‘That’s his gait — and his shoes!’ Kelly said, excitedly.
‘Dukes Lane, right, Jon?’ Jack Alexander said.
‘Yes,’ Pumfrey replied. ‘The shop is called OnTrend. Very expensive, high-end.’
The two men walked forward to the edge of the frame, then entered the shop.
The door closed behind them.
Alexander called the Operation Lisbon Incident Room. Emma-Jane Boutwood answered. ‘Is the guv there, EJ?’ he asked.
‘He’s just stepped away to get a sarnie. Glenn’s here.’
‘Put him on!’
Moments later Glenn Branson said, ‘Jack, what’s up?’
‘I’m with Professor Kelly up at CCTV. He’s just identified our suspect going into a boutique in Dukes Lane with another guy — it’s called OnTrend.’
‘I know that shop. Is he still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice work, Jack. It’s only a short street, ask Oscar-1 to see if he can get a unit at both ends.’
Oscar-1 was the Duty Inspector in charge of the Force Control Room. The imposing figure of Keith Ellis, in his white uniform shirt with epaulettes, hurried across from his high perch. Jack Alexander quickly brought him up to speed.
Ellis immediately radioed the Duty Inspector at John Street Police Station, Dan Hiles, and requested response crews to cover both ends of Dukes Lane, relaying the description Alexander had given him.
Less than five minutes later the two men emerged. The tall guy was holding a large carrier bag, on which they could see clearly the shop’s logo and name. The pair walked rapidly out of shot. Ellis gave urgent instructions to the camera operators to try to pick them up again. A minute later another camera picked them up leaving the end of the lane and turning into Ship Street. They walked out of shot once more.
After several minutes there were no further sightings.
‘Maybe they got in a taxi?’ Alexander suggested, his eyes still glued to the screens.
‘I’ll call Streamline and Radio Cabs,’ Ellis said. ‘Get someone from the Incident Room to call the shop, see what information they have on them, what credit card details they have from the transaction.’
Ten minutes later, DC Boutwood rang Jack Alexander back.
‘I’ve spoken to the shop, Jack. He paid cash. They have CCTV inside the shop and will have footage of them.’
‘Good!’ Jack Alexander said. ‘OK, call them back and tell them not to touch the bank notes, we can lift prints from them.’
‘Yes, Jack.’
Alexander looked at Haydn Kelly, who was busy typing on his iPad. ‘What do you have, Haydn?’
‘The tall guy, his gait is an exact match to our man in Munich — and to the footprint analysis from Suzy Driver’s house in Brighton — or, technically, Hove.’
‘So what you’re saying is it’s the same man who was at the scene of Lena Welch’s death in Munich and Suzy Driver’s in Brighton — or rather, Hove?’
‘No question.’
‘So, where do we find him?’
‘You and your team, you’re the detectives. I’m just a humble podiatrist, Jack. I file down corns and bunions and cut toenails for a living.’
‘Bullshit!’
51
Tuesday 9 October
Paul said he would be late home tonight, 8 p.m. at the very earliest, and Toby Seward was happy about that. He’d only got back an hour ago from a meeting with a multinational tech company that had offered him a dream ticket. A series of motivational speeches around the globe. They would fly him and Paul — if he could join him — business class and put them up in swanky hotels. What he was required to do was a cake-walk. Give a series of talks he’d done a thousand times before and could do in his sleep.
On the television on the wall beyond the kitchen island unit, a recording of MasterChef was playing. A contestant was explaining his particular recipe for scallops with chorizo and black pudding. Toby had blanched the scallops, the black pudding ready on the side on the warming plate. He was now occupied dicing tomatoes with his cheffing knife on the chopping board, whilst keeping an eye on the shallots softening in the pan on the induction hob. The oven timer tinged. He needed to take the chorizo out.
The doorbell rang.
Toby glanced at his watch: 7.05 p.m. Who was it? Paul, locked out? Too early for him to be back.
The bell rang again.
Oh, for God’s sake!
He debated whether to take the chorizo out or answer the door first. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Probably some dimwit pizza delivery guy with the wrong address. He walked into the hallway and over to the front door. He should have checked the spyhole, he knew. Should have checked it, he rued, in the months and years that followed. If someone had asked him why he hadn’t, he would not have been able to give them a rational answer.
It was a question that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
52
Tuesday 9 October
Driving to his house along the rutted car track made Roy Grace happy every time. Moving to the countryside from their home in the centre of Brighton had been a gamble for both of them, but so far the only question he had was why had he not done this sooner?
The house came into view, lights blazing in the windows, and he felt a sudden moment of profound joy. As he climbed out of his car into the strong, chilly wind, he heard Humphrey bark and a clanking from the scaffolding on the far side. The workmen were now halfway through installing the en suite for Bruno. And not a day too soon — he’d never known it was possible for a young boy to take quite so long over his appearance or to have quite so many skin- and hair-care products. Some days he would be in there for the best part of an hour with him and Cleo getting more and more exasperated. It would be better in a couple of weeks, when his son had his own private bathroom. He could spend all day in there, if he wanted.
Grace looked at the house, still finding it hard to take in that he actually lived here now. Their home, their sanctuary. The rural air, tinged with woodsmoke, smelled so good. It was strange, he thought, standing here in almost pitch blackness. He used to be afraid of the dark when he was a kid, but now he felt safe in it. Secure. Far more so than he’d ever done living in the centre of the city with all the street lights — and shadows.
Built in the 1930s for a farm labourer and his family, it wasn’t the prettiest, picture-postcard cottage in the world. It had been built on the cheap, with plain, rendered exterior walls, and every window was a different size, making it look slightly lopsided. But he and Cleo loved both the house and the isolation, a place where she could escape from her duties in the mortuary, the never-ending task of receiving and preparing bodies, and trying to find words of comfort for each newly bereaved relative as they faced probably the worst moment of their life — identifying their loved one’s body. And a place where he could get away from the pressure-cooker environment of Major Crime Investigation, chill with his family and recharge his batteries, if only, often, for just a few hours.
Ten minutes later, changed from his suit into jeans and a quilted gilet, he went downstairs, removed his laptop from his bag and plonked it down on an armchair opposite Cleo. She was on the sofa, surrounded by her coursework papers for the Open University degree she was taking in philosophy — which she had been steadily working on ever since he’d known her. Snug in a loose-fitting jumper, with the fire blazing, she looked cosy and contented. But Roy knew just how frustrated she was that she wasn’t getting through the course more quickly. A combination of both a demanding job and home life made it hard to find the time to study, and with no classroom to turn up to, self-motivation was challenging.