Left You Dead

87

It was just past 9 p.m. when Roy Grace pulled up outside their cottage. It was dark and as he climbed out of the car, hearing the distant bleat of a sheep somewhere, he felt a small amount of weight fall from his shoulders. The air smelled sweet and he breathed in the almost intoxicating smell of freshly mown grass. Before his thoughts returned to Bruno.

Inside their house, he could hear Humphrey barking his greeting. He stood for some moments, looking up at the hill, thinking. Thinking that Bruno would never see this again. That he would never see Bruno again.

His only link with Sandy now gone.

He put the Indian takeaway into the oven to keep warm. At least, now he was on the Paternoster case, he was no longer at risk of being called out in the middle of the night to a crime scene — someone else could have that pleasure.

‘Hey, darling, I’m home.’

He was really hungry, he realized, having barely eaten all day.

‘I’m home!’ he called out.

Silence.

As he went through into the living area, Humphrey walking along beside him, he saw Noah’s baby monitor on the coffee table in front of the sofa, beside a book Cleo was part way through.

‘Cleo!’ he called out, then climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. No sign of her. He slung his jacket onto the antique chaise longue in front of the bed that they’d bought at the weekly auction in Lewes, tugged off his tie and dropped that onto it, then undid the top two buttons of his shirt and walked along the corridor to Noah’s room, rolling up his sleeves. He opened the door. The curtains were drawn and he saw the silhouette of his son asleep.

He crept over and looked down at the boy, curled up in his cot — which he would soon outgrow — clutching his special teddy and a small stuffed monkey close to his face.

Blowing him a silent kiss, he retreated, closing the door softly, then climbed the steep attic steps and opened the door to Bruno’s room. Instantly, he felt a tug in his heart. Cleo was sitting on the end of his bed, on the red-and-white Bayern Munich bedspread, dressed in a loose smock, her hair clipped up, hands folded in her lap.

‘Darling,’ he said gently.

She looked up at him through red, tear-stained eyes, her face a picture of sadness.

He strode over, sat down beside her and put his arm around her, kissing her on her wet cheek.

‘It’s just so horrible, isn’t it?’ she said.

He hugged her tightly to him. ‘Yes.’

He gazed around the cosy little room at the poster of Pascal Gross looking triumphant, scoring a winner for Brighton and Hove Albion. He looked at the television screen on the wall and Bruno’s beloved gaming box, wires trailing, beneath it. The little dressing table with a neat row of bottles and tubes of hair gel.

He was tearful now, too. ‘I still just... I just—’ He fell silent for some moments. ‘I knew him for such a short time. I just wish we’d had longer. I’m sure in time I could... we could—’ He fell silent again.

Cleo squeezed his hand. ‘You would,’ she said. ‘I know you would.’

They sat in silence again. Cleo finally broke it. ‘I know he had his strange ways, but he was a nice person at heart, I’m sure of it.’

Grace thought suddenly about the dead hens. Neatly laid out. Remembering what Bruno had said to him in the car on Tuesday, just three days ago, when he’d been fine, alive, alert. His comment about the ancient Egyptians.

Had Bruno somehow known he was going to die that day? Had he prepped for it? Killed the two hens — his favourites?

Was he wanting them to be mummified and buried with him?

‘He had the most rotten start in life,’ Cleo went on, ‘but he really did love the hens — and Humphrey.’ She paused. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did — and I know you loved him, too.’

Another long silence.

‘How’s the case going?’ Cleo asked at last.

‘It’s just got a whole lot more complicated.’

‘And just when you don’t need that.’

‘I’ve not yet met a considerate criminal,’ Grace said. It made Cleo smile, albeit fleetingly.

‘Want to tell me anything about it?’ she asked.

One big difference between Cleo and his late wife, Sandy, was that Cleo was in many ways a work colleague, with whom he could share confidential things, knowing they would go no further. ‘Turns out that the husband of our missing — presumed dead — woman, Eden Paternoster, is having an affair with his wife’s boss. And it seems Eden may have been aware of this and might have put a tracker on their car to monitor hubby’s movements. Sometime before her disappearance, she’s moved all her cash into a company with nominee directors — which Emily is currently digging into. Has she faked her death to dump her husband in the deep doody? Or have her husband and his lover conspired to kill her?’

Cleo looked thoughtful. ‘You once told me that motives for murder could be put into four sets of Ls: lust, love, loathing and loot. Yes?’

‘Well remembered. So which do you think applies here?’

‘I’m thinking what motive could Niall Paternoster have for killing his wife? If he’s having an affair with her boss, fine, he could file for divorce — or so could Eden. But that would mean divvying up whatever financial assets they have. If Eden was dead, that would be much easier — except for one thing, the seven-year rule.’

‘Exactly.’

Under English law, as Grace knew only too well, a person could only be declared legally dead if they were missing for seven years. Until that time, all their assets were frozen.

‘If money is the motive, they’re playing a long game.’

‘A very long one,’ Grace concurred.

Cleo thought hard again. ‘Lust, love, loathing and loot. So, we rule out loot. Leaving you with lust, love or loathing.’

‘Yup, and I’m finding it hard to see a motive for murder in any of those three. Sure, I got the impression from interviewing Eden’s husband that their relationship wasn’t great, but she was the breadwinner. Maybe he thought by killing her, he would inherit the house — and didn’t know she’d transferred most of its value out of his reach. That’s the only motive I can come up with so far.’

‘What do you know about Eden’s boss, that her husband’s having the affair with?’

‘Polly and I have just been to see her at her home. She’s a cold fish — in what Polly and I agreed was clearly a toxic marriage. No love between husband and wife. A difficult lady to read, I’d say, a tough nut. We’re interviewing her in the morning as a significant witness.’

Cleo frowned. ‘What do you think’s going on?’

‘Honestly? I’m really not sure. Niall Paternoster lived in Australia for a time in his twenties, where he’d set up a sailing instruction business. He had a business partner who died — according to him washed overboard from a boat in a storm. Her body was never found, so the police had no evidence of foul play. But luckily — or conveniently — the business became all his and he sold it shortly after for a nice sum, and moved back to England.’

‘His wife, Eden, is the one with the money, here, you told me?’ Cleo said.

‘Yes.’

‘Sounds very straightforward to me,’ Cleo said. ‘He murdered his partner in Australia, netted some loot and came to England. Found himself a wife with some assets, then did the same again. A pattern?’

‘On the face of it, yes. But there are some anomalies that don’t fit. Cassian Pewe wants an update tomorrow, should be interesting.’

‘When is he going to be—?’ She made a cut-throat gesture.

‘Any time now — the wheels of internal investigations by Professional Standards grind slowly, if thoroughly, especially when two different forces are involved. It will happen and it will be very sweet. But until then I still have to kowtow to the corrupt creep.’

‘I don’t know how you do it.’

Grace smiled. ‘Remember when you were a small child, what it felt like going to bed on Christmas Eve? Waiting for your stocking to arrive? Waiting for Christmas Day? All that excitement? That’s pretty much how I’m feeling. Or I was, until dear Bruno.’

He looked around the room, then continued. ‘Mr Greenhaisen talked about including some of Bruno’s favourite things in the funeral. His music, toys, his passions.’

‘His Munich football team,’ Cleo said, glancing down at the bedspread.

‘Definitely,’ Grace said. ‘What else?’

‘Something else that he loved,’ Cleo said. ‘Maybe his favourite toy, his Porsche? And a photo of his mum?’

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Let’s do that.’ He kissed her and stood up. Stared around the room sadly. ‘Life sucks sometimes, doesn’t it? Let’s go and eat that food.’

‘Yeah, good idea. You know, I heard a quote today that I love, from the author Chuck Palahniuk, about how it’s hard to forget pain, but harder to remember happiness — because we don’t have scars for happiness.’

For some moments it sent Roy Grace spiralling back into memories of Sandy. The good times. The good years. No scars to show for that.

But plenty of scars since her disappearance and all that had happened subsequently. Scars, he knew, that would be with him for life.