Not Dead Yet

who missed nothing.
    The DI looked at his watch. ‘That was a long five minutes. Get lucky in there, did you?’
    ‘It was a purely professional visit.’
    ‘Oh yes?’
    Ignoring the innuendo, Grace climbed into the car and pulled his seat belt on. Tingley sat in the passenger seat. ‘None of my business, of course,’ he said.
    There was a rap on Grace’s window. He lowered it to talk to the tall woman with long fair hair who was holding a reporter’s notepad.
    ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’ she queried. ‘Sorry to bother you. Iona Spencer, from the Argus .’
    Shit , Grace thought, cursing silently. He should have known that Spinella would be replaced pretty smartly. ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘Is there anything you could tell me about what’s happening in the Pavilion? I gather there’s been a fatality.’
    ‘There’ll be a press conference in the morning,’ he said, politely. ‘It would appear at the moment that a maintenance worker has been fatally injured in an industrial accident.’
    ‘Are any of the cast of the film involved?’
    ‘No, I can assure you of that. I’m sorry, we are in a hurry, but I will have more information for you tomorrow.’
    ‘Thank you,’ she said.
    As he drove off, Tingley commented, ‘Well, at least she’s better looking than Spinella.’
    ‘And better mannered,’ Grace said, inserting his phone into the hands-free cradle, then calling the Chief Constable’s number.

    Five minutes later Grace pulled the car up on the driveway in front of The Grand Hotel, and they went inside and straight up to the front desk. Grace was aware that, strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be doing this kind of legwork they were embarking on, and should have delegated it to a much lower rank – a DC or DS. But, having been given overall responsibility for Gaia’s security, at this moment he wanted to be hands on. Equally importantly, he genuinely loved real, old-fashioned detective work – the slog to find clues and unravel tiny parts of the puzzle. If he let it, his work would keep him permanently desk-bound, and he never wanted that to happen.
    He showed his warrant card to a young woman on duty on reception, then handed her the plastic room key he had retrieved from the wallet inside the rucksack in the Pavilion’s roof space.
    ‘We need to identify someone who has been fatally injured in an accident, and we found this in what we believe are his belongings. Could you tell us who this room is registered to, please.’
    She inserted the key into her computer and moments later said, ‘Room 608, Mr Jerry Baxter. I have an address for him in New York.’
    Tingley jotted it down.
    ‘Can we see the room, please?’ Grace asked.
    ‘I’ll phone the duty manager – actually, the General Manager is here, I’ll call him.’
    Andrew Mosley had, it seemed to Grace, all the qualities required of a consummate hotelier. Smart appearance, a charming manner, an efficient air and impeccable manners. He took them up in the lift, along the corridor then knocked, dutifully, on the door of room 608 and waited some moments. Then he knocked again. When he was satisfied no one was answering, he inserted the key and pushed the door open, calling out a cautious ‘Hello?’ before switching on the lights.
    The two detectives entered the small room, which was furnished with twin beds, an armchair, a round table on which sat a copy of Sussex Life magazine and Absolute Brighton , a side table, and a desk fixed to the wall, littered with receipts. There was a window overlooking an internal courtyard, and another door, ajar, leading through to the bathroom.
    A suitcase lay open on the floor, and on the top of the clothes inside it lay a dark-blue passport bearing a crest and the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
    Grace pulled on a pair of gloves; Tingley followed suit. Then Grace picked up the passport and opened it, flicking rapidly through the pages until he came to the identification one.
    There was a typically poor quality, photo-booth image of a hostile-looking man, in his forties when it was taken, he calculated from the date of issue, with greying hair brushed forward in a pageboy fringe. It gave his name as Drayton Robert Wheeler , and date of birth, 22 March 1956, which put him at fifty-five years old. His place of birth was New York City, USA.
    ‘I think this could be our man,’ Tingley said, staring at a receipt. ‘This is from Halfords. Receipt for a car battery and a tyre lever. You said