Looking Good Dead

pub quiz too?’
    Nicholl shook his head. ‘Let’s Google it.’
    He keyed a search, but all that came up was an Italian website witha translator option. Nicholl clicked on that. Moments later they were staring at a long, detailed list of pathologies and plants. Acne, Grace read. Carrot, soluble Tisana vitamins, Germ of Grain, Oil of Borragine, Burdock. Then, more interesting to him at this late – or early – hour, he read, Fatigue. Ginseng, Guarana, Elueterococco, Tisana vitamins and minerals. Lecitina di Soia.
    ‘Maybe he’s a health nut,’ Glenn Branson wisecracked. Nicholl ignored him, too weary for jokes at the moment.
    ‘Go to the sent mail box,’ Grace said.
    Nicholl clicked on that. It contained just one email – the same one, with the same attachment.
    ‘Can you see who it was sent to?’ Grace asked.
    ‘Strange,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘There’s no recipient showing.’
    He double-clicked on it, and moments later the reason why became evident. There were hundreds and hundreds of recipients, all blind-copied. And all had email addresses that were just sequences of numbers combined with Tisana.
    Grace read the first one: [email protected]. Then the next one: [email protected].
    ‘The first part looks like the name – obviously coded,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘Tisana must be the internet service provider.’
    ‘So why didn’t Tisana show up on the search?’ Grace queried.
    ‘My guess is because someone doesn’t want it to.’
    ‘Can you hide things from search engines like Google?’
    ‘I’m sure if you know what you are doing, you can conceal anything you want.’
    Nodding, Grace said, ‘Let’s take a look at the attachment. See what that has to tell us.’
    He stared at the screen as Nick Nicholl moved the cursor onto the attachment and double-clicked on it. Then, moments later, he was rather wishing he hadn’t suggested it be opened after all.
    All three of them watched in numb silence for the next four minutes.

71
    At 6.30 a.m. Roy Grace rang Dennis Ponds, the senior Public Relations Officer, at home, apologetically waking him and asking him to come and see him at eight fifteen in his temporary office in the Major Incident Suite.
    Grace had managed to snatch two hours of restless sleep, slumped, vaguely horizontally, across the two armchairs in the Interview Room, before heading back to his desk at the workstation shortly after 6 a.m. Branson had fared better, borrowing the sofa in the Chief Superintendent’s office. Nicholl had gone home for a couple of hours, concerned at leaving his heavily pregnant wife on her own for too long.
    At seven twenty Grace was standing outside the entrance to the Asda supermarket across the road and was the first customer when the doors opened, at seven thirty. He bought a packet of disposable razors, shaving cream, a white shirt, two croissants, six cans of Red Bull and two packs of ProPlus.
    At eight he rang Cleo, but his call went straight through to her voicemail. He left her a brief message: ‘Hi, it’s Roy. Sorry I had to do a moonlit flit. You are amazing! Call me when you can. Giant hug.’
    On the dot of eight fifteen, as Dennis Ponds entered the small bland office opposite the doorway to MIR One, Grace was feeling terrific. The wash, shave and change of shirt had freshened him, and two cans of Red Bull and four ProPlus were doing their stuff. The only thing not good was his back, which felt like it was burning. Cleo had scratched it to pieces. He couldn’t believe it, standing in the men’s room looking over his shoulder in the mirror at the long, raw red lines. But he grinned. It had been worth it. The fire on his back was nothing compared to the furnace burning in his belly for her. God, she was insane in bed.
    ‘Morning, Roy,’ Ponds said. He looked more like a city slicker than ever today, with his gelled-back hair, loud, chalk-striped suit, pink shirtwith cutaway collar, and a blue tie that looked as if it was made of snakeskin.
    Grace shook his hand and they both sat down. ‘I apologize for calling you so early.’
    ‘No problem,’ Ponds said. ‘I’m always up at sparrows; two young kids, three dogs.’ He shrugged. ‘So?’
    ‘I want you to sit in on the eight thirty briefing with us – there’s some video footage I need you to see.’
    Looking at him a little uncertainly, Ponds said, ‘Well, OK . . . I have quite a tight schedule this morning; I have to organize the press conference for Janie