Left You Dead

73

At 3.45 p.m., Roy Grace and Glenn Branson met Mark Taylor, their Surveillance Team leader, as well as DC Keri Brogan, the Intelligence Development Officer, who was to be the liaison between the Major Crime Team and the Surveillance Team on Operation Lagoon.

Brogan, late thirties, had the stocky build of a hockey goalkeeper, which Grace, having met her some while back, remembered was her passion. Shoulder-length hair, set in tight curls like a judge’s wig, but brown not grey, framed her face. She was dressed in casual clothes and new-looking trainers.

Detective Sergeant Taylor, who was in his mid-forties, had shaggy, collar-length hair and chiselled good looks that reminded Grace of the actor he’d last seen in Game of Thrones, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau. He wore a thin leather jacket over a grey T-shirt, jeans and basketball boots. Not a man to be messed with, Grace knew from his background. He had joined the police at the age of twenty-five after six years’ distinguished service in the Royal Marines. On finishing his two-year probation, he’d immediately, at his request, been posted to CID, then Surveillance. Subsequently, the quietly spoken man, who did not suffer fools, had worked at all levels of Surveillance, including a three-year stint with Scotland Yard, before transferring back to Sussex Police after the birth of his first child.

Cradling a cup of coffee, looking at the two detectives opposite him across the small table, Taylor asked in a warm, slightly gravelly voice, ‘So what are your objectives? I have a briefing with my team at 4.30 p.m. and will inform them.’

Grace, out of courtesy, glanced at Branson, who nodded for him to go ahead.

‘OK, Mark, this is what we’ve got. A husband, Niall Paternoster, aged thirty-five, we think has killed his wife, Eden, aged thirty-one.’ Grace filled him in on all the details of his suspicions, before continuing. ‘We know that, in his past, Niall Paternoster worked as a butcher’s apprentice. This may, as we suspect, have enabled him with sufficient knowledge to have dissected his wife’s body. We believe in the early hours of last Friday he may have driven to Ashdown Forest and deposited some or all of her body parts, except for her head, in a grave.’

Taylor made some notes.

Grace continued. ‘He currently works as a journeyman taxi driver, mostly on lates. We suspect that he may subsequently have disposed of his wife’s head off the end of the east mole of Shoreham Harbour. At this stage, other than a single bone that may be human, but more likely not, found at the deposition site, we have no hard evidence against Paternoster. Catching him returning to the deposition site would be very helpful, for starters.’

Taylor tapped some further notes into the tablet in front of him.

‘In terms of a motive, we have reason to suppose that Niall Paternoster may be having an affair,’ Branson added. ‘Last Sunday afternoon, some while after he claimed that his wife went into Tesco Holmbush and vanished, he had a meet-up with a person unknown at this point, at Devil’s Dyke. All we have is an unregistered — presumably burner — phone, which has been traced to one of a number of houses in Barrowfield Drive, Hove. We’re checking who lives there.’

‘Posh address,’ Taylor said. ‘I’d love to live in that area if I could ever afford it. So you don’t know whether the owner of the phone is male or female?’

Grace and Branson both shook their heads.

‘But there were four kisses,’ Branson added.

Taylor pursed his lips. ‘So it’s likely to be a shag.’

Grace nodded affirmation. ‘Intel from his phone and from the car’s satnav and onboard computer show he’s had regular meet-ups at this same location over the past six months — as does the triangulation plot from the burner. I’m hoping we get lucky with your surveillance and he goes there again.’

Taylor nodded. ‘What actual evidence do you currently have that Niall Paternoster has murdered his wife, Eden, sir?’

‘At this stage, we have no actual body to prove murder,’ Grace replied. ‘Our evidence is entirely circumstantial. I would like your team to put twenty-four-seven surveillance on him. I’d particularly like to see if he goes back to the deposition site, for any reason — perhaps to check if it has been disturbed. And we’d like to see if he has any further liaisons with his contact — and to monitor, if possible, any conversations between them. His financial situation may be significant — we are led to believe that he has much to gain from his wife’s death. So the principal objective of this surveillance is to monitor his movements and secure evidence.’

Mark Taylor nodded. ‘OK, sir, what I suggest is I put two teams of officers on it, both on twelve-hour shifts — they’ll stay longer if a changeover would compromise a particular situation. All our comms will be on our secure radio channel on our phones. I’ll be running five vehicles, a motorbike, a mix of sexes, some solo, some dual. A mix of cars, white and grey vans, some with fake company names. When it’s dark we can also put a tracker on his car, after getting the necessary authorization. We’ll also figure out a way of bugging his house.’

‘That could be very helpful.’

‘We also have drone operators available, with infrared cameras, if that should be necessary, sir,’ Taylor said.

‘And you’ll start straight after your briefing?’ Grace asked.

Taylor shook his head. ‘We’ve already started, sir. I have, thanks to the cooperation of the Greyhound Stadium opposite the Paternosters’ house, an observation point, with an officer already in position with a long-lens video camera. He’s taken over from your guys. I’ve also got a vehicle at each end of Nevill Road in case he goes anywhere before the whole team’s ready. I will also have one of our brightest members, Sharon Orman, who is hard of hearing — you would never know it — joining the team after giving evidence in court on a current trial — hopefully she’ll be done there today and able to join the team. Her particular expertise is lip-reading from long range. She’s remarkably effective, even through night-vision lenses.’

Grace thanked him.

As soon as Taylor and Brogan had left his office, Branson asked Grace if he’d like a lift back home.

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.