Love You Dead

122 Monday 16 March

Almost immediately after he had finished his conversation with Tom Haynes, Grace received an update email from Michelle Websdale confirming the findings of the toxicology report in Goa. Rowley Carmichael had definitely died as a result of venom from a saw-scaled viper.

At lunchtime Roy received the final piece of the jigsaw.

As soon as he had left the interview with Jodie, yesterday, with the snake fang locket, he had secured it in a sealed exhibit bag and then contacted Dr Colin Duncton, a Home Office pathologist who had developed an expertise in the interpretation of wounds and weapons.

He had spoken to the man over the phone, explaining what he wanted, and the pathologist had agreed to come down to Brighton Mortuary the next morning. He also informed the Coroner’s Officer of his action.

He was about to call the mortuary to see how Dr Duncton was getting on, when the pathologist rang him.

‘Detective Superintendent, I believe I have the good news you were hoping for. I’ve carried out a microscopic examination of the puncture-mark wound on the right ankle of Rowley Carmichael, believed to have been caused by a snake bite — a saw-scaled viper?’

‘Correct.’

‘I can tell you first that that wound was not caused by an ordinary snake bite, and I can categorically state that the wound was caused by Exhibit RG4, the snake fang that one of your officers handed to me this morning. On examination of that snake fang, I was able to detect striation marks — in particular, a number of specific ridges, furrows and unique irregularities to the surface and point of the fang which are identical with the incision wound. In my opinion, this snake fang caused that wound. In addition, I have arranged for it to be examined in a forensic science lab, as I believe they will find minute fibre traces from the deceased’s trousers. Do you have them?’

‘Thanks, that is brilliant news! I’ll try to track down the trousers.’

‘As always, I will send you a full report outlining my findings in due course. But I will email you something you can use now.’

As soon as he ended the call, Roy Grace updated Pewe, the CPS and his team, and instructed Norman Potting to prepare a murder charge against Jodie Carmichael.

His good mood stayed with him throughout the day. He arrived home earlier than normal, shortly after 5.30 p.m., with a beautiful bouquet of stargazer lilies for Cleo.

It seemed that even Noah sensed his good mood, and slept through most of the night. But Roy lay awake for much of it, running on adrenalin, thinking about the incredible turn of events this past day had brought. With Norman Potting’s discovery of the vial and the subsequent identification of the contents, and the conclusive match of Jodie’s snake fang and the wound to Carmichael’s leg, they now had the evidence to nail this bitch. Tooth, whose disappearance had long been a thorn in his side, was now under police guard. Almost certainly, if he survived, he would be permanently brain-damaged. And tomorrow the Extradition Team, who had travelled back to France this afternoon, would be bringing Crisp home in custody, to face the overwhelming mass of evidence against him.

An added bonus was the phone call he’d received shortly before leaving the office from Pat Lanigan, who was close to ecstatic. The contents of the USB memory stick recovered from Tooth were pure dynamite, Lanigan said. It gave them names, links and associations that the entire NYPD Mafia-busting team had been working a long time to find.

Grace asked him if he would do him a favour and email his arsehole boss ACC Pewe, to tell him of their gratitude.

‘You got it, pal, right away!’ Lanigan had replied.

Finally, an hour of dreamless sleep claimed him before the alarm beeped.

Cleo had not stirred. But he was wide awake again. He went through to Noah’s room and, without disturbing his son, sat in the rocking chair beside his cot, where Cleo sat when she was feeding him, thinking about the day ahead. And the weeks and months of paperwork that now lay in front of him to ensure, as best he could, the successful prosecutions of Crisp, Jodie and Tooth. On top of the rest of his workload of previous cases coming to trial. It would be months of pen-pushing, he thought gloomily, before he would be back as a fully operational homicide detective.

He slipped back to their bedroom, brushed his teeth, then pulled on his jogging gear, went downstairs, grabbed Humphrey’s lead and took him out into the early-morning dark, misty drizzle.

Forty-five minutes later, invigorated by exercise and a shower, he dressed and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for Cleo, and to feed Humphrey. He entered the kitchen, switching the light on, and said his usual, ‘Morning, Marlon!’ to his goldfish. Then as he looked at the square tank on the work surface his heart sank.

‘No!’

He ran across and peered in. The goldfish was floating, motionless, on the surface. ‘Marlon! Marlon!’

He dipped his cupped hand in the cold water and lifted the fish out. ‘Marlon. Hey, old chap. Hey!’

As the water drained from his palm the small fish lay there, eyes glazed and motionless.

His heart heaved. ‘Fellow!’ he said. ‘Hey, fella?’ He blew on the creature, but there was no sign of any movement. ‘Hey, come on!’

He slipped him gently back into the water. ‘Come on, chap, swim! Come on!’

Then his mobile phone rang.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

It was Marcel. His voice was sombre. ‘Roy, I am sorry for calling you so early.’

‘No, it’s fine, I’m up.’

‘I thought you would want to know. I’m afraid I don’t have good news. I’ve just had a phone call from the clinic. Sandy was found dead in her room a short while ago at around 4 a.m. this morning.’

‘Dead?’

Roy Grace felt as if the floor was sinking beneath his feet. As if he was in a lift that was plunging downward. ‘Dead?’ he repeated.

‘I’m sorry to give you this sad news.’

‘How — I mean — what — what happened?’

The German detective hesitated. ‘Well, I’m sorry if this information is going to distress you. She was found by a nurse. I just went to the hospital to see for myself. She had hanged herself from a cord she attached to a light fitting.’

‘Jesus,’ he said.

The floor was still sinking and the whole kitchen seemed to be swaying. He gripped hold of the oak refectory table with one hand to steady himself. ‘Oh God, Marcel, that’s awful. Thank you — thank you — for — for telling me.’

‘Roy, there is some more information I have for you. Sandy — her son, Bruno, yes?’

‘Bruno. Yes, Bruno,’ he said in a daze.

‘Sandy left a letter in her bedside cabinet. It was sealed, but on the front was written, “To be opened in the event of my death.”’

Grace said nothing. Kullen continued.

‘I just opened it. Inside is a laboratory DNA report on Bruno, confirming from DNA samples from him, yourself and from Sandy that you are the father. And there is a letter, written to you, in her handwriting. Do you want me to read it to you? Or I can scan it and email it to your private address.’

Upstairs, he heard Noah crying. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Please scan it and email it, and I’ll call you back later this morning.’

‘You will have it in a few minutes.’

Roy sat down bleakly at the kitchen table, staring at the tank, willing Marlon to suddenly start moving. But the fish remained motionless. He looked at his phone, waiting. Moments later, the email arrived from Kullen.

He opened the attachment and looked at the words, written in Sandy’s familiar handwriting. It was less neat than it used to be, but still clearly legible. Clearly hers.