Need You Dead

54 Sunday 24 April

Half an hour later, Roy Grace in the fancy Gresham Blake swimming trunks with guns on them that Cleo had given him for his last birthday, and a towel slung round his neck, was perched on a lounger beside the large indoor pool at Wickwoods, watching Cleo and Bruno doing lengths. Noah was asleep beside him in his pushchair, breathing steadily, seemingly unfussed by the activity around.

They had the place to themselves. Cleo, in a turquoise swimming cap, was doing a steady backstroke, while Bruno, wearing goggles, did a powerful crawl, ripping past her as if his life depended on it. He reached the end and did a fancy flip turn, then raced past her in the opposite direction. He would ask Bruno sometime to teach him how to do those turns, which he had never got the hang of.

After ten minutes, Cleo climbed back out of the pool. ‘Darling, I’m done,’ she said. ‘Go to the sauna, I’ll sit with Noah.’

‘OK, thanks. Oh — I meant to ask you, how do you change the clock on your Audi? Do you know how to put it forward an hour?’

She shook her head. ‘Dunno! I just leave it — for six months every year it tells the right time!’

Grinning at her logic, he headed towards the sauna, pulled open the door and entered the blast of heat.

Laying out his towel, he sat down on it, grabbed the wooden ladle, spooned up some water and tipped it onto the electric brazier. Instantly there was a burst of steam and the temperature rose. He repeated the action, then leaned back, soaking up the heat, breaking into a sweat within moments.

His mind returned to work. To Operation Bantam. And to the caseload of trials looming up. Brighton’s first serial killer in some years, the vile Dr Crisp, the man who had shot him — the reason why he was in this sauna now, to try to relieve the pain. Jodie Bentley, the black widow, whom he knew for sure had been targeting and murdering a whole series of rich elderly men — but he could not be certain, from the evidence he had so far, of getting a conviction. He had a lot of work to do on this case. And with both of these he had the shadow of ACC Cassian Pewe hanging over him.

And now he had Lorna Belling’s suspicious death. Suicide was still a possibility, given her history with domestic violence. But there was an increasing list of suspects. Her dead psycho husband, Corin. Creepy Seymour Darling, the pissed-off and very dubious character who had been buying her car. Her newest acquaintance, Kipp Brown, whose involvement was yet to be determined.

He thought about Corin Belling. Certainly he had a history of escalating violence against her. She had lived dangerously, renting a flat — as a bolthole, or as a secret trysting place with her lovers? But letting the puppies out onto the street — that sounded like a message to her — something he wanted her to see, another nasty way of getting at her. If he had killed her, what would have been the point in doing that?

Gail Sanders, a counsellor he had spoken to earlier at RISE, told him that in her view, Lorna Belling had been playing with fire, apparently renting a place in secret. Discovering it could well have been enough to tip her husband over the edge. Corin Belling at this point had to be their strongest suspect, although pathetic and nasty Seymour Darling ticked a lot of boxes. They would know more about Kipp Brown when he was questioned.

Grace was glad that Glenn Branson would be back at work tomorrow. He was missing his mate, and he needed his help with the trial cases.

How well did any of us know anyone? He thought about Jon Exton. The DS had not convinced him when they had spoken earlier that all was OK. He was certain there was something troubling him, and he needed to get to the bottom of it. Then he returned to his thoughts to the case.

Was he missing something? The obvious that was staring him in the face?

Shit, it was getting hot in here. He had always been slightly claustrophobic, and this tiny sauna, with the misted-up window in the wooden door in front of him, and the searing heat, making it harder and harder to breathe, was getting to him.

He stood up, pushed the door. It did not move. Shit. He pushed harder and it still did not move. The heat felt like it was searing his skin and his lungs, and he felt panicky. He pushed even harder, and suddenly the door swung open, a cooling blast of air greeting him. Stepping out with relief, he pushed it shut behind him. He’d tell the receptionist the door needed looking at — someone less strong could easily get stuck in there.

There was a small, square plunge pool ahead of him, with a warning sign advising that people with a heart condition should consult their doctor before using it.

Holding his breath, he jumped into it.

Hoooooollllllllyyyy shit!

He was shivering as his head bobbed to the surface.

It felt like he had jumped into a vat of acid.

But he hung on in there. The cold biting away at him, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He hauled himself out and hurried back into the retreat of the sauna cabin, pulling the wooden door shut behind him again, but not quite so tightly this time.

As he sat back down on his now hot towel, he suddenly realized that his right leg wasn’t aching any more.

Result!

He ladled more water onto the brazier, and lay back, eyes shut, as the steam exploded all around him. Within minutes it became unbearable.

But he stuck it out.

This is doing me good. Doing me good. This is doing me good. Doing me good.

Until he couldn’t take it any longer.

He pushed the door, and to his surprise, even though he’d not shut it so hard, again it did not budge. He charged it with his shoulder, bursting through it, hurried through the changing room and jumped into the deep end of the pool.

Like a fish in its element, Bruno did a flip turn right beside him, and powered away towards the far end.

Grace swallowed a mouthful of lightly chlorinated water, spluttered and coughed. By the time he had gained enough equilibrium to start swimming, Bruno had turned again and shot past him. But he barely noticed, he was so deep in thought.

Every killer had a motive.

Corin Belling was a seriously twisted individual.

Seymour Darling had a sick wife. He believed Lorna Belling had screwed him out of the money he had paid for her car. Was that really enough of a motive to kill her?

Kipp Brown was the wild card. What might his motive have been?

Suicide? That was another possibility. But Lorna Belling had no history of suicide attempts.

Just what was he missing here, in all this mix?

Something.

All his instincts were telling him he was missing something.

The obvious.

It might be staring him in the face, but he couldn’t see it.

He thought back, as he often did when stuck, to the words of Arthur Conan Doyle — through the mouth of Sherlock Holmes: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

The truth; Grace made a mental note. Then another: the improbable.

Bruno once more flip-turned past him, with an expression of grim determination, and powered away towards the far end of the pool. As if he was racing ahead of an unseen demon.

Lorna Belling. What demon killed you? One of the men in your life, or your own private, internal demon?