Need You Dead

24 Thursday 21 April

Burgess Hill is a small but sprawling town a few miles to the north of Brighton, and Roy Grace always got lost there so, before setting off, he programmed the address into the Mondeo’s satnav.

Twenty minutes later, driving up Station Road, he was lost again as the satnav sent him on a detour back to the roundabout he had just crossed, and then down a dead end. Cursing, he turned round, pulled over, and entered the address into the Maps app on his personal iPhone, which he often found was more reliable. It showed his destination to be over a mile from where he currently was. ‘Great!’ he said aloud, annoyed.

A couple of minutes later he made a sharp left into the shopping precinct of Church Road, passed a large Specsavers shop on his left and turned right into yet another one-way system taking him out of the town. He drove through a network of streets, then finally, some minutes later, he passed a swanky Porsche dealership and, a short distance on, another sports car dealership displaying the name BAYROSS SUPERCARS, then entered a complex of modern, high-tech-designed industrial units. Almost at the far end, he saw to his right a two-storey building bearing the sign SOUTH DOWNS IT SOLUTIONS.

There was a black Ferrari, a grey Bentley Continental and a row of other high-end motors ranked outside, with an assortment of less exotic vehicles occupying most of the rest of the car-parking area. One vehicle he recognized, in a visitors’ parking space, was similar to his own, a silver unmarked Mondeo. He pulled alongside it, gave a wave of his hand to DS Exton who was seated inside it, on his phone, and climbed out.

Exton was one of the longest-standing members of his team and Grace liked him a lot. Tall, and normally neatly turned-out, he was a polite, incisive and highly observant detective, who missed little and was very popular with his colleagues. He was the kind of man, Grace always felt, you’d want to have covering your back in a tight corner.

Moments later, accompanied by Exton, he strode towards the main door and entered a smart reception area. There were sofas to his right and left, and a glamorous-looking young woman sitting behind a curved glass reception module, on the phone.

As they walked up to her she ended the call and gave them a smile.

‘We’d like to have a word with Corin Belling, who I believe works here.’

‘Yes he does — do you gentlemen have an appointment?’

Grace showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Exton from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.’

She looked at it carefully, then said, ‘Oh, right, one moment please.’ She handed them each a visitors’ pass form to fill in.

As Grace filled in his details and car registration he heard her on the phone. ‘David, there’s a Detective Superintendent Grace to see Corin. Right, thank you.’

She took the forms back, tore them off and folded each into a plastic holder with a lapel clip which she handed to them. ‘If you take a seat, someone will be along to take you to him.’

Grace sat down on a bright-green sofa, glancing at a neat display of computing magazines on a table in front of him, mentally comparing the neat, ordered feel of this place to the shabbiness of most police reception areas. Then he shot a glance at Exton. The lean detective was looking slightly scruffy today, he thought, surprised at his turnout. His charcoal suit could have done with a pressing, his cream shirt had several vertical creases in the collar and he had several days’ growth of stubble. Going for the modern look, he wondered? But Exton wasn’t the type — he was conservative, tidy, orderly.

As Grace was still pondering his uncharacteristic turnout, a long-haired man in his early thirties, in a black suit over a black T-shirt, cool glasses and trainers strode up towards them with a hand outstretched. ‘Hello, can I help you? I’m David Silverson, CEO.’

Grace stood up. ‘Thank you.’ He repeated his and Exton’s names and ranks.

‘Is something wrong? Something I could help you with? Presume you know we’re working with your Cybercrime team at the moment,’ Silverson said.

‘I didn’t — but they’re good people.’

‘Terrific. We’re helping them out on a series of frauds on older people in Sussex.’

‘This is a separate issue,’ Grace replied. ‘We’d like to have a word with an employee of yours, Corin Belling.’

Silverson looked uncomfortable. ‘Is this to do with the issue he had earlier this week?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t say. Was he at work yesterday?’

‘He was working from home yesterday — we have a flexible policy here. Would you like me to give you a private conference room?’

Grace thought for a moment, then decided he’d like to surprise the man and not give him a chance to think. ‘No, actually, we’d like to see him in situ in his office.’

‘Sure — come with me, I’ll take you up.’

The detectives followed the CEO up a flight of stairs, into a huge, partly open-plan office with several small offices off it. Around forty people, Grace estimated, all in their twenties and thirties, were seated at desks, almost all concentrating hard on their screens.

‘That’s him over there,’ Silverson said, pointing to a small glass-walled office at the far end. He led them down towards it. Inside was a sullen-looking, lanky man in his late thirties, with a mane of fair hair that fell across his forehead and a sly face with thin lips, who was swigging from a can of Coke. His suit jacket was slung over the back of his chair and his shirt collar was unbuttoned, his tie slack.

‘Corin, there are two police officers to see you,’ the CEO said, and ushered them in.

Grace entered first, followed by Exton, who closed the door.

‘It’s Mr Belling, is that correct?’

‘What of it?’

‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Exton. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about your wife.’

The man’s eyes flashed up, warily, at them. ‘Is this about the argument the other night? I’m not going to prison, I’m not going to be locked up over this or lose my job over that bitch.’

Without warning he swung his arms across the desk, sending the Coke can flying, spewing out its contents, pushed his chair back, barged past the two detectives, flung open the door and ran out.

Grace, followed by Exton, gave chase. Belling disappeared through a door marked FIRE EXIT. They reached it a few seconds later. Grace heard steps below him and ran down. As he did he heard a clang, followed by the wail of a fire siren. Moments later, reaching the ground floor, he saw a heavy fire door swing shut. He pushed it open and saw Corin Belling sprinting across the car park. He ran after him, shouting over his shoulder to Exton to radio for backup.

Belling glanced behind him, clocked him, then increased his pace even more. Grace increased his, wishing he wasn’t wearing a sodding suit and boots. He followed the man out onto the road that threaded through the industrial estate, past several industrial units, gaining on the bastard. Gaining on him with every step. Every few moments Belling threw a backwards glance.

I’m going to sodding get you.

Grace hadn’t chased a suspect since his accident, but he was reasonably fit from his regular jogging. Except his right leg was starting to hurt. He put it out of his mind — he didn’t care, the pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting this creep with his floppy hair and thin lips and penchant for beating up, strangling and murdering his wife.

He was gaining.

Gaining.

Past the Bayross Supercars forecourt and on. They were reaching the Porsche dealership.

Ran on past it.

Closer.

Closer.

Approaching the main road. Traffic was coming down it in both directions.

Belling threw another glance and stared right into the whites of Grace’s eyes.

Just a yard between them now.

Half a yard!

In his days of playing rugby, Roy Grace had been on the wing because he was fast. As president of the police rugby team, he had stood on the touchlines of numerous games. He still knew what to do and how and when to do it.

Now!

He launched himself shoulders first at the man’s waist, arms round his midriff, then pulled him into his body, squeezing hard and twisting his upper body. He continued pulling and pushing until Belling began to fall, with himself crashing down on top of him.

Before the man had time to react, Grace grabbed his right arm and pulled it up behind his back in a half nelson.

‘Get the fuck off me!’ the man screamed.

‘Corin Douglas Belling, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

‘Murder? What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Your wife’s dead, and we believe you may have killed her,’ Grace said, pulling out his handcuffs with his free hand.

Like a serpent, Corin Belling twisted, breaking free of Grace’s grip, and a fist slammed, agonizingly, into the detective’s face, momentarily stunning him.