the vehicle he’s in,’ Glenn Branson said.
    ‘Well that shouldn’t be too hard to find – there is probably the logbook somewhere in the house.’
    Leaving Branson to make the call and the FLO to search downstairs for information on the car, Grace went upstairs, found the children’s bedrooms then the master bedroom with its unmade bed. Nothing. Tom Bryce’s den looked a lot more promising. He glanced at the man’s desk, piled high with work files, and a webcam on a stalk. Crinkling his nose against the stench of vomit, he rummaged around in the drawers but found nothing of interest, then turned to a tall black metal filing cabinet.
    All the information was in a file marked cars .
    Not all police work required a degree in rocket science, he thought.
    Fifteen minutes later, Grace and Branson were in a grim elevator, with obscene spraypainted graffiti on every wall and a puddle of urine in one corner, in a tower block on the Whitehawk council estate.
    They emerged at the seventh floor, walked down the corridor and rang the bell of Flat 72.
    After a few moments a woman’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’
    ‘Police!’ Grace said.
    A tired, harried-looking woman in her early fifties, wearing a dressing gown and pompom slippers, opened the door. She looked as if she had been attractive in her youth, but her face was now leathery and criss-crossed with lines, and her wavy hair, cut shapelessly, was blonde, fading into grey. Her teeth were badly stained – from nicotine, Grace judged by the reek of tobacco. Somewhere behind her in the flat a child was screaming. There was a faintly rancid smell of fried fat in the air.
    Grace held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace of Brighton CID, and this is Detective Sergeant Branson. Are you Mrs Margaret Stevenson?’
    She nodded.
    ‘You are Mrs Kellie Bryce’s mother?’
    She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Yes. ’E’s not here. You’re looking for Tom? ’E’s not here.’
    ‘Do you know where he is?’ Grace asked.
    ‘Do you know where my daughter is?’
    ‘No, we’re trying to find her.’
    ‘She wouldn’t disappear – she wouldn’t leave the children. She didn’t never hardly bear to let them outta her sight. She wouldn’t even leave them with us. Tom brung the kids here about an hour ago. Just rang the bell, bundled them in, then left.’
    ‘Did he say where he was going?’
    ‘No. ’E said ’e’d call me later.’
    The screaming got worse behind her. She turned anxiously.
    Grace fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Please call me if you hear from him – the mobile number.’
    Taking the card, she asked, ‘Do you want to come in? A cup of tea? I must stop Jessica crying; my husband’s gotta have his sleep. He’s got the Parkinson’s. ’E must have rest.’
    ‘I’m sorry we disturbed you,’ Grace said. ‘Mr Bryce didn’t say anything at all?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘He didn’t explain why he was bringing the children over in the middle of the night?’
    ‘For their safety, that’s what ’e said. That was all.’
    ‘Safety from what?’
    ‘Didn’t say. Where’s Kellie?