Not Dead Yet

a general observation, pronounced muscle attachments, particularly noticeable in the humerus, suggest a strong, active individual.’
    Grace nodded. The skeletal remains, along with a pair of partially gnawed sea boots, UK size nine, had been discovered by chance in a disused tunnel deep beneath the city’s principal harbour, Shoreham. He already had a pretty good idea who this man was, and all that Joan Major had said was helping confirm this.
    Six years earlier, an Estonian Merchant Navy sea captain called Andrus Kangur had disappeared after berthing his container ship loaded with timber. Kangur had been under observation by Europol for some years on suspicion of drugs trafficking. The man wasn’t necessarily a great loss to the world, but that wasn’t for Roy Grace to judge. He did know there was a probable motive. According to information from the Divisional Intelligence Unit, which, following a tip-off, had had the ship under surveillance from the time it entered the port, Kangur had tried to double-cross whoever was behind this cargo, and had not been too smart in his choice of whom he had screwed: a high-profile New York crime family.
    From the evidence so far gathered, and from what Grace knew about the likely assailant, the unfortunate captain had been chained up in what amounted to an underground dungeon, and left to starve to death or be eaten by rats. When they had found him, all of his flesh and almost all of the sinews and his hair had gone. Most of his bones had fallen in on each other, or on to the floor, except for one set of arm bones and an intact skeletal hand, which hung from a metal pipe above him, held in place by a padlocked chain.
    Suddenly, Roy’s phone rang.
    It was a cheery and very efficient Detective Sergeant from Eastbourne CID, Simon Bates. ‘Roy, you’re the Duty SIO?’
    Immediately Grace’s heart sank. Calls like this were never good news.
    There were four Senior Investigating Officers in the Sussex CID Major Crime Branch, taking it in turns to be the Duty SIO, one week on, three weeks off. His shift was due to end at 6 a.m. on Monday. Shit .
    ‘Yes I am, Simon,’ he said, about as enthusiastically as a dental patient agreeing to root canal work. He suddenly heard a strange clicking sound, which lasted for a few seconds; interference from somewhere.
    ‘We have a suspicious death at a farm in East Sussex.’
    ‘What information can you give me?’
    The clicking stopped. He listened to Bates, his heart sinking, his weekend down the khazi hours before it even begun. He exchanged a glance with Cleo, and could see, instantly, that she understood what was going on. She gave him a wan smile.
    ‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
    He hung up and immediately dialled the Chief Constable’s Staff Officer, Trevor Bowles, informing him that it sounded like there was another murder in the county, and that he would report back with more details later. It was important to keep the CC informed of a potential major incident, as well as the Deputy Chief Constable and the Assistant Chief Constables, to avoid the risk of their being in the embarrassing position of hearing the news third hand from the media.
    Next he dialled his colleague and friend, Detective Sergeant Glenn Branson.
    ‘Yo, old timer, what’s popping?’ Branson answered.
    Grace grinned at his use of rap language, a recent affectation that he had picked up from a movie. ‘I’ll tell you what’s about to be popping – your ears. We’re going up a hill.’

8
    I made a mistake, bitch. You were lucky. But that changes nothing. Next time I’ll be the lucky one. I will get you anywhere in the world that you go.

9
    In the stop-go rush hour traffic heading down into the Valley, Larry Brooker sat in his black Porsche cabriolet. It was a 911 Carrera 4-S, he told anyone who would listen. He needed to make sure people knew he’d bought the 4-S, and not the less expensive 2-S, and that it had the $25k ceramic brake upgrade. Details. He was a detail guy. It wasn’t just the Devil that was in the detail. The gods of success were, too. People needed to know you were one of life’s winners; players in this business had no time for losers.
    He was on his cellphone, his veneered teeth flashing brightly in the strong morning sunlight. His eyes, raw from a sleepless night, were shielded by his Ray-Bans, and his shaved dome gleamed with a healthy California tan. He was fifty, short and lean and spoke in a rapid, staccato manner; he was