Looking Good Dead

that took his fancy. Maybe this morning he would buy another style magazine. Something like Arena . Get some more ideas about what to wear tonight.
    He stopped outside the shop door, partly refreshed by his run and partly exhausted from his lack of sleep, perspiring heavily. He did his stretches, then entered the store and walked over to the newspaper and magazine section. And instantly saw the headlines of the morning edition of the Argus.
    B eetle R iddle in B righton L aw S tudent M urder
    Seething with anger, he grabbed a copy of the paper from the stand. There was the photograph of Janie Stretton he had released yesterday. Inset below it was a small photograph of a scarab beetle.
    Sussex CID are refusing to say whether a rare scarab beetle, not native to the British Isles, might hold a vital clue to Janie Stretton’s killer. When asked to confirm the discovery of the beetle during the post-mortem examination by Home Office Pathologist Dr Frazer Theobald, Senior Investigating Officer Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Brighton and Hove CID was not available for comment . . .
    Grace stared at the words, his fury growing by the minute. Not available for comment ? No one had bloody asked him to comment. And he had given strictest instructions that the press were not to be told about the discovery of the beetle.
    So who the hell had leaked it?

35
    A few minutes before eight thirty, having showered, grabbed a quick bowl of cereal and, although it was Saturday, thrown on a dark suit, white shirt and plain tie – not knowing what the day would bring and who he might have to meet – Grace arrived at MIR One in the Major Incident Suite in a filthy mood, ready to skin someone alive.
    His whole team was already there, waiting for him – and by the looks on their faces, all of them had seen the Argus headline too.
    Just in case they hadn’t, he thumped the paper down on the workstation. By way of a greeting he said, ‘OK, who the fuck is responsible for this?’
    Glenn Branson, Nick Nicholl, Bella Moy, Emma-Jane Boutwood, Norman Potting and the rest of the team all stared back at him blank-faced.
    Grace fixed his accusatory gaze on Norman Potting as his first port of call. ‘Any thoughts, Norman?’ he said.
    ‘The writer on the piece is that young journo, Kevin Spinella,’ Potting rumbled in his deep rural voice. ‘That bugger’s always trouble, isn’t he?’
    Grace suddenly realized that in his anger he had neglected to look at the byline. It was because he was tired; he did not have his brain fully in gear after his sleepless night. A long run normally charged him up, but at this moment he felt drained and badly in need of a strong coffee. And the smell of the stuff was rising tantalizingly from several cups on the desk.
    Kevin Spinella was a recent recruit to the paper, a young, sharp-voiced rookie crime reporter, fast carving a reputation for himself at the expense of the Sussex Police. Grace had had a previous run-in with this journalist, as had most of his colleagues.
    ‘OK, Norman, your first task today is to get hold of this scumbag and find out where he got his story from.’
    The Detective Sergeant pulled a face then sipped on his styrofoamcup of coffee. ‘He’ll probably just tell me he’s protecting his sources,’ he said with a smugness that really irritated Grace.
    Grace had to restrain himself from yelling at the man because the truth was, Potting was probably right.
    ‘The problem is, Roy,’ Branson said, ‘we’ve got a hundred Specials drafted in, searching for the victim’s head. Could be one of them. Could be one of the SOCOs. Could have come from the Coroner’s office. Or the mortuary.’
    He was right, Grace knew. That was the problem with a major enquiry like this. Everyone was curious, that was human nature. It only needed one careless person to leak anything and it would spread in minutes.
    But the bloody damage that could do. Or had done.
    Parking the issue for the moment, he ran through the list that Bella Moy and Eleanor had prepared, and would continue to update, twice daily, throughout this enquiry. Then Norman Potting interrupted him.
    ‘You never know, Roy; we might be able to pin something on this Kevin Spinella.’
    ‘Like what?’ Grace said.
    ‘Well, I heard rumours that he might be a brown-hatter. You know, a turd-burglar.’
    Grace, his heart sinking, felt another Potting moment coming on. ‘Gay is the word we use.’
    ‘Exactly, my friend.’
    Grace