Not Dead Yet

the Detective Sergeant said.
    Glenn was a movie buff and half his references in life involved movie titles. In his current star-struck mood, Grace’s first reaction was to wonder what film he was referring to.
    ‘Darren Spicer?’ Then he realized.
    ‘Remember him, chief?’
    ‘He’s about the most forgettable person I’ve ever remembered. Yes, I do.’ He refrained from adding he’d seen him arriving at Tommy Fincher’s wake a couple of days ago. ‘What about him?’ Then he had to wait for a moment as an ambulance screamed past before he could hear Glenn’s voice.
    ‘He just belled me. He wants to speak to you.’
    Darren Spicer was one of the local villains who was also an occasional informer for Sussex Police. A career burglar, with form that stretched back to his early teens, he was a true recidivist, or what they colloquially called a ‘revolving door prisoner’. He was a man who had spent more of his working life behind bars than free. Earlier in the year, in a stroke of luck – in Grace’s view totally undeserved – Spicer collected a £50,000 reward put up by local millionaire philanthropist Rudy Burchmore, for information leading to the arrest of the man who had attempted to rape his wife. It was his biggest financial result to date in a long second career of acting as a police informant, both from inside jail and out.
    ‘What did he want?’ Grace asked.
    ‘He wouldn’t say. Just told me it’s urgent and you’d want to know.’
    ‘What reward is he after this time?’
    ‘I dunno. He sounded anxious and gave me a number.’
    Grace jotted it down on his pad, then entered the car park, stopped and dialled it.
    It was answered almost instantly with a furtive, ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Darren Spicer?’
    ‘Depends who’s calling him.’
    Fuckwit , Grace thought. He gave his name.
    ‘Got something for you.’
    ‘What’s it about and what do you want?’
    ‘I want a monkey.’ A monkey was £500.
    ‘That’s big money.’
    ‘This is big information.’
    ‘Want to tell me?’
    ‘We need to meet.’
    ‘What’s it about, generally?’
    ‘That movie star you’re protecting.’
    ‘Gaia?’
    ‘Know the Crown and Anchor in Shoreham?’
    ‘That’s a bit upmarket for you, isn’t it?’
    ‘I’m a rich man these days, Detective Superintendent. I’ll be here for another thirty minutes.’

    Shoreham Harbour was a major port at the western extremity of Brighton. A village that had long since grown into an annexe to the city was spread along it. The Crown and Anchor pub, with its outside terrace overlooking the harbour, had one of Shoreham-by-Sea’s most attractive and best value restaurants. He had eaten there many times in the past with Sandy, and more recently with Cleo.
    Whatever else he might think about Spicer’s sad and generally scuzzy lifestyle, there was no denying the villain was well connected, and his information tended to be reliable. True, £500 was a lot, but the police had funds set aside for payments like this.
    Thanks to new levels of public accountability, all police officers, unless attending an emergency, had to comply with public parking regulations. Which was why he wasted ten minutes of his day drivingaround the narrow streets of the old village part of Shoreham, in the pelting rain, trying to find a parking space.
    Spicer was seated on a bar stool, nursing an almost empty straight glass of stout. A tall, gangly man in his early forties who, thanks to his many years spent in prison, looked upwards of sixty. He wore a yellow polo shirt, baggy jeans and brand new trainers. His head was shaven to a brown fuzz, his face was grizzled, with dead eyes.
    ‘Get you another Guinness?’ Grace said by way of introduction, as he slid on to the stool next to him. It was still early and the bar was almost empty.
    ‘Thought you wasn’t coming,’ Spicer said without even looking at him. ‘I need a fag. Bring my pint out on the terrace.’ He climbed down from his stool and ambled across the bar. Grace watched him. He had the posture of a bent crane.
    A few minutes later, Roy Grace pushed his way through the glass patio door and out on the wooden decking overlooking the Adur, the river which fed the harbour. It was low tide, and mostly mud-flats, with a narrow stream of water flowing through the middle. Dozens of gulls were foraging in the mud. Across the far side was the permanent moored community of houseboats, which had been here ever since he could remember.
    Spicer was