Need You Dead

49 Sunday 24 April

‘Interview with Seymour Darling, by Detective Superintendent Roy Grace and DI Guy Batchelor, in the presence of his solicitor, Doris Ishack, of Lawson Lewis Blakers, recommenced at 10.35 a.m.,’ Grace said, and re-cautioned the suspect.

‘Do you have anything to say about being in the vicinity of Mrs Lorna Belling’s flat, in Vallance Mansions, Hove, on the afternoon and evening of last Wednesday, April 20th, the day she died, Mr Darling?’ Guy Batchelor asked.

‘Actually, yes, quite a lot.’

Batchelor gestured with his hand for him to proceed.

‘I think the bitch was having an affair.’

Batchelor shot a glance at Grace, who looked poker-faced.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I saw him.’

Batchelor and Grace exchanged a glance. ‘Saw who?’ Batchelor asked.

‘He stood in the porch and rang the bell. Minutes later I saw them in the window, all wrapped up in each other’s arms. Snogging.’

‘The same man who was in the porch?’

‘I couldn’t swear.’

‘So he could have been visiting someone else in the block? There are over fifty flats. What makes you so sure it was Lorna Belling he was visiting?’

‘Because—’ He hesitated. ‘He had the same build.’

‘That’s all? The same build? As who?’

Darling hesitated again. ‘Yes. I — he kind of looked smooth.’

‘In what way did he look smooth?’

‘He reminded me a bit of James Bond.’

‘James Bond? Which James Bond? Daniel Craig? Pierce Brosnan? Roger Moore? Sean Connery? One of the others?’

‘I — it was sort of the way he carried himself.’

‘So while you stood outside her flat, seething with anger, James Bond was inside, busy murdering her?’ Batchelor pressed.

‘I don’t know what he was doing.’

‘Was this the first time you saw him? According to the phone records, you stood outside Lorna’s flat most of Monday, April 18th, and most of Tuesday, April 19th. Did you see James Bond on either of those days, too? Or are you going to deny you were there then?’

Darling squirmed, visibly. ‘I was there, yes.’

‘Shouldn’t you have been at work? Quiet week, was it?’

‘I had jobs measuring garden fencing in that area.’

‘Is that right?’ Batchelor asked. ‘Your employer would be able to confirm it, if I called them, would they?’

Darling reddened, suddenly looking panic-stricken. ‘Look — please — I was outside, watching her flat. I was angry. I was waiting for her to come out and I was going to confront her. I did see him — this Bond character — on Monday afternoon. About 2 p.m.’

‘Was he abseiling up her wall?’

‘No, he had a bottle — I think — it looked like a bottle in a carrier bag — and he looked nervous. He went to the porch and then went in. I saw them up in her window a few minutes later.’

‘You saw him twice in broad daylight,’ Batchelor said. ‘But you can’t tell us what he looks like? Are you sure he exists? He’s not some figment of your imagination?’

Darling shook his head. ‘He was looking around, nervously, like. You know? Like he didn’t want anyone to see him. Like a man — having an affair.’

‘Are you talking from experience?’

‘I don’t think that is an appropriate question,’ the solicitor interrupted.

‘I’m sorry, but I think it is,’ the DI said. ‘I’d like your client to tell us more about why he thinks James Bond — if he exists — was having an affair with Lorna Belling and was in her flat on the day she died.’

Doris Ishack leaned across and conferred with her client in whispers for a moment. Darling nodded, then turned back to the detectives.

‘No comment,’ he said.

‘Mr Darling, would you recognize this — er — James Bond if you saw him again?’

‘I–I might.’

‘You saw this man outside Lorna Belling’s apartment building twice, in broad daylight, less than one hundred yards across the road from where you were standing, and you claim to have seen him in her window twice, but you are not sure you could identify him if you saw him again. Are you really sure he is real?’

‘He drives a matt-black Porsche.’

‘Oh? In the books, from memory, James Bond drives an elephant-breath-grey Bentley. In most of the films he drives an Aston Martin. But your James Bond drives a Porsche?’

‘I notice cars. It’s just coming back to me. I saw the same Porsche — a 911 Carrera 4S — driving around slowly, like it was looking for a parking space, on the Monday afternoon, and again on Wednesday.’

‘You can identify cars, but not their drivers?’

‘It had darkened windows.’

‘Did you get its registration number?’

‘No, why should I have done?’ Darling gave him a pointed look. ‘I’m not a sodding detective.’

‘Fair play,’ Batchelor conceded. ‘I don’t suppose you’d remember whether it was a normal or a personalized plate?’

‘You don’t suppose right.’

There was silence for several moments. The solicitor broke it. ‘If you have no more questions for my client, I’d be grateful if you would release him immediately.’

The two detectives stepped out of the room for a few minutes. When they returned, Guy Batchelor said to Doris Ishack, ‘We are not happy with a number of the answers your client has given us. We will release him on police bail whilst we continue with our enquiries.’

He turned to Darling. ‘Your solicitor will explain the full conditions. But, basically, during the period you are on police bail you are to live at the residential address you have given us. You are to surrender your passport to the police so you cannot leave the UK, and you will report weekly to a police station at a time and place we agree with you. If you do not adhere to these conditions you can be re-arrested and may be kept in custody. Is that clear?’

‘Clear as mud,’ Darling said.

At that moment Batchelor’s phone, which he had switched to silent, began vibrating. Stepping away from the table, he answered it.

It was Julian Raven, from Digital Forensics. ‘Guy,’ he said. ‘We’ve been working on Lorna Belling’s phone and there’s something that might be of interest to you.’

‘Yes, what, Julian?’

Raven told him.

Batchelor made some notes on his pad, thanked him and hung up, with a beat of excitement. He turned and signalled to Roy Grace and the pair walked to the door. As they reached it, Darling called out, ‘Hey, Mister Detectives — thanks a lot, for nothing.’