Looking Good Dead

not anyone special.’
    ‘But she had a current fellow?’
    He looked up at Grace, seeming to regain some composure. ‘She was a fine-looking girl with a great personality. She was never short of admirers. But she took the law very seriously – I don’t think she wanted too many distractions.’
    ‘She’s a lawyer?’
    ‘A law student. She did a law degree here at Southampton University, and she’s been studying for the past few years at Guildford Law School. Currently she’s articled – or a trainee – or whatever they call it nowadays – with a firm of solicitors in Brighton.’
    ‘And you’ve been supporting her during her studies.’
    ‘As best I can. It’s been a little tight these past months. Bit of a struggle. I . . .’
    Grace nodded sympathetically. ‘Can we just go back to the boyfriends, sir. Do you know the name of her most recent boyfriend?’
    Derek Stretton seemed to have aged twenty years in the last twenty minutes. He was pensive for some moments. ‘Justin Remington – she went out with him about a year or so ago. Very charming young man. He – she brought him down here a few times. Develops property in London. I quite liked him, but I don’t think he had a big enough intellect for her.’ He smiled with a faraway look. ‘She has a – had aremarkable brain. Couldn’t get near her at Scrabble from the time she was about nine.’
    ‘Would you know where I could get hold of this Justin Remington?’
    There was a silence as Stretton sat thinking, then furrowing his eyebrows he said, ‘He was into real tennis. I don’t think there are that many players. I know he played in London – I believe it was Queens,’ he said.
    It was rapidly becoming clear to Roy Grace that he was going to get very little more from the man. ‘Is there someone you can phone?’ he asked him. ‘A relative or a friend who could come over?’
    After some moments, Derek Stretton said meekly, ‘My sister. Lucy. She’s not very far away. I’ll give her a call. She’ll be devastated.’
    ‘Why don’t you make the call while we’re still here, sir?’ Branson urged, as gently as he could.
    The pair of them waited while he made the call, retreating as discreetly as they could to the far end of the room. Grace heard him sobbing; then he went out of the room for a while. Finally he came back in and walked over to join them, holding a brown envelope. ‘I’ve put some photographs of Janie together for you. I’d appreciate them back.’
    ‘Of course,’ Grace said, knowing the poor man would probably have to make half a dozen calls over the coming months to get them back – they would inevitably get misfiled somewhere in the system.
    ‘Lucy’s on her way – my sister. She’ll be here in about half an hour.’
    ‘Would you like us to wait?’ Grace asked.
    ‘No, I’ll be OK. I need some time to think. I . . . Can – can I see Janie?’
    Grace shot a glance at Branson. ‘I don’t think it would be advisable, sir.’
    ‘I’d really like to see her one more time. You know? To say goodbye?’ He put out a hand and gripped Grace’s firmly.
    Grace realized he had not absorbed from the newspapers that Janie’s head was missing. This was not the moment to tell him. He decided to leave that to the two FLOs. Vanessa Ritchie and Maggie Campbell were about to earn their keep and give some payback for the massive investment in their training.
    ‘There are two women detectives who will be along to see you shortly, from our Family Liaison Unit. They’ll be able to guide you on that.’
    ‘Thank you. It would mean a lot to me.’ Then he gave a sad littlelaugh. ‘You know, officers, I – I never discussed death with Janie. I have no idea whether she wanted to be buried or cremated.’ Wild-eyed he added, ‘And her cat, of course.’ He scratched the back of his head. ‘Bins! She used to bring Bins here before she went away. I – don’t know . . . it’s all so . . .’
    ‘They’ll be able to help you with everything; that’s what they are here for.’
    ‘It never occurred to me that she might die, you see.’
    Grace and Branson walked back out to the car in a deeply uncomfortable silence.

27
    A community support officer, barely distinguishable from a uniformed constable, stood outside the front door of the building in Kemp Town where Janie Stretton had rented her flat, with a clipboard, logging all the people who entered and left the building. By contrast with the – albeit faded –