very high quality, heavy tweed.’
‘A winter fabric?’ Grace said.
‘Very definitely. Quite a bit heavier than the material I’m wearing myself. It’s the sort of fabric you might have a suit made in for wearing for outdoors pursuits in the countryside – perhaps for going on a formal shoot – except, not in this colour! It really is a bit bold, you’d have to be a bit of a show-off to wear this.’
Heavy fabric meant it was likely the victim was killed during the winter months, Grace thought.
‘I think it’s a Dormeuil cloth,’ Farrier added. ‘I can check with them on Monday. Are you able to leave me the tiniest cutting?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. ‘We can’t risk contaminating the evidence – we’ve brought you photographs we can leave with you.’
‘How many tailors would a company like Dormeuil supply cloth to?’ Branson asked him.
Farrier thought for a moment. ‘Gosh, hundreds, maybe thousands. Any good tailor will have swatches of their material – they are top quality – but also top prices. But this is quite flamboyant material – I can’t imagine too many people having a suit made out of this. Dormeuil should be able to give you the names of all the tailors they’ve supplied bolts of this cloth to in recent years.’
‘This is very helpful,’ Branson said, then turned to Grace. ‘Although of course the victim’s not necessarily the person this was originally made for. He could have bought it second-hand,’ he said, mindful of the number of second-hand clothes shops in Brighton.
Farrier looked pained. ‘I don’t think many people go to the expense of buying a suit made from Dormeuil cloth and then give it away or sell it. A quality suit tends to be for life.’
And in this case, death, Grace nearly added.
25
He sat in semi-darkness, in his cramped seat in coach, with the constant faint thrashing roar of air in his ears, feeling the occasional judder as the plane bumped through a patch of turbulence. Most people were asleep. Like the shithead beside him who’d drunk four disgusting Coke and whisky mixes and now had fits of snoring loudly every few minutes.
People shouldn’t snore on planes. It was like people who let babies cry on planes. Those babies should be flushed down the toilets. He was tempted, very tempted, to pull a plastic bag down over the man’s head. No one would see in the darkness.
But he had to control his anger.
Which was why he had the book open on his lap. It was titled Managing Your Inner Anger .
The problem was that just reading the book was making him angry. It was written by some fuckwit psychologist. What did any psychologist know about anything? They were all nuts themselves.
Chapter 5. Develop your personal Action Plan (Devised by Lorraine Bell)
Develop your own personalized plan for managing and reducing anger, and carry it around with you , he read.
Right, carry it around with me. In what? A carrier bag? A suitcase? A bowl on my head? An appendage to my scrotum?
Write down the times you are likely to get angry, such as after a stressful day at work, or an alcoholic drink.
Or after life craps on you yet again, from a great height?
He felt his rage building again now. The man beside him was snoring again, as loud as a chainsaw. The noise was so damned deafening he could not think. He jabbed him hard, really hard, in the ribs and turned to him, glowering. ‘Shut the fuck up, you hear me?’
The man blinked at him, dazed and bewildered.
He curled his finger and thumb in front of the man’s face. ‘Snore again one more time, and I’m going to pull your tongue right out.’
The man stared at him for a moment, was about to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He looked nervous now, as if he could sense it wasn’t an idle threat. After some moments of hesitation, he unbuckled his seat belt, stood up, and walked away down the aisle.
He returned to his book.
I know when I’m getting angry because of the
‘A winter fabric?’ Grace said.
‘Very definitely. Quite a bit heavier than the material I’m wearing myself. It’s the sort of fabric you might have a suit made in for wearing for outdoors pursuits in the countryside – perhaps for going on a formal shoot – except, not in this colour! It really is a bit bold, you’d have to be a bit of a show-off to wear this.’
Heavy fabric meant it was likely the victim was killed during the winter months, Grace thought.
‘I think it’s a Dormeuil cloth,’ Farrier added. ‘I can check with them on Monday. Are you able to leave me the tiniest cutting?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. ‘We can’t risk contaminating the evidence – we’ve brought you photographs we can leave with you.’
‘How many tailors would a company like Dormeuil supply cloth to?’ Branson asked him.
Farrier thought for a moment. ‘Gosh, hundreds, maybe thousands. Any good tailor will have swatches of their material – they are top quality – but also top prices. But this is quite flamboyant material – I can’t imagine too many people having a suit made out of this. Dormeuil should be able to give you the names of all the tailors they’ve supplied bolts of this cloth to in recent years.’
‘This is very helpful,’ Branson said, then turned to Grace. ‘Although of course the victim’s not necessarily the person this was originally made for. He could have bought it second-hand,’ he said, mindful of the number of second-hand clothes shops in Brighton.
Farrier looked pained. ‘I don’t think many people go to the expense of buying a suit made from Dormeuil cloth and then give it away or sell it. A quality suit tends to be for life.’
And in this case, death, Grace nearly added.
25
He sat in semi-darkness, in his cramped seat in coach, with the constant faint thrashing roar of air in his ears, feeling the occasional judder as the plane bumped through a patch of turbulence. Most people were asleep. Like the shithead beside him who’d drunk four disgusting Coke and whisky mixes and now had fits of snoring loudly every few minutes.
People shouldn’t snore on planes. It was like people who let babies cry on planes. Those babies should be flushed down the toilets. He was tempted, very tempted, to pull a plastic bag down over the man’s head. No one would see in the darkness.
But he had to control his anger.
Which was why he had the book open on his lap. It was titled Managing Your Inner Anger .
The problem was that just reading the book was making him angry. It was written by some fuckwit psychologist. What did any psychologist know about anything? They were all nuts themselves.
Chapter 5. Develop your personal Action Plan (Devised by Lorraine Bell)
Develop your own personalized plan for managing and reducing anger, and carry it around with you , he read.
Right, carry it around with me. In what? A carrier bag? A suitcase? A bowl on my head? An appendage to my scrotum?
Write down the times you are likely to get angry, such as after a stressful day at work, or an alcoholic drink.
Or after life craps on you yet again, from a great height?
He felt his rage building again now. The man beside him was snoring again, as loud as a chainsaw. The noise was so damned deafening he could not think. He jabbed him hard, really hard, in the ribs and turned to him, glowering. ‘Shut the fuck up, you hear me?’
The man blinked at him, dazed and bewildered.
He curled his finger and thumb in front of the man’s face. ‘Snore again one more time, and I’m going to pull your tongue right out.’
The man stared at him for a moment, was about to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He looked nervous now, as if he could sense it wasn’t an idle threat. After some moments of hesitation, he unbuckled his seat belt, stood up, and walked away down the aisle.
He returned to his book.
I know when I’m getting angry because of the
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