Not Dead Yet

in front of him. On one was written, Torso at Stonery Farm . On another was, Arms and legs found in West Sussex Piscatorial Society lake . On the third, Suit fabric at Stonery Farm, West Sussex Piscatorial Society Lake and Gaia German tour . The fourth was headed, Myles Royce . The fifth, Drayton Wheeler .
    It was a method he employed whenever he found himself stuck. Each card related to photographs pinned to the whiteboards above the workstations where the investigation team were working in mostly silent concentration. Every few moments, he could hear Norman Potting’s irritating voice. The DS always seemed to speak louder than anyone else when he was on the phone, as if assuming the person down the other end of the line was hard of hearing.
    Then a female voice interrupted Branson. ‘Sir?’
    He looked up to see the tall figure of DC Reeves, in a bright red dress and flaxen hair, standing over him, looking excited. ‘I have something from eBay that might be significant.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘They’ve been really helpful. I’ve got the entire history of the auction for Gaia’s suit, and all the names of the bidders. It ended up with just two people who between them drove the price up from seven hundred pounds to the final winning bid of twenty-seven thousand, two hundred.’
    ‘That was some bidding war. Incredible!’
    ‘I know! And the winning bidder was none other than our jigsaw puzzle man, Myles Royce.’
    ‘Royce?’ Branson said. He frowned. ‘I thought he already had this suit – he bought one.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Emma Reeves agreed. ‘But he didn’t own this one. Gaia’s personal suit, worn by her at a concert. That’s what gives it kudos and value to a collector.’
    ‘Yeah, I get it, but shit, you’ve got to be sad to pay that kind of money.’
    ‘Gaia gives it all to charity, apparently,’ Emma Reeves said. ‘And for the collector it could be a good investment.’
    Branson shrugged. ‘Even so, you’d have to want something real bad.’
    ‘I think these collectors do, sir. Anyhow, I gave the names of all the other bidders to Annalise Vineer, and she’s run checks on them. Remember an incident at The Grand Hotel, last week, when an overzealous Gaia fan got pushed over by one of her security guards? This fan called the police, who attended; subsequently it was found that she had given them a false address.’
    ‘Yep,’ Branson said. ‘Her name was Anna Garley – Galicia – or something like that, right?’
    ‘Spot on! Galicia . Well, she was the underbidder on this auction for the yellow suit.’
    Branson absorbed this for some moments. A possibility was shaping in his mind. A motive? Had they been looking down the wrong track? Could anger over the suit be behind this murder? Were the yellow cloth fragments at the deposition sites put there deliberately? Out of some kind of spite?
    Norman Potting, who had just ended his call, looked up. ‘You’re talking about a female Gaia obsessive?’
    Branson gave him a surly look. ‘Possibly.’
    ‘I just got back a short while ago from that internet place, Café Conneckted.’ He held up a CD. ‘This is the footage of the person who was online at 8.46 p.m. Monday night, when the threatening email was sent to Gaia.’ Like an actor playing to an audience, Potting took a deliberate pause before going on. ‘It’s a woman.’
    This was greeted by frowns, and a brief silence.
    ‘A woman?’ Guy Batchelor said.
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Is there footage of her walking?’ Haydn Kelly, sitting just opposite him, asked.
    ‘I think so, a bit,’ Potting said.
    ‘May I see it?’
    Potting handed him the disc. Kelly loaded it immediately.
    ‘This person, whoever she is, went to an HSBC bank hole-in-the-wall machine in Queen’s Road around 8.30 p.m. on Monday to make a cash withdrawal,’ Potting said. ‘There are two ATMs, side by side. I’ve just been on to the bank asking them to let us have details of all the people who made cash withdrawals from these machines between 8.15 and 9 p.m. on Monday – to allow for the machine clocks being slightly wrong. I should have it a bit later today.’
    Glenn Branson stood over Haydn Kelly’s shoulder and studied the distinct, if poor quality, colour image.
    ‘You can fast forward through the first few minutes as the others leave the café, Haydn,’ Potting said.
    The forensic podiatrist did so, then slowed as the clock counter approached 20.44. Only the woman in the leather cap was there now. From her