Looking Good Dead

River; Branson joined him and they stared at a forest of masts and rigging from a marina that looked as if it was just beyond the boundary of the property.
    ‘Never been into boats,’ Branson said. ‘Never been totally comfortable with water.’
    ‘Even though you live by the sea?’
    ‘Not exactly right by it.’ His phone rang and he pulled it out. ‘DS Branson? Oh hi, yeah, I’m with Roy, down near Southampton. ETA about two o’clock back in Brighton. Roy wants a briefing at six thirty, so everyone there, OK? Yeah. Did we get the extra officers he requested? Only one so far? Who is it? Oh shit, you are joking! Him! I can’t believe they’ve dumped him on us. Roy is going to be well pissed. We’re going straight to her flat from here; Roy wants someone to go to her office, speak to her boss and the staff there. OK. Yeah. Six thirty. You got it.’
    Branson slipped the phone back in his pocket. ‘That was Bella. Guess what – your request for two extra officers for the team – know who they’ve given us?’
    ‘Hit me.’
    ‘Norman Potting.’
    Grace groaned. ‘It’s about time he retired; he’s older than God.’
    ‘Hasn’t exactly thrilled the ladies. Bella is not happy.’
    Detective Sergeant Norman Potting was in his mid-fifties, a late joiner compared to some. He was a old-school policeman, politically incorrect, blunt and with no interest in promotion – he had never wanted the responsibilities – but nor had he wanted to retire when he reached fifty-five, the normal police pension age for a sergeant, which was why he had extended his service. He liked to do what he was best at doing, which he called plodding and drilling. Plodding, methodical police work, and drilling down deep beneath the surface of any crime, drilling for as long and deep as he needed until he hit some seam that would lead him somewhere.
    The best that could be said about Norman Potting was that he was steady and dependable, and could get results. But he was boring as hell, and had the knack of upsetting just about everyone.
    ‘I thought he was permanently up at Gatwick with the anti-terrorist lot,’ Grace said.
    ‘They obviously had enough of him. Maybe they couldn’t bear any more of his jokes,’ Branson said. ‘And Bella said he stinks of smoke from his pipe. Neither she nor Emma-Jane want to sit near him.’
    ‘Poor precious souls.’
    Derek Stretton came back into the room, carrying a tray with three china cups and a milk jug. He set it on the plastic table, then ushered them to one sofa, and sat down opposite. ‘You said on the phone you have news about Janie, Detective Superintendent?’ he asked expectantly.
    Now Grace suddenly wished fervently he had sent the two FLOs in to do this task, after all.

25
    Tom had done virtually no work all morning. He’d sat at his desk in his office with a pile of unanswered emails mounting up on his screen – at least his computer was working again now – and dealt with a few calls that had come in for him, as well as gone carefully through a list of costings for Rolex Oyster watches for Ron Spacks, but all the rest of the time he had been thinking.
    Thinking.
    His brain spinning but getting no traction.
    The call last night at home from Chris telling him he had been burgled.
    In fact there seems to be only one damned thing missing . . . Your CD . . .
    Mind you, he had been in Chris Webb’s office at his home, and it was cluttered beyond belief. It wouldn’t be hard to lose a CD there – he had dozens lying all over the place.
    Yet, Tom thought, someone was not happy that he had the CD, and they’d trashed his computer twice to tell him so. So now they’d taken it back? Had Chris Webb tried to play it and alerted them?
    If whoever owned that CD – the dickhead from the train – now had it back, would that be the end of the matter?
    Maybe the dickhead would be on the train again tonight? But Tom doubted it; in all the years he had been commuting he had never seen him before. Besides, he wasn’t exactly sure what he would do – whether he would go up and shout at him, or whether he would be too nervous to say anything.
    He had still not said anything to Kellie about it. Best to keep quiet, keep his head down. There had been no more calls, which meant, hopefully, he’d had his warning.
    He sure as hell had got the message.

26
    ‘The managing agents of the flat your daughter rents in Brighton let us in yesterday, Mr Stretton, and allowed us to take a couple