He shook his head. ‘Thanks, mate, but I’d like to come to the evening briefing meeting. I’d prefer to keep occupied than go home and just let it all—’ He stopped, his voice choked up. Thinking about Bruno lying in the hospital bed in his Bayern Munich strip, surrounded surreally by all the technical apparatus. He gave Branson a soulful look. ‘If you understand?’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t want to steal your thunder as Acting SIO — you can lead the meeting if you’d like?’
‘No way,’ Branson said in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘If you’re going to be there, you’re the boss!’
Grace looked at his watch. It was now 4.45 p.m. ‘If we could bring it forward, from 6.30 p.m. to 5.30 p.m., it would help. Then I can get home to be with Cleo — she’s pretty cut-up too, as you can imagine.’
‘Of course, 5.30 p.m. it is.’ Branson extended a hand and squeezed Grace’s arm, looking into his eyes. ‘Look, I know you’re an old wise man, and I’m just a humble upstart wannabe, but I’ve been through grief in my time, too. I lost my close friend, who was everything to me, when she was around Bruno’s age — I told you, I’m sure, she had a brain tumour. I got through it, eventually, by bawling my eyes out for days on end. I bawled and bawled until I had nothing left inside. Somehow, I got it out of my system — well, the worst of it. The sense of losing her and how unfair it was. Now, all these years on, whenever I think about her it’s only good thoughts. Smiling at the fun we had together. That’s my advice: don’t bottle it up, sodding well let it all out. Yeah?’
Grace smiled back at him bleakly through blurred eyes.
74
As soon as Glenn Branson had left his office, closing the door behind him, Roy Grace began to cry. He had been managing to hold it together in front of his team, but moments like this, on his own, were when his sadness returned. Should he even be here? He called Cleo.
She sounded strained as she answered.
‘OK, darling?’ he asked, putting on a brave front.
There was a short pause. ‘Not really, no. I can’t stop thinking about him.’
‘I can’t, either.’
‘I see all these dead bodies all day long at work. Old, middle-aged, young — and kids. But I don’t know them, I don’t know their families, their stories. All I know is these are people who woke up one morning — mostly, other than those who died in their sleep — with their day ahead of them. Then something happened. They said goodbye to their loved ones, went out and they never came back home. They fell off a ladder. Got crushed to death on their bike by a cement lorry. Were texting as they drove and went head-on into another car. Got into a fight outside a pub or a bar and hit their head on a kerb. Or had a stroke, a heart attack, whatever. Regardless of the plans they’d made for that evening, the following day, the weekend, whatever. Fate got to them first. And now it’s got Bruno.’
‘I know,’ was all Grace could think of to say at this moment.
‘It’s not fair, Roy, is it? Bruno was just getting through all the shit from his crazy mother.’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘Darling, I’m sorry — I don’t mean to be insensitive.’
‘No, it’s fine, she was nuts — or became nuts. I don’t know what demons were inside her, but yes, you’re right, it’s not fair.’
‘I’ve been thinking about what the funeral director said — that all Bruno’s friends at school would want to attend.’
‘I’ve been thinking the same,’ he replied. ‘Maybe, with a normal kid of his age, that would be true. But from what we know of how few friends he had — and how many of his fellow pupils he’d upset — we could be setting ourselves up for a fall.’
‘I have a suggestion.’
‘Go on?’
‘Why don’t we announce it’s going to be a private funeral — family members only. If it then turns out that loads of his fellow pupils did want to attend, then we could have some kind of a memorial service later?’
‘I like that,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about it when I get home. I’ve got a 5.30 p.m. briefing and I’ll head home straight after that — should be back by 7 p.m. latest.’
‘Any thoughts on what you’d like for supper?’
‘I don’t know, I’m just not hungry — not right now, anyway. Want me to pick up something on the way home? From that Indian place in Henfield, perhaps?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the menu on the wall in the kitchen — want me to photograph it and send it over?’
‘No need. A king prawn balti, something like that. Some poppadoms — oh and maybe some cheese naan. And some pickles. Maybe a tandoori chicken starter.’
‘And you’re not hungry?’ she said with a hint of sarcasm, her voice lightening up a little.
‘And something for yourself! I’m thinking about food now, and anyhow, we can always have leftovers tomorrow if we don’t feel like eating much,’ he said. ‘If you can call them, tell them I’ll swing by around 7 p.m.?’
‘I’d better tell them you’ll be there at 8 p.m.’
Grace was about to correct her, then realized it was just her mocking him. But she was right. He would invariably end up staying longer here than planned.
75
Mark Taylor sat in the square, boxy room at Police HQ, briefing his night-shift team of nine surveillance officers seated in front of him. Six male and three female, all in plain clothes, some deliberately scruffy, wearing reversible jackets and with a variety of caps and beanies stuffed in their pockets, others in varying degrees of smart casual. They would be joined soon by Sharon — Wazza — Orman, and they were aware three of their colleagues were in situ outside the subject’s house.
There was a nickname for everyone in this team, with many not able to recall the real names of their colleagues, due to how infrequently they were actually used. Nicknames were easier to use when communicating amongst the team.
A monitor on the wall behind him showed a view across a wide street of four nice-looking 1950s semi-detached houses. Two were rendered in white plaster; the other two, one with a red ring drawn around it, were in brick. The ringed one had a blue Fiesta parked in the drive; they had seen the subject pick it up from a local hire company. This house, like its twin, had a deeply recessed front door behind an arched porch.
On the top right of the screen was displayed the time in hours, minutes and seconds. Immediately below that were GPS coordinates. It was the start of the evening rush hour and a steady stream of cars, motorcycles, lorries, vans, buses, cyclists and pedestrians passed by in both directions.
Taylor thumbed the remote he was holding, freezing the image, then turned back to his team. ‘This is Nevill Road, Hove, taken twenty minutes ago, from Gummy’s van inside the Coral Greyhound Stadium car park, almost directly across the street. The van’s marked all over with the Coral logo, and it’s one of three parked up together, so it won’t draw any attention. Gummy’s going to remain in situ for the long haul.’
They all knew what this meant. Gummy — Jason Gumbert — would be concealed inside a crate in the back of the van, videoing through the rear windows, which were two-way mirrors. He would have several days’ supply of food and water, would pee into containers and, if he needed to, shit into plastic bags, which he would then seal.
‘I imagine as locals you’re all familiar with the area — anyone not?’
All shook their heads, one managing to do that while chugging from a water bottle at the same time.
‘Smithy, good to see you multitasking!’ Taylor ribbed.