Looking Good Dead

neighbours, and this is ongoing. The alternative scenarios as I see them are as follows.
    ‘One, this is a one-off killing by some very sick person.
    ‘Two, we may be looking at a serial killer leaving a signature. We are waiting for more information from the Met on the other killing where a beetle was found to see if they may be connected. Our killer may therefore have killed at least twice, each time a young woman, and we can assume he is going to kill again.’
    Then he asked his team if they had anything to report.
    Potting said he had spent much of the afternoon at the firm of solicitors where Janie Stretton had been doing her training. He had interviewed her boss, a Martin Broom – who Grace had encountered in court once, over an assault during a particularly nasty divorce case – and several of her colleagues. Janie had checked out as a popular, hard-working and conscientious young woman.
    Do we all have a hidden dark side? Grace wondered privately to himself. ‘I’ve requested an additional team member,’ he said. ‘And I want someone from the High-Tech Crime Department to go through her laptop with a fine-tooth comb,’ he said. Then he turned to DC Boutwood. ‘Emma-Jane, sorry to dump this on you, but I want you to organize a trawl through all the CCTV camera footage in the Brighton area on Tuesday night. You can draft in some help on this. What you are looking for is this young lady.’ He tapped the photograph of Janie Stretton that had been circulated to the press. ‘She went out on a fourth date with a man called Anton, or whatever his real name was, that evening. Someone must have seen them.’ Then he turned to DC Nicholl.
    ‘Nick, I want you to organize a team of Specials and PCSOs to take this photo to every restaurant, bar and pub in Brighton and Hove, and see if anyone saw her. OK?’
    The beanpole nodded.
    ‘Bella,’ Grace said. ‘Janie Stretton’s father told me her last boyfriend was called Justin Remington – a property developer in London. Go find him and see what he has to say.’
    She nodded.
    ‘Emma-Jane, how did you get on with the tropical insect breeders?’
    ‘I’ve located sixteen throughout the UK. Some are internet only,but I’ve found seven breeders. One, in Bromley, south London, sounds very interesting. He had a request to supply a scarab beetle just over ten days ago. To a man with an eastern European accent.’
    ‘Magic!’ Grace said. ‘And?’
    ‘I’ve arranged to see him tomorrow.’
    ‘I’ll come with you.’
    Grace then looked down at his notes. ‘Norman, we’ve removed the answering machine from the victim’s flat. I’m having it examined by the Technical Support Unit. Whatever information they can extract I’d like you to check up on.’
    ‘Any good-looking birds?’
    ‘I’ll find someone to help you if you find any.’
    ‘I quite like the sound of this agency, if it’s got birds of the calibre of Janie Stretton on its books.’
    Grace ignored the man. His remark didn’t even warrant an answer. ‘I’ll see you all here at eight thirty in the morning,’ he said. ‘Sorry to muck up your weekends.’
    In particular he avoided eye contact with Glenn Branson. Glenn’s wife was getting increasingly fed up with the hours that police work consumed. But that was his choice, Grace thought. When you signed up to Her Majesty’s police, you took the Queen’s shilling. And in return you dedicated your life.
    OK, so maybe it wasn’t actually spelled out in the contract. But that was the reality. If you wanted a life, you were in the wrong career.

31
    It was windier down in Brighton than in London, but the air was plenty warm enough to be outside.
    Girls Aloud were pounding out of the CD player built into the barbecue, and a digital light show flashed with the music. Jessica, dressed in baggy jeans, a black top and sparkly shoes, her long fair hair flailing, and Kellie, barefoot in white calf-length trousers and a striped man’s shirt, were dancing on the lawn, gyrating wildly, laughing, having just the greatest time.
    Max, in grubby grey shorts and an even grubbier Dumbledore sweatshirt, his blond hair hanging like a tousled mop over his forehead, had not yet finished inspecting the barbecue. He treated it with the reverence with which he might have treated a spaceship that had landed in their backyard. Which indeed was what it looked like.
    It was vast, taking up a good chunk of the garden, eight feet from end to end, curved, with a