Dead at First Sight

11 Wednesday 26 September

A sharp rap on Roy Grace’s office door, then it opened before he could say anything, and detectives Potting and Wilde appeared.

There had been a time, last year, when the four-times married Potting, approaching normal police retirement age, had been on the verge of marrying — yet again — this time to a police officer who was subsequently killed in a fire. He had really spruced himself up during the time he had been dating her, and he continued to take pride in his appearance after her death, which would have pleased Bella, Grace reflected.

Although he was still dressing well, some of his spark seemed to have left him, his face was drawn and pale and he seemed downcast. Grace wondered if that had anything to do with the prostate cancer treatment Norman had begun back in May, after which he had lamented privately to him that his libido was on the floor.

Unable to cope with the changed world he was in, the detective constantly upset people with his politically incorrect remarks and attitude, but Roy Grace resolutely kept him on his team, despite requests from ACC Pewe to the contrary. He fought Norman Potting’s corner for two reasons. Firstly, and most importantly, he was an immensely capable detective with years of invaluable experience — something, Grace rued, people seemed to value less and less. And secondly, he fought to keep him because he cared for the man. Compassion was another value that had gone missing during the country’s austerity measures.

Grace no longer had space for a conference table in his office, so Potting and Wilde had to sit in the two swivel chairs at the empty desk facing his own.

‘Good to see you, Norman,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘Not enough blooming murders,’ Potting grumbled. DC Wilde smiled politely.

‘Good to see you, too, Velvet,’ Grace said. She was a feisty character, with short, spiky blonde hair, though conservatively dressed, like most detectives. ‘How’s everything?’ he asked.

‘Good, thank you, sir,’ she said in her Belfast accent.

He turned to Potting. ‘Norman, what can you tell me about this man John — Johnny — Fordwater?’

‘If you want my opinion, chief, for a retired high-ranking soldier he’s pretty dim. Allowed himself to be defrauded by a woman he met on a German dating agency. I think he’s a sandwich short of a picnic.’

Grace looked at DC Wilde. ‘Would you agree with that assessment, Velvet?’

‘Well,’ she said, guardedly. ‘He’s a nice fellow, but he seems to have been pretty naive, as Norman says, sir.’

‘In what way naive, Velvet?’

‘To hand over every penny he has in the world to a complete stranger he’s never actually met in person. I call that naive, sir.’

Grace glanced quizzically at Norman Potting for being quick to criticize Fordwater. Potting’s own record wasn’t much better. His third marriage — or perhaps it was his fourth — had been to a Thai gold-digger. After just a few months, Potting had come to see him wanting advice. She’d returned to Thailand to be with her supposedly sick father. Within days, the first request for money had come through. The amounts had steadily risen. Grace had told him to stop, and Potting had, wisely, heeded his advice. But not before the DS had paid over many thousands into her bank account.

Potting never saw the money or his bride again.

‘Like I said, chief,’ Potting added, ‘a complete idiot! Unbelievably gullible.’

‘We’re talking about an amount of 200,000 euros, right?’

‘I don’t think he told us the whole story, sir,’ Velvet Wilde cut in. ‘I suspect it’s even more than that. We’re going to talk to him again, in an hour’s time.’

‘Let me ask you a question. Do either of you think he’s capable of murdering someone — or ordering them to be killed?’ Grace asked, looking at each of them in turn.

‘Murdering someone — seriously, chief?’ Potting quizzed.

‘Very seriously, Norman.’

‘You want my humble opinion?’ Potting looked at his colleague for reassurance. ‘I don’t think he’s capable of making toast.’

‘But he was a soldier, right? SAS regiment. Decorated for bravery,’ Grace said. ‘We’re talking about pretty capable people, Norman.’

Potting looked at Wilde again and shook his head. ‘Maybe once he was a tough soldier, but not now. The only soldier in him these days is the kind you dunk in an egg.’

‘I agree with Norman,’ she said.

‘This is the lady Major Fordwater has been in a romantic flirtation with... or so he thought,’ Grace said. He leaned over and pushed three photographs across the desk. ‘I just received these from the Munich Landeskriminalamt. I’ll be getting a full set shortly.’

Potting and Wilde looked at them, in shock.

‘If you’re wondering about all the blood running down from her mouth,’ Grace said, ‘it’s because half her tongue was sliced off when she was lying impaled.’