Need You Dead

27 Thursday 21 April

Grace stopped in his tracks, staring in disbelief. He heard the scream of tyres. Saw Belling cartwheeling up over the bonnet of the car, smashing into the windscreen, then hurtling thirty feet, maybe higher, into the air, clothes shedding from him, two long, broken sticks each flying off in different directions.

Vehicles swerved, brakes squealing.

There was a thud, like a sack of potatoes dropped from a great height.

Then a moment of utter silence.

For an instant it was as if someone had pressed a freeze-frame button on a video.

Momentarily numb with shock, Grace looked at the scene in front of him, trying to absorb it.

The blue sky. The wide, well-kept road. The surface so black it might recently have been painted. Cars, a grey van, a man in Lycra on a bicycle, all stopped, many at strange angles as if some unseen hand was playing with a giant set of Dinky Toys and hadn’t quite figured out where to put all the vehicles.

Then he saw a young man run to the middle of the road, towards the half-naked, crumpled heap, from where a long, dark stain of blood was spreading. He saw the man stop, turn away and throw up. Grace’s head was spinning.

A woman was screaming. Standing, holding on to the door of her purple Honda Jazz, shaking, screeching like a banshee.

Two men were climbing out of the Lamborghini, which had a dented bonnet and cracked windscreen. The front of the roof was buckled.

Pulling himself together, Grace’s professional training kicked in. He took out his phone, requested an ambulance and to be put through to the Ops-1 Inspector, informing him what had happened and requesting urgent police backup. Then, with the woman standing by the Honda still screeching, a piercing, terrible sound, he ran towards Belling.

And as he reached the body he had to swallow hard to avoid throwing up himself. He was looking down at a partially clad, legless torso. The head was split open, brain and blood leaking out. One leg, still covered by part of the grey suit trousers he had been wearing, was on the grass verge to his right; the other, bare, severed just above the knee, lay on the other side of the road, close to the cyclist.

A big, thuggish bloke of around thirty, in an anorak and baggy jeans, was walking towards the body, calmly filming with his phone.

In fury, Grace pulled out his warrant card. ‘Police! Put that away and step back!’

God, he felt sick. How long would it take for the first backup car to get here?

What a bloody mess.

The thug, as if in defiance, was now filming one of the severed legs.

Grace stepped up to him, grabbed the phone and said, ‘The taking of pictures is inappropriate.’

‘Hey! Hey!’ the man shouted. ‘You can’t take that!’

‘I just did. You’ll get it back when we’re finished at the scene with the photos wiped. You’re not Jake Gyllenhaal in Nightcrawler.’

Leaving the man open-mouthed, Grace turned away, pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket, slipped the phone in and sealed it. At least, he thought, grimly, this made leaving Guy Batchelor in charge of the crime scene less important. Their prime suspect was dead. The fact that he’d bolted said volumes. Innocent men didn’t run away from the police. But a bully like Corin Belling might well have done — because bullies were often cowards.

Looking all around him again at this strange — almost surreal — scene, he realized just how far out of his comfort zone — and depth — he was.

The driver, a young, ashen-faced guy, wearing expensive-looking casual clothes and sporting a large gold medallion and several flashy rings, came slowly towards him, as if sleepwalking, followed by a man in his thirties in a smart suit. ‘Police? Are you police?’ the first man said.

‘Yes.’

‘I–I — oh God — he just came out in front of me. I — didn’t have a chance.’

‘No,’ Grace corrected him. ‘I saw it. It wasn’t you who didn’t have a chance, it was him. OK? What’s your name?’

‘Stavros. Stavros Karrass.’

‘OK, Stavros Karrass, I’m arresting you on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Now stay here with me.’ He turned to the older man standing behind.

‘Who are you?’

‘I was the passenger — I’m Chris Bayross, the owner of Bayross Supercars.’

‘OK, go and stand by the car and wait there until I come back to you. Don’t get in the vehicle, and don’t touch anything on it, understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The driver, shaking badly, asked, ‘Can — can — can I call my girlfriend — she’s waiting — you know — in the dealership. She chose the car — she liked the colour, you see.’

‘No phone calls, you’ve been arrested.’

Phone her, Grace thought, bitterly. Tell her you like it, tell her it goes like a bat out of hell. Tell her it’s a real head-turner.