Left You Dead

67

Roy Grace never normally felt like a drink before 6 p.m., but today was different. He never normally saw his son dying. He never normally sanctioned the donation of his child’s organs. For the first time in his life he found himself struggling to resist opening the bottle.

He returned Glenn Branson’s call, forty minutes later.

‘How did it all go, boss?’

‘Some other time. What’s your news?’

‘Well — significant. The prison officer has now backtracked on her original opinion.’

‘Meaning?’ Grace pressed.

‘Meaning the sighting of Eden Paternoster on the ferry is dubious, at best.’

‘So we can dismiss it?’

‘Pretty much, boss, yes. Doesn’t take us any further forward.’

‘But at least not backwards.’ Then Grace thought for a moment. ‘Still, we do know she has family connections on the Isle of Wight, so we need to find out who they are and have them interviewed. The fact that we are discounting this particular sighting doesn’t necessarily mean, should she still be alive, she hasn’t gone there by other means. There’s a car ferry and a catamaran, and there’s a small airport at Sandown — in the absence of a body, we need to establish for certain she’s not there. Have one of the team speak to the local police there and see if they can help us out with that.’

‘I’ll put someone on it.’

‘Good— OK, so we now focus back on Niall Paternoster as the prime suspect in a “no body” murder investigation?’

‘I think that’s the right call,’ Branson said. ‘I’ve spoken to the ACC, who sends his thoughts and prayers for Bruno’s recovery.’

‘Yup, well you can tell him it’s a bit late for that now.’

There was a long silence. Branson finally broke it. ‘Oh God, Roy — shit — boss — are you saying what I think?’

‘Bruno didn’t make it. There was no miracle.’

After a long silence, Branson said, ‘I’m so sorry, Roy. Want to talk about it?’

‘Not now, OK — just let Pewe know, will you?’

‘Of course. Will you let us have the details — you know — of the funeral when you have it?’

‘I will. But let’s just focus back on the case, I need a distraction for now. Any luck with getting surveillance?’

‘No joy for today, but Mark Taylor’s team look like they’ll be finished on a job sometime tomorrow or possibly Friday.’

‘He’s brilliant,’ Grace said. ‘Top man — too bad we can’t get him today, but Mark’s lot will pick it all up fast.’

‘How about a request to the Home Secretary for phone taps on Paternoster?’ Branson suggested.

‘No chance — we’d only get that if we could establish there was a life at risk. I don’t think I have any evidence currently to warrant any such application. What about the pollen lady?’

‘Helen Middleton’s starting tomorrow. She’s going to look at the foot pedals in Niall Paternoster’s car, plus his shoes which we’ve taken, and see if we can link him to the clothes we found at the deposition site. And we’ve arranged for the forensic archaeologist Lucy Sibun to attend. Lucy’s in court tomorrow giving evidence at the big drugs trial, but she’ll be at the site as soon as she can. Meanwhile, her junior colleague, Simon Davy, has made a start and will be carrying on first thing in the morning.’

Branson continued, ‘In addition, boss, knowing that we still have the Paternoster car, there is a chance he may hire another vehicle, so we’ve put out an alert with local hire companies.’

‘Nice work.’

‘See, boss? You don’t need to be here, just leave it all to me.’

‘Yeah, thanks. That trial... that’s the Kosmos Papadopoulos one, right?’

‘It is, and it’s not looking good for him.’

‘What a shame.’

In the past year there had been two very large drug network busts in Sussex, one from a fake classic car that had come into Newhaven Port packed with several million pounds’ worth of cocaine. The other had been an equally sophisticated operation, which involved drugs being dropped into the English Channel attached to floats marked by lobster pot buoys and collected by a fishing boat, concealing them at the bottom of its huge cargo of dead mackerel, sole and other fish.

This ring had been masterminded by Kosmos Papadopoulos, a nasty, violent Greek Cypriot known to the police for a long time, who always laundered his money through a string of small but legitimate cash businesses in Brighton and in several other seaside towns in the county. But, as fortunately happened with many successful villains, Papadopoulos had grown overconfident and let down his guard, trying to hire an undercover police officer to arrange a severe beating for a drug-dealing rival in a turf war. The case was high profile, making the local news most days.

There was a silence.

‘But, seriously,’ Branson said, ‘I just want you to know how sorry I am — and Siobhan, who sends her love. If you want to chat, any time, bell me.’

‘I will, thanks.’

‘Don’t worry about anything, it’s all in hand. OK?’

Suddenly, Grace’s voice stalled. He could barely utter his reply. ‘Thanks. Appreciate — it.’

Ending the call, he stood up and went out into the garden, accompanied by a solemn-looking Humphrey who had clearly picked up on their sadness. He walked over to the hen house. Unhooking the door, he entered, closing it behind him to keep out the dog.

As Cleo had said, Bruno’s two favourite hens, Fraulein Andrea and Fraulein Julia, lay motionless, side by side, their heads at unnatural angles.

He knelt and touched the birds. They were stiff and cold.

And so neatly laid out, juxtaposed against each other.

They hadn’t been killed by a fox, which would have ripped them to shreds or just bitten off their feet or heads. Nor could they have died from being egg-bound — not in this perfect symmetrical position.

They had been deliberately killed, almost certainly by having their necks wrung.

Again, he went back to that conversation with Bruno yesterday morning — which now seemed an aeon ago.

Did you know that the ancient Egyptians, when they died and were mummified, had their favourite pets killed and mummified, to go in the tomb with them?

Knowing how much the sight of the hens had distressed Cleo, he picked both of them up, took a spade from the garden shed, then, holding them aloft, out of reach of Humphrey who kept jumping up at them, carried them out through the garden gate, shutting it on the dog. He climbed part way up the hill, stopping when he reached a large gorse bush, and put the two hens down gently on the ground.

Then, striking the spade into the hard, dry soil and pushing down on it with his foot, he began the laborious task of digging, wanting to make a hole deep enough so the unfortunate creatures would not easily be dug back up by a fox.

As he worked away, perspiring heavily from his exertions, he was thinking about both his conversation with Glenn Branson and with the hospital team, who had given him a helpful step-by-step postmortem leaflet for the loved ones of organ donors.

First up, tomorrow morning, he had to go to the Brighton Register Office to register Bruno’s death and obtain the death certificate. Then he and Cleo needed to appoint a funeral director. A huge number of decisions would have to be made about Bruno’s funeral, starting with what kind of coffin, what kind of service. His one certainty was that the boy should be buried in the same graveyard as his mother and as close to her as possible. Bruno’s grandparents had agreed with his thinking.

But all of this was for tomorrow, not now.

He stood staring at the sky and soaking up the beautiful evening, remembering the good times with his eldest son.

He continued to dig until he felt the hole was deep enough. He knelt and laid each of the hens into it. Close by, he saw a pink wild flower. He walked over and picked it, then laid it on top of the birds, before beginning to shovel the earth back onto them.