Looking Good Dead

Memorizing the number, he gave it a few seconds, let a taxi followed by a British Telecom van pass, then pulled back out onto the road, made another U-turn and followed, dialling the Incident Room on his mobile. It was answered on the first ring by Denise Woods, one of the indexers, a very serious, very efficient young woman.
    ‘Hi, it’s Grace. I need a PNC check very quickly. I’m following the vehicle now. It’s a Volkswagen Golf, registration Papa Lima Zero Three Foxtrot Delta Oscar.’
    Denise said she would call him right back.
    A short distance on, the Volkswagen, still in front of the taxi and British Telecom van, stopped at a red traffic light.
    When the lights went green, the Golf turned left into Lower Rock Gardens, heading down to the seafront. The other two vehicles went straight on. Grace paused for a second, then turned left, keeping as far back as he dared.
    Come on, Denise!
    The lights at the bottom, at the junction with Marine Parade, were green, and the Golf turned right onto the coast road. Grace went over on amber, keeping as far behind the Golf as he dared, letting a Ford Focus and then an elderly Porsche overtake him, but keeping the Golf in sight.
    As the Golf negotiated the roundabout in front of the Palace Pier, his phone rang. It was Denise. The registered owner of the car was a company called Bourneholt International Ltd, with a PO box number in Brighton. The car had not been reported lost or stolen and there were no police interest markers from anybody.

    ‘ Bourneholt International Ltd,’ Grace said. ‘I know that name.’ Then he remembered why. ‘Denise, quickly take a look at the registration of the van that crashed last night; I’ll hold.’
    The Golf continued heading west along the seafront, past the recently repainted facade of the Royal Albion Hotel. Then, as they approached the Old Ship Hotel, the Golf moved into the outside lane, its right turn indicator signalling.
    To his relief, a blue S-class Mercedes in front of him was signalling right, also. Grace tucked in behind its substantial bulk. He saw the Golf head up, past the hotel, and make a right, down into the huge, Civic Square underground car park. So did the S-class. Grace was right on its tail, waiting behind it on the ramp.
    Denise came back on the phone. ‘It’s the same, Roy. Bourneholt International Ltd.’
    He clenched his fists in excitement. ‘Brilliant!’
    The automatic barrier swung up and he moved forward, waited for the ticket to emerge from the machine and grabbed it. ‘Well done!’ he said.
    But there was no signal.
    The barrier swung up again, and he drove the Alfa through. Just as he did so, a BMW 3 series reversed out of a space, blocking Grace’s path.
    It reversed slowly, a nervous man inching back, inch by sodding inch.
    Come on! Grace screamed silently.
    After what seemed an eternity, the BMW drove forward, then turned off onto the exit ramp. Grace accelerated. All the spaces on this level were taken. He took the ramp down to the next level. That was full too. So was the next level. But as he raced through it, a Ford Galaxy people carrier filled with children, a nervous mother at the wheel, reversed across his path.
    Jesus, woman, get out of my way.
    He had no option but to wait. And wait. And wait.
    Finally he got down to Level 4, and saw several free spaces. He accelerated, looking for the Golf, and then he saw it. Parked in a bay.
    The driver had vanished.
    He braked behind it, cursing.

    There was a blast of horn behind him. In his mirror he saw a Range Rover. He raised a finger, drove on a few yards, then turned into the first empty space he saw, switched off the engine and jumped out of the car. He sprinted towards the exit, up the steps two at a time, and out into the large open square with a Japanese restaurant in the middle, the Thistle Hotel on one side and rows of shops on the two other sides.
    But there was no sign of the man with the rolling gait and the spiky hair.
    There were three other exits he could have left by. Grace ran round, covering each of them. But the man had vanished.
    Grace cursed, thinking hard, standing by the first exit, nearest the Golf and his car. He doubted the man had seen him tailing him. But how long it would be before he returned to the car was anyone’s guess. It could be five minutes, or five hours.
    Then he had an idea.
    He dialled his former base, Brighton Central, and asked to be put through to an old mate, Mike Hopkirk, a Brighton