Not Dead Yet

as easily have been a nervous twitch, Anna thought.
    ‘Help from the public is vital to us in this case. We cannot start a murder investigation in earnest until we know who that body is. One thing that may be significant in helping to jog the mind of someone out there is the gentleman’s stomach contents. He ate a last meal which probably included oysters and wine.’
    What kind of oysters? Tell us? Anna urged, silently. Colchester? Whitstable? Blue Point? Bluffs? What kind? Tell us, tell us! Colchester? Colchester are the best!
    Now the detective was pointing at two ragged pieces of fabric that were stuck to a whiteboard. Next to them was a complete male suit in the same material, on a shop-window mannequin. ‘Something that may be significant to our enquiry is these two pieces of cloth found in the vicinity of the body. We believe they come from a suit similar to this one.’ He pointed at the mannequin.
    The screen filled with a blow-up photograph of the two pieces. It was a distinctive yellow ochre and red and dark-brown check. Anna listened to the detective’s voice, taking another, larger sip of her drink.
    ‘This is a tweed suit material, in a heavyweight cloth from the quality manufacturer Dormeuil,’ DS Branson said. ‘You can see this is a very bold and distinctive design. You’d remember if you saw a suit of this pattern, or if you knew someone who had a suit like this.’
    Anna did. She drained the rest of her drink in one gulp then set the glass down. The numbers to call for the Incident Room and the anonymous number for Crimestoppers came up. But Anna did not call either of them.
    Instead she made herself another drink.

42
    ‘This isn’t the way to the nick,’ Amis Smallbone slurred, as the car bumped and jolted over the grass.
    ‘Woken up at last, have you?’ Grace said, watching him in the rear-view mirror, although in the growing darkness, it was getting harder to see him. He’d been good as gold for the past twenty minutes, out for the count. He’d hardly needed the handcuffs, one of which was clamped around Smallbone’s right wrist, behind his back, the other to the rear passenger door handle, which had been made inoperable from the inside by the child lock.
    Smallbone’s mobile phone, which Grace had removed and placed on the passenger seat beside him, rang for the third time.
    ‘Hey, that’s my phone ringing.’
    ‘Crap ringtone,’ Grace said as it stopped. He was out of his comfort zone, doing what he was now doing, but he didn’t care. He was going to teach this little shit a lesson he would not forget. He drove for several hundred yards towards an old fort, long abandoned, at the top of the Devil’s Dyke, Brighton’s highest landmark. It was where he used to come and play as a child, and where he used to bring Sandy when they were courting. The lights of the city were some miles behind them across farmland.
    In his first couple of years as a uniformed copper, before he’d joined CID, and before the force had today’s level of public scrutiny and accountability, they used to scoop up aggressive drunks on a Friday or Saturday night in a police van, drive them up here, and toss them out on the grass, leaving them with a five-mile trek back to the town centre. No better way to sober them up!
    He climbed out of the car, and carefully checked all around him, peering through the driving rain. It was deserted. Then he opened the rear door and peered in. Smallbone glared at him. He slid in beside him and pulled the door shut. The smell of booze andcigarettes coming off the man was much stronger, mixed with a sickly cologne.
    ‘What the fuck do you want?’
    Grace stared at him and gave him a cheery smile. ‘Just a little chat, Amis, then I might release you without charge, if we come to an understanding.’
    ‘Without charge for what?’
    ‘Breaching your prison release conditions, by not staying at the hostel where you were instructed to reside, and failing to report to your probation officer. I can of course read you your rights and formally charge you on both these counts, and you’ll be straight back inside, if you’d prefer. Five more years, maybe? That sound good to you?’
    Smallbone said nothing for some moments. Grace continued to stare at him. He’d aged noticeably, he thought. His face, which once had cold, boyish good looks that used to remind him of one of those perfect, soulless young men in Hitler Youth posters, now had the leathery, lined texture that