Not Dead Yet

investigate and find out who that mole was. But right now, with the case of Carl Venner coming up to trial, the unidentified dead body in the tunnel beneath Shoreham Port, their prime suspect in Operation Violin missing and now the torso on the chicken farm, he had more important issues on his plate. ‘What would you like to tell me, Kevin?’ he asked. ‘Sounds like you know more about it than I do.’
    ‘Haha!’ Spinella said again. That damned laugh, which was almost the reporter’s catchphrase, irritated him every time. ‘Thought you might have a bit of inside track for me, Detective Superintendent.’
    As always, Grace was forced to hold back his anger. Sussex Police needed the co-operation of the local media and there wasnothing to be gained – the reverse in fact – from being too confrontational.
    ‘Acting Detective Inspector Branson is the deputy SIO on this case and he’s handling the media,’ Grace said. ‘You’d best speak to him.’
    ‘I just did,’ Spinella said. ‘He told me to speak to you.’
    ‘I thought the point of going on holiday was to switch off,’ Grace said, silently fuming at Glenn Branson. The bastard, passing the buck! But he needed, as ever, to keep Spinella onside. ‘I really don’t know anything at this stage. DI Branson is holding a press conference at five thirty this afternoon. If you’d like to call me just before, I’ll tell you what I know then.’
    Grace tried to work out the time zone in the Maldives. He had in his mind that they were four hours ahead. That would make the press conference at 9.30 p.m. – hopefully messing up a romantic honeymoon dinner for the toerag.
    ‘Umm, well, okay, I’ll try.’
    ‘Tell your beloved it’s something she’ll have to get used to.’
    ‘Haha!’
    ‘Haha!’ Grace replied.
    Then, as he ended the call, Cleo rang.

22
    Grace had noticed throughout his career that the more senior the rank of his fellow officers, the tidier their offices seemed to be. Perhaps there was a clue here: to rise successfully to the elevated status of Chief Constable, you must be adept at managing your paperwork, or was it just that you had more people, like a Staff Officer as well as an assistant, to manage it for you?
    His own office was a perpetual tip, his desk, floor and shelves stacked with bundles of files. Earlier in his career, when all he’d had was a desk in the Detectives’ Room, its surface was permanently invisible beneath the sprawling paperwork. His untidiness had been one of the things that frequently annoyed Sandy, who had been almost obsessively neat and had a taste for minimalism in her home. Curiously, since Glenn Branson had left his wife Ari and moved into Roy’s now empty house as his permanent lodger – and caretaker of Marlon, his goldfish – he had gone through something of a role reversal, constantly irritated at the mess Glenn left the place in – especially his CD collection. Although recently, since he had put the house on the market, Glenn had started being a lot tidier.
    One of the things he loved about Cleo was that she was almost as naturally untidy as he was. And having a boisterous pet added to the sense of permanent chaos in her home.
    But there was nothing out of place in the Chief Constable’s spacious office as he entered now. The huge, polished wood L-shaped desk was uncluttered, apart from a leather blotter, some silver-framed photographs, including one of the Chief Constable flanked by sports presenter Des Lynam and another local celebrity, a pen set in a leather holder, and a solitary sheet of paper, that looked like an email printout. Two black sofas were arranged in a corner with a coffee table, and there was an eight-seater conference table. On the walls hung photographs of sports stars, a map of the county andseveral cartoons. The huge sash windows gave magnificent views out across Sussex. The whole room gave off an air of importance, but at the same time felt comfortable and warm.
    Tom Martinson shook his hand firmly and asked him to come in, speaking in a cheery Midlands accent. The Chief, who was forty-nine, was slightly shorter than himself, a strong, fit-looking man, with thinning, short dark hair, and a pleasant, no-nonsense air about him. He was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt with epaulettes, a black tie and black trousers.
    ‘Take a seat, Roy,’ he said, indicating one of the chairs at the coffee table. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
    ‘I’d love a coffee,