Looking Good Dead

registered overseas or the name is false.’
    ‘Thank you. I want to know which is the case by our next briefing, at six thirty. And where the mail to that PO box is collected from. OK?’
    Zafferone nodded sullenly.
    You’re not going to go far, my son, Grace thought. Not unless someone pulls the chain and flushes you down the sodding toilet. ‘How about the identity of the van’s driver?’
    ‘He was starting to come round about ten minutes ago, Roy,’ Don Barker said. ‘There was nothing on his clothes or in the van. He doesn’t look English – may be central European. I’m going down to see him straight after this briefing.’
    ‘Good,’ Grace said. Then he turned back to Potting. ‘OK, another task for you today, Norman, is to finish visiting all the wholesale suppliers of sulphuric acid in the area.’
    ‘I’m on it,’ Potting said.
    Grace addressed Nick Nicholl. ‘Remind me, Nick, what time are we seeing the DI from Wimbledon?’
    ‘At half past eleven, sir.’
    ‘And you’re chasing up on any other force in the country that might have had a scarab beetle connected to a murder scene?’
    ‘Yes, I’m working on that, sir.’
    ‘Don’t keep fucking sirring me, OK?’
    The DC blushed.
    Grace felt bad for having a go at him. He didn’t need to snap at anyone. He needed to keep a lid on himself, he realized. He looked at the team and gave a smile. ‘OK, we’re now going to have a short movie. I apologize there is no popcorn.’

    He got a ragged laugh.
    After what you are about to see, you won’t be feeling like eating popcorn, you’ll be doing well just to keep down your breakfast, he thought to himself, nodding at DS Rye to close the blinds then start the video.
    While Rye closed the blinds, Grace said, ‘This video clip was found on this laptop computer, which was removed from the Ford Transit van last night. The hard drive we removed and is now in safekeeping, as a crime scene, in the High Tech Crime Unit. What you are viewing is a cloned copy.’
    Jon Rye clicked the keyboard to start the projection. Grace dimmed the lights.
    On the screen appeared:
    A SCARAB PRODUCTION
    Here is a special bonus movie for all our customers,
    ‘BATHTIME FOR REGGIE!’
    The man is a convicted paedophile. Enjoy!
    Moments later a slightly unsteady, hand-held camera showed, in wide angle, a small, rather old-fashioned avocado-coloured bathroom. The camera favoured the bathtub. Then a figure, wearing what appeared to be a full chemical-protection suit, with gloves, boots, a breathing tank and mask, struggled backwards in through the door, carrying something.
    In a moment, it became clear it was the legs of a naked man, bound tightly together with cord.
    A second man, in identical protective clothing, his face invisible behind his darkened-glass mask, held the shoulders of the naked man, Reggie D’Eath.
    They deposited him in the empty tub.
    A large, baby-faced man, with thinning hair and a flaccid body, he thrashed around in the bath like a fish out of water. His face was a mask of terror, but he was unable to speak because something, held in place with gaffer tape had been jammed in his mouth. His arms were tied tightly to his sides. All he could do was wriggle his body, heave himself up and down with his thighs and twist his head wildly from side to side,his eyes bulging, imploring, his small, thin penis flopping around between his hairless balls amid an untidy thicket of pubic hairs.
    The men went out of the room, and returned with a large black plastic chemical drum which Grace estimated would hold about ten gallons. No markings were visible on it.
    Reggie D’Eath was now thrashing so wildly that for an instant it seemed he would actually manage to leap out of the tub.
    The men set the drum down. One then held D’Eath while the other produced a length of wire, wound it twice around his neck, then attached it to a towel rail high on the wall above his head. And pulled it tight.
    D’Eath’s eyes bulged even more. His movements became different after some seconds – convulsions rather than thrashing.
    With some difficulty the two men moved him up a little, so he was reclining rather than lying flat. They adjusted the ligature so that it was now supporting him, clearly deeply uncomfortable and cutting into his neck but no longer strangling him.
    An unseen hand tossed a wriggling scarab beetle onto his chest. The little creature tumbled over backwards almost comically, coming to rest on