‘Remove his kit for the viewing,’ Grace said. ‘The widow’s going to have to formally identify him. It’ll be easier for her if he’s not in a latex shroud.’
‘Yep, you’re right,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’ Then she led them all through towards the Isolation Room.
As they crowded round the door, peering in through the glass panel at the body on the solitary table, Cleo instructed them all to put on their face masks.
‘Righty ho!’ said Nick Best, joining them. He was gowned-up in white, head to toe, with a full head mask and visor, as if ready to enter a nuclear waste site, and holding a small bag. ‘Let’s go and check out le plat du jour!’
He entered the Isolation Room, followed by the others. Last in, Grace closed the door behind them. As he did, Glenn Branson took a shocked step back and said, his voice muffled, ‘Oh Jesus!’
58
Tuesday 3 March
After Rollo had left the cabin to play bridge again, at 4 p.m., Jodie waited a few minutes to ensure he didn’t come back for something he had forgotten, then she changed. She slipped on a push-up bra, slinky top, a short skirt and high-heeled sandals, then admired herself in the full-length mirror, mouthing, with a grin, ‘You are so sexy!’
She made her way along to the ship’s doctor, on a lower deck down in the bowels of the ship, placing her hands in the wall-mounted disinfection unit before entering. She explained her reasons for her visit to the nurse, who asked her to take a seat and fill in a form. Then she was ushered into the consulting room, which contained an examination couch, eye-test chart, towel dispenser and a desk with a computer screen and keyboard.
Dr Gordon Ryerson was a charming grey-haired man, in a smart white outfit, and of a similar vintage to Rollo, she estimated. And with a roving eye, she guessed, too, from the way he looked her up and down appreciatively. As she was a generation younger, at least, than most of the rest of her fellow female passengers, she guessed he didn’t get to flirt with young women that often on this voyage. So she flirted coyly with him now, meeting his gaze. She loved it, always. Loved seeing in men’s eyes just how damned attractive she was. And sometimes she would think back to her younger days as an ugly duckling and count her blessings. Life now was very much more fun.
‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Carmichael,’ he said, as if suddenly ending the game and going into professional mode, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. ‘Have a seat. What can I do for you?’
She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them slowly, smiling to herself as his eyes followed them. ‘I’ve been feeling queasy ever since we sailed from Dubai, doctor,’ she lied. ‘I was wondering if you could suggest anything? I’ve seen people wearing motion sickness bracelets, but before buying one I thought I’d ask your views.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Poor you. I’m afraid it does take some people a few days to get their sea legs. Are you on any medication of any kind?’
She shook her head.
He studied the form for some moments that she had filled out for his nurse a few minutes earlier. Then he asked, ‘You’re not pregnant or anything?’
‘God, I hope not! My husband’s had a vasectomy.’
‘They’re not always foolproof, of course. I’ve had patients in the past who’ve fallen pregnant when they thought they were safe.’
‘I’m not pregnant, believe me!’ Changing the subject, she said breezily, ‘This must be a nice job. Do you work on this ship permanently?’
‘No, I’m retired, really. I used to be a general practitioner in Chipping Norton in Oxfordshire. I do a bit of locum work to keep my hand in, and a couple of times a year I do this — my wife and I enjoy a free cruise in return for my working a few hours a day. It’s very pleasant.’
‘How nice!’
‘Well, you know, it’s nice to work with happy people. People come on a cruise to have a good time. Are you and your husband enjoying yourselves?’
‘Very much. So you’re an expert in everything medical?’
‘I began life as an army surgeon, so I wouldn’t call myself an expert in everything, but I can cope with most emergencies that are likely to happen on board ship.’
‘You do operations?’
‘I can whip out an appendix, if needed. But for anything more serious we’d put a patient ashore or have them airlifted off.’ He smiled.
She smiled back. Good. Very good.
He pulled open a drawer behind his desk and produced a blister pack of pills. ‘I’m sure we can clear up this motion sickness very quickly, then you can focus on enjoying yourself!’
‘Thank you,’ she said, as he handed her the pills and gave her instructions on taking them.
She’d already got all she needed from this brief meeting.
The knowledge that he was limited in his experience. He could deal with all the basics. Fine.
She doubted he’d ever had to deal with what she had in mind.
59
Tuesday 3 March
Throughout his career, Roy Grace had been known as an innovative thinker, with a highly organized mind. He was also sentimental and he was sad this would be one of his last investigations to take place in Major Incident Room One — or MIR-1 for short — the place where all the homicide enquiries he had run or worked on for over a decade had been based. It was a large open space, with three huge workstations, and capable of housing three different major crime enquiries at any time. But for now he put all his issues about the changes out of his mind, to concentrate on the task confronting him.
Operation Spider was the name the Sussex Police computer had randomly generated for this operation. Already, since the completion of Stonor’s post-mortem, as was the tradition, one of the team had stuck up on the door to MIR-1 a cartoon parodying the operation name. Today’s was a depiction of Spiderman climbing up the side of a high-rise building.
Grace had assembled just a small team of his trusted regulars, including DI Glenn Branson, DS Norman Potting, DS Guy Batchelor, who he had appointed as Office Manager, DS Cale, DCs Emma-Jane Boutwood, Alec Davies and Jack Alexander, indexer Annalise Vineer, as well as a researcher and a HOLMES analyst.
They were all seated around one of the curved workstations in the room. The others were empty, which Grace was pleased about. It meant that if he needed to step up this enquiry, as instincts told him he might, there would be space to expand right here.
Four whiteboards were on the wall behind them. On one there were photographs of Stonor taken during the post-mortem, some in wide angle and some in close-up. On the second was an association chart for Stonor, with several photographs of him, including standard prison mugshots, both face-on and side profile, and a strange flash-lit, blurry image of him that looked to be accidental, blown up to an eight by ten. On the third was a photograph pulled off the internet, of a snake with beige, brown and black markings. On the fourth was a map of the east side of Brighton, with an area of about a square mile crudely ringed by red marker pen.
In front of Grace lay his notes typed by his new Command Secretarial Assistant, Lesley Hildrew, his policy book and a tepid cup of coffee, which he’d had to stir with a knife because as usual all the spoons in the kitchenette had vanished. Reading from his notes he said, routinely, ‘The time is 6.30 p.m., Tuesday March 3rd, this is the evening briefing of Operation Spider, the investigation into the suspicious death of Shelby James Stonor.’
He went on to outline the circumstances, especially the concerns of the helicopter’s alert on-board paramedic that, although he had died at the scene, the injuries Stonor had sustained in the accident were not severe enough to have killed him — although he might have ended up as a paraplegic. The paramedic arranged to have blood samples biked up to Guy’s Hospital where there was a specialist department in tropical diseases and poisons.