‘Very little traffic, chief. I don’t know if it is in any way significant, but she received a call only moments before she was attacked.’ Packham checked his notes for a moment. ‘We traced it to a mobile phone belonging to an employee of a telesales company selling loft insulation. The man who made the call, Gareth Dupont, left their employment at the end of last week and started with a new company called Mountainpeak this Tuesday. I would not consider this significant, ordinarily, except for one thing.’ Ray Packham gave Grace a smile, then said nothing further, as if enjoying his moment in the sun.

‘Which is?’ Roy Grace asked.

‘Gareth Dupont has form. Four previous convictions. Possession of cannabis. That was minor. More significant is one for GBH, one previous conviction for handling stolen goods – and even more significant is he’s out on licence for aggravated burglary.’

‘Good work, Ray,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve had one of those calls about loft insulation as well – but I got rid of him smartly. Do you have any details on his aggravated burglary conviction?’

Packham nodded. ‘Yes, chief. Five years ago he was arrested following a burglary at a country house near Lewes. The owners were an elderly couple who were tied up and tortured with a very similar MO to Aileen McWhirter. They were burned with cigarettes by perps wanting their credit-card pin codes. Dupont claimed only to be the driver and got a reduced sentence for giving evidence against the other two perpetrators. I think he’s a fairly nasty piece of work. He also has links to an organized crime ring in Spain – Russian Mafia – specializing in fencing valuable paintings.’

DS Batchelor raised his hand. ‘Boss, there could be something significant here.’

‘Tell us,’ Grace said.

‘I was on a case of country-house burglars some years ago. They used a trick similar to this: phoning the occupant under the pretext of selling something, while knocking on the front door at the same time. It creates confusion, puts people off their guard – especially elderly people.’

Roy Grace made a note on his pad. ‘Good thinking, Guy. Do a full background on him, and what he’s up to now. Who he associates with, and any intelligence we have on him. Then I’d like you to go and have a chat with him.’

‘Do we have a residential address for him?’

‘His Probation Officer will know it. Otherwise you can go to Mountainpeak tomorrow where he’s working. Let me know; I’d like to come with you – I’m interested in this person.’

‘Yes, chief.’

Grace turned to DS Moy. ‘Bella, the knocker-boy who left the leaflet in Aileen McWhirter’s house – R. C. Moore. I had a phone call earlier this morning from Andy Kille, the Ops One Inspector. A senior nurse from the Royal Sussex County Hospital contacted Sussex Police at 5 a.m. today. She’d read in the Argus about Aileen McWhirter being tortured with burns, and reported that a man giving his name as Ricky Moore had been admitted early last Saturday morning, after stumbling into A&E with burns across his body – as well as internally. Without going into graphic detail, I understand it will be several weeks before he’s going to be able to sit down – or have a crap in comfort.’

‘You mean he’s a fudge-packer, chief?’ Norman Potting said.

‘Not a willing one, Norman, no,’ Grace said, irritated at his language. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone getting pleasure out of heated curling tongs up their rectum.’

‘Ouch,’ Potting said.

‘Could not have put it better myself,’ he replied tartly. ‘I’d like you to go and have a chat with him, Bella.’

‘Yes, chief.’

As Roy Grace ended the meeting, Norman Potting came up to him and said, ‘Do you think I could have that word with you, chief? Need a bit of advice.’

Roy Grace glanced at his watch, mindful of his promise to Cleo to be home early. ‘In my office – give me five minutes. It’ll have to be quick.’

32

To Roy Grace’s irritation, Norman Potting followed him straight out of the briefing, along the corridor, towards the open-plan office area of the Major Crime Suite. He had hoped for a bit of breathing space after the briefing to call Cleo and tell her he would be home soon.

He checked his emails on his BlackBerry as he strode along the zig-zagging corridors, annoyed to hear Potting’s footsteps almost on his heels.

As he opened the door to his office and went in, peeling off his jacket and hooking it on the back of the door, Norman Potting followed. Grace squeezed into the space behind his small desk, and the DS sat down heavily on the chair opposite. Grace could smell the reek of pipe tobacco smoke on his clothes, but he didn’t mind it. An occasional smoker himself, he loathed the draconian anti-smoking laws the nanny state in the UK had come up with. In truth, he envied Potting’s total insouciance in ignoring them at every possible opportunity.

‘So, Norman?’ he said, glancing at his BlackBerry, flashing red again, then his watch. ‘Tell me?’

Potting was looking uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Well, chief, the thing is, umm, you see . . .’ he said in his rural burr. The old detective blushed, then touched his eyebrows with the fingers of both hands. ‘I – ah – went to see the quack last week – and I had to go back to him this morning for the results; that’s why I was late for the briefing. The thing is, he sent me to have some tests – I’d been having a bit of irregularity with the old waterworks. Peeing a lot during the night, that kind of thing.’ He looked at Roy Grace quizzically.

The Detective Superintendent smiled back, patiently waiting for him to get to the point. ‘Sorry to hear that, Norman.’

‘Yes, well, you see – ’ He looked around, conspiratorially, then lowered his voice, despite them being alone in the office. ‘Turns out I have a bit of a problem in the old prostate department.’

‘What kind of problem?’

‘A touch of the old favourite.’

Grace had heard that expression before. It was mostly used by old rogues, rather than saying the C word. ‘God, I’m sorry, Norman.’ Grace genuinely was.

‘The doc says I have choices. One option is surgery – have the whole thing cut out, but that could result in a total loss of – you know – winky action, if you get my drift?’ He curled his index finger to illustrate the problem. ‘A one in five chance of that happening.’

Roy Grace nodded. Although he felt sorry for the man, Norman Potting talking about sex did not float his boat. ‘It wouldn’t come back afterwards?’

Potting shook his head glumly. ‘Not in the majority of cases, apparently. The other option is to have radiotherapy. From what I understand that way the old winky action would continue – but they might not get rid of it. Meaning, I suppose – you know – a few years, then curtains. I need to talk it through with someone, but I don’t really have any close male friends these days. You’ve got a wise head on you, chief. I need a bit of guidance.’

Grace thought that Norman Potting, suddenly, for the first time in all the years he had known him, looked lost. Like a small kid seeking teacher’s approval of a piece of work. Despite his frequent irritation at the man, he felt intensely sorry for his dilemma.

‘I don’t know what to say, Norman. I’m just not qualified to give this kind of advice. What’s your doctor’s view?’

‘That I have to make the decision. I did talk to the Nurse Specialist after – she was a bit of all right, phwoar! But you’re the only person whose judgement I trust – you know – to be impartial.’

Grace took a deep breath. ‘I just don’t know enough about the subject to give you an informed decision. You’re obviously very upset at the moment. I think you need to get all the facts clear in your mind before you make any decision.’