Need You Dead

77 Thursday 28 April

The voice startled him.

‘My deepest condolences, Roy.’

He turned. Cassian Pewe was standing right behind him, holding out his hand, rain dripping from the peak of his ceremonial cap, the silver braiding looking, as ever, freshly buffed.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied, stiffly. Then out of courtesy added, ‘I appreciate your coming.’

Cleo, beside him, was standing facing the grave, with an arm round Bruno, who was holding his bunch of white lilies.

There was an awkward moment of silence between the two men. ‘Yes, well, Roy, we’re one big family, the police. We look out for each other, don’t we?’

Their eyes met. Grace could hear the man’s pitiful screams of terror, the year before last, when he’d hung over a 500-foot drop, held just by his feet entangled in the webbing of Grace’s upturned Alfa’s seat belt, pleading with Roy to save his life. Which he had done, at great risk to himself. And regretted at times since.

‘We do, yes.’

Pewe lowered his voice. ‘Just a word, Roy — our friend Mr Tooth. In view of his prognosis I’ve removed the twenty-four-hour guard on him. It’s my job to think about the police budget.’ He gave Grace a condescending smile, and moved away, leaving the detective speechless.

Grace was soaked through, despite his raincoat, but he was so incandescent with rage at the ACC he barely noticed, staring around the expanse of graves in this vast cemetery and listening momentarily to the distant hum of traffic along the busy Old Shoreham Road. He watched the last of the mourners, heads bowed, hurrying towards them. He saw Glenn, standing a respectful distance away, alongside Jon Exton. Guy Batchelor, beside him, looked silent and sombre. Respectful.

Derek and Margo Balkwill stood almost pointedly several yards distant from him, staring stonily at the grave, but he could see no real sadness in their faces at all. They had avoided all eye contact with him since arriving at the church. If he never saw them again after today, it would be too soon, Grace thought. But he would have to see them again, they’d made it clear they would be wanting time with their grandson. Poor Bruno, he thought, inflicting those wretched misers on him.

He was surprised and pleased to notice forensic podiatrist Haydn Kelly had come along, down from London. Another person he was happy to see here was Sandy’s attorney, Andreas Thomas. A bulky, genial man in his forties, with long hair and a buzz of stubble, the Munich lawyer was wearing a crumpled grey suit that looked like it had spent the night in a laundry bag, and an equally crumpled cream shirt; the top button was undone, and the knot of his black tie hung a few inches below. Grace was unsure whether he had forgotten to do it up, or whether the shirt did not fit.

Not that it mattered. The lawyer seemed a good guy, and had managed to cut through, or sidestep, a huge amount of bureaucracy that might otherwise have kept Bruno in Germany for many months, making him their equivalent of a Ward of Court.

Roy stepped over to say a quick hello. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

The German shrugged. ‘Of course.’

‘I’ve taken your advice about UK lawyers and I’ve been recommended by a friend to a local firm in Brighton called Family Law Partners — apparently they specialize in collaborative law. I’ve spoken on the phone with the owner, Alan Larkin, and Cleo and I have made an appointment with him. I’ll let you know how it goes.’

‘Good. And please give him my details.’

‘Of course.’

Roy rejoined Cleo and Bruno.

The freshly dug grave looked dark and deep. Its sides were lined with bright green Astroturf, which also covered the mound of earth on one side. Two wooden planks were laid across. Reverend Smale stood still, seemingly impervious to the weather, a kindly expression on his avuncular face, waiting for the last mourners, hurrying beneath umbrellas, to reach them.

He wished Pewe would move away and leave them alone at this deeply private moment for himself and for Bruno, instead of hovering behind them. But instead, to his complete surprise, Pewe suddenly said something to the boy in German.

Looking up through his tears, Bruno responded, his voice barely audible. Pewe then spoke again in German, and again the boy responded. As the ACC was about to speak again, the pall-bearers arrived, lowered the coffin at the end of the grave and began to thread tapes through the handles.

There was something rough and ready — almost primitive — about burials, Grace thought. Cremations were slick, almost high-tech in comparison. They could have been hundreds, if not thousands of years back in time right now. Shovels, planks, ropes. A wooden box. A mound of earth.

At this moment, Roy Grace was torn between wondering what Bruno might be feeling, and his own thoughts.

Sandy would have hated this. She would have disliked the Astroturf. She hated anything false or fake. How angry would she be right now?

The angrier she was about the funeral the better, he thought, suddenly, bitterly. Then, instantly, he parked that. This was not the time or place for anger. He was laying her to rest. After long years of having no idea where she was, or if she was even still alive, her body was in that coffin in front of him.

And he could have stopped that from happening.

Could have saved her.

Perhaps.

Possibly. Possibly he could have saved her. That last conversation they’d had in the hospital, the Klinikum München Schwabing, just a few weeks ago, when she had been so full of despair about her injuries and her future. If he had responded differently. If he could have responded differently. If he had put his arm round her, hugged her, told her he still loved her, that he would take her back, that they would start their life over again, together?

And destroy everything he now had with Cleo?

That was never going to happen. What he had now was too precious. But in addition, what he had with Cleo was something deeper, more open and honest than he’d ever had with Sandy. She’d been a control freak, and it had taken him all these years to realize that. There was the Sandy he had remembered, through rose-tinted spectacles. Then the reality of the cold, hard woman she could so often be.

And now this reality in front of him. The Rubicon crossed. The point of no return. End of.

Reverend Smale’s rich voice cut through his thoughts.

‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’ He paused then continued.

‘Friends, welcome here, to these few moments when we come and bring Sandy to her final resting place. We are reminded in the scriptures that we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. Let’s bow our heads for the first prayer.’

Roy Grace watched the coffin lowering inch by inch. Glanced at his son, holding his flowers. And suddenly he remembered what Marcel Kullen had said to him in Munich. Your last shirt has no pockets.

That would have resonated with Sandy. Avaricious people were the kind she had always detested; businessmen who trampled on anyone to get to the top, who would plunder their employees’ pension funds to line their own coffers. Whatever her faults, she had an innate sense of decency and fair play. Somewhere inside that troubled mind of hers had been a good and caring person.

What was she wearing inside that plain oak box that was steadily sinking from view, he wondered? A shirt with no pockets?

He put his arm round Bruno’s shoulder. For a brief moment he felt him lean towards him, as if seeking comfort and warmth. It was the first time, he realized, his son hadn’t shied from his physical contact.

As the pall-bearers stepped back, pulling out the tapes, Bruno walked forward, holding his bouquet in front of him, his lips moving, as if he was talking to his mother. Roy saw tears running down his face. And felt the tears run down his own cheeks.

This was Sandy.

The woman he had thought, once, all those years back, was the love of his life.

Dead.

Already decomposing.

In a few years she’d be just a skeleton in a leathery shell. Then that shell would rot — be eaten — away. Until there was nothing left but her bones.

Bruno stepped forward again, right up to the edge of the grave, then tossed in his flowers and stood still. Staring down.

Two minutes later he was still standing there, still staring down.

Grace walked over to him, and put his arm round him. Then stared down at the wooden box too, knelt, scooped up a handful of earth and dropped it, listening to the rattle as it struck the lid of the coffin.

Just as earlier he was lost for words, right now he was lost for them again.

He pulled out his handkerchief.

The boy did the same.

After a few moments, Grace felt for Bruno’s hand, found it and squeezed it. He felt a faint squeeze back.

They were joined at the edge of the grave by Cleo.

The Reverend Smale continued with the final prayer. ‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed: we therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ.’

There was a murmur of ‘Amen’.

‘Would you like to meet your grandparents in person now?’ Grace asked Bruno, nodding at where they stood, still and silent.

‘No, I want to stay here with Mama. Just alone with her for a few minutes, please.’

Roy and Cleo stepped back. Cleo turned to Glenn Branson, who was approaching. Roy walked dutifully over to his former in-laws and held out his hand. ‘Sad day,’ he said.

Neither of them took his hand. Derek looked his usual feeble, slightly lost self. Margot glared at him with utter hatred in her eyes.

‘It’s very sad,’ she said. ‘It was a sad day that our daughter ever met you.’

‘Hey,’ Grace replied. ‘I loved her.’

‘You loved her?’ Margo said, acidly. ‘Is that what you really think? If you’d loved her properly, she wouldn’t have had to leave you. You were incapable of loving our daughter, you were too obsessed with your career. She told us many times after she’d left you how much happier she was.’

He stood, rooted to the ground, in utter shock. ‘You spoke to her after she left me — after she disappeared?’

‘Yes, Roy,’ she said. ‘Regularly.’

‘Regularly? You knew where she was — all along — these past years?’

‘Oh yes, she contacted us from time to time.’ There was grim satisfaction in the woman’s voice and her husband gave a smug smile and nodded. Grace could have decked him, happily, at this moment.

‘I can’t believe it. You knew she was alive and where she was, and yet you put me through living hell for all those years? You didn’t even tell me when I let you know about her accident.’

‘She didn’t want us to tell you, you see, old boy,’ Derek said. He spoke, ridiculously, Grace always thought, in the clipped voice of a wartime RAF officer, frequently using some of the lingo. Long retired after redundancy from a small engineering firm, he spent his time making model fighter and bomber aircraft from that era, as if stuck in a make-believe world.

‘When she found out she was pregnant, that was the moment she knew she had to find a better life for her and her child,’ Margo added.

‘You allowed the police to dig up my garden looking for her body, when you knew full well she was alive and safe?’

‘You put our daughter through living hell from the day you met her,’ Margot said. ‘What goes around comes around.’ Then she and her husband turned and began walking away.

‘Hey!’ Grace said, furiously. ‘I’m not done talking to you.’

Derek Balkwill turned his head back and, almost jauntily, said, ‘We are, old boy.’