Not Dead Yet

there was a tyre lever in the rucksack, right?’
    Grace nodded. ‘Odd things for a tourist to buy.’
    ‘Not as odd as six thermometers, paint stripper and chlorine,’ the DI said, looking at some of the other receipts. ‘Were you any good at chemistry at school?’
    ‘Not much. I thought you did a CBRN course a few years back?’ CBRN was training for Chemical, Biological, Radiological and Nuclear incidents.
    ‘I did, but I’d need to go online to check what could be made with this lot. Mercury is used sometimes in bomb-making.’
    Grace turned to the hotel manager. ‘How’s your chemistry knowledge?’
    Mosley shook his head. ‘Only very rudimentary, I’m afraid. Stink bombs at school were about my limit!’
    Tingley was frowning at another receipt. ‘A baby monitor from Mothercare?’
    Grace stared at the receipt. Then realized what the broken plasticfragments he had seen up above the chandelier were. Had Drayton Wheeler been listening to the Banqueting Room from up above?
    Then the DI said urgently, ‘Look at this, chief!’
    It was a receipt from an internet café, Café Conneckted, dated yesterday, Monday.
    Grace looked at it. It was for one hour’s connection, coffee, mineral water and carrot cake. Ten pounds. ‘Do you know this place?’
    ‘Yes,’ Tingley said. ‘Top of Trafalgar Street.’
    Grace’s mind was whirring. Thinking about the threatening email that had been sent last night.
    The two detectives looked at each other. ‘Shall I send someone over there?’ Tingley asked.
    Grace shook his head. ‘No, you and I are going there. I want to find out for myself.’
    Tingley walked through into the bathroom. On the shelf above the sink was a row of plastic medication tubs. Grace followed him. There were six of them, each labelled with a New York pharmacy prescription band. Grace read them all.
    ‘This guy was some sort of junkie,’ Tingley commented.
    Grace shook his head. ‘No, he was ill.’
    ‘How ill?’
    Grace stared at one label in particular. ‘It looks to me like he had cancer. I recognize this – my father died of bowel cancer and was taking this medication, too.’ He thought for a moment. ‘That rude guy, the producer. Do you have his phone number?’
    The Detective Inspector fished out his notebook and flicked through several pages. ‘Yes, I have his mobile number here.’
    Grace keyed it in. He got Larry Brooker’s voicemail and left a message for him to call back urgently.

98
    Larry Brooker called back just as they pulled up outside Café Conneckted.
    ‘Does the name Drayton Wheeler mean anything to you, Mr Brooker?’ Grace asked him, then immediately put his phone on loudspeaker.
    ‘Drayton Wheeler?’ the American said. ‘Um, right, well, yes.’
    Grace could detect the unease in the American’s voice.
    ‘He’s just an asshole – trying to make a claim on our story. That kind of thing happens every time you make a high-profile movie. There’s always some creep comes crawling out the woodwork claiming it was their idea and you stole it.’
    ‘Might he have had a genuine grievance against you, or your production?’ Grace asked, glancing at Tingley.
    ‘Oh sure, he was threatening to sue us. No big deal – I told him to contact our lawyers.’ Then, sounding distinctly edgy, suddenly he asked, ‘Has he been in contact with you, or something?’
    ‘We think he might be the man lying under the chandelier.’
    There was a long silence. ‘You’re serious?’
    ‘I won’t know for certain until we’ve formally identified him.’
    ‘Is there anything I can do from my end?’
    ‘Not at the moment. If we make positive identification, then we’ll need to interview you tomorrow.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Have you been able to do some filming outdoors tonight? The weather seems to be holding, just.’
    ‘We are. Your officers here are being very co-operative. We’ll be shooting until around midnight.’
    ‘Good.’
    Grace then rang Andrew Gulli, to ask him if to his knowledge a Drayton Wheeler or Jerry Baxter had ever sent any obsessive or threatening messages to Gaia.
    Gulli was certain he had never heard either name.
    Grace ended the call and they went into the café, which was almost empty. A heavily pierced woman in her twenties, in jeans and a baggy blouse, stood behind the bar counter, working an espresso machine. There was a lounge seating area to the left, and an archway beyond the bar, through to what looked like a larger area at the rear. On