Need You Dead

28 Thursday 21 April

A whole mix of thoughts was tumbling through Roy Grace’s spinning mind as Exton ran up to join him.

‘Shit, Roy,’ he said.

Grace pointed at the Lamborghini’s driver, standing beside him. ‘I’ve arrested this man — stay with him until backup arrives.’

He was thinking fast. He needed to protect the scene, that was the first and most important thing. He needed to get names and addresses of witnesses before they left. To his relief he heard the wail of the first siren, rapidly getting louder and closer. Then an engine started. A young woman in a grey and white Mini was about to drive away.

He sprinted over and stood in front of her car, his hands raised. She lowered her window, looking in complete shock. ‘I–I’ve got to go, I’m late for a doctor’s appointment.’

‘I need your name and address, please.’

‘I didn’t really see anything.’

‘Your name and address!’ he said, abruptly. She immediately turned off the engine, startled.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a liveried police BMW estate pull up. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded the woman, then ran over to the traffic car as the two Road Policing Unit officers climbed out.

He briefed them on what had happened and left them to secure the scene. One of the officers, PC David Puddle, whom he knew, told him he had blood running from his nose, and he wiped it away, gratefully. More sirens were now approaching. He ran back to the Mini and told the driver he was sorry, but she wasn’t going anywhere for some time yet.

Puddle and his colleague, PC Simon Rogan, were hauling ROAD CLOSED signs out of the BMW’s tailgate.

Twenty minutes later, with Belling’s body and each leg covered with a small tent, an ambulance and more police cars had arrived, one belonging to the on-call RPU inspector, James Biggs, who took over command as the SIO. Officers were busily taking names and addresses of all witnesses.

Finally, satisfied the scene was now under control, Roy Grace gave Biggs a quick summary of what had happened, including the fact that he had arrested the driver of the Lamborghini, and told him he would be in touch later to give him a detailed statement. Then, with Exton, who had been relieved by a traffic officer, he walked back towards South Downs IT Solutions. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do, hours of bureaucracy ahead to satisfy the Independent Police Complaints Commission, who would automatically investigate. He was already thinking about the questions he’d be asked. Did you need to give chase? Did you shout any warnings? Could you see you were chasing him in a dangerous location? Did you need to chase him at all?

But that was for the future.

For now he had declined the offer of a PIM — a Post-Incident Manager — and had made arrangements to give an initial account about the circumstances of the arrest, chase and fatal accident. On his return from Germany he would present himself to give his detailed account. All officers were required to do this in any situation where death or serious injury followed police contact — known as a DSI. But that was the least of his worries at this moment.

Shaken to the core, he was having to make an effort to keep his focus. Why had Belling run? He’d said something about an argument — but he would have to deal with all of this later. His big worry at this moment was Munich. He was booked on an evening flight. Bruno was all packed and ready to come to England. Cleo had decorated the spare room for his arrival. Coming to England to live. Coming to England to bury his mother.

And for him to bury his former wife.

His own emotions were all over the place right now. Somehow he was going to have to deal with all this and still go.

He had to go.

And meet a ten-year-old boy, for the first time, who was the son he had never known he had. He was more nervous about that than anything. Wondering how the little boy would be, what they would talk about. His son. A virtual stranger.

He called Puddle and Rogan to check they had everything they needed and left them to it.

He climbed into the car, planning to drive back to Police HQ where he had parked his Alfa earlier, with his packed suitcase in the boot, and then head up to the airport. But his hand was shaking so much he struggled to get the key into the ignition.

The general public assume police officers are immune to horror. But that wasn’t his experience. Several officers he knew who had attended the recent Shoreham air disaster, when a vintage Hawker Hunter plane had crashed killing eleven people on the ground, had suffered severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Officers often needed counselling after attending cot deaths, or horrific murders, or traffic collisions. Anything.

How could you prepare any human being for what they might feel looking at a battered torso lying on a road?

He remembered the words of the Head of the Ambulance Service at a recent fund-raising dinner he’d attended with Cleo, in aid of the Sussex Police Charitable Trust. ‘Wearing a uniform does not protect you from trauma.’

He’d be fine, he knew — somehow. He wouldn’t need counselling. But he sure as hell was going to need a very stiff drink later, on the plane — or before he boarded. He was going to stay tonight at the home of the Munich Landeskriminalamt detective, Marcel Kullen, and one of the many things he liked about the guy and his wife was the copious quantities of alcohol they enjoyed when Kullen was off duty. He was sure going to need dosing up tonight, to get over the shock of what he had just seen — and all that awaited him tomorrow. Meeting with Sandy’s lawyer, then meeting his son for the first time and flying back to England with him tomorrow evening for the start of his completely new, and alien, life — and his mother’s funeral next week.

As he headed up the A23 he took a few deep breaths to calm himself down, before dialling Cassian Pewe’s number on his hands-free. Retaliate first was one of his maxims. The ACC would have a field day over Belling’s death if he heard about it second-hand. To his slight relief the phone was answered by Pewe’s assistant, Allison Lawes. He gave her the details of what had happened and asked her to inform her boss that he would be out of the country for the following twenty-four hours.

Next he phoned Batchelor, who was still at Lorna Belling’s rented flat.

The Home Office pathologist, Dr Theobald, had arrived, Batchelor informed him, and was carrying out his initial, painstaking examination of the scene.

‘I’m not sure whether what I have to say is good or bad news for you on Operation Bantam, Guy,’ Grace said, and brought him up to speed.

‘God, Roy, I’m sorry. But to be honest, I don’t think anyone’s going to miss that vile creep.’

‘I’m with you on that one, Guy. But let’s hold off celebrating until we get the DNA and postmortem results.’

‘I’ll put the Champagne on ice, so it’s ready.’

‘I like your style!’

‘Thanks, boss — and hey — I’m sorry you had to witness it, but it sounds like karma to me.’

‘One thing Belling said to me was about an argument — can you find out what he meant by that?’

‘I just heard from an NPT officer — apparently the bastard threw all the little puppies Lorna was breeding out into the street when he came home yesterday evening. A neighbour managed to rescue them before any were run over — they’ve been taken along with their mum to an animal welfare centre called Raystede for the moment until we establish if they’re all spoken for or need to have new homes found for them — and the mother.’

‘Good to know there are still some decent people in the world, Guy.’

‘And it looks like one low-life has removed himself from the gene pool.’

‘It does indeed. But let’s wait for Frazer’s confirmation before cracking the bottle, OK?’

‘Yes, O Wise One!’

At least no smart-arsed lawyer was going to be getting Corin Belling off this one, Grace thought. He’d had that happen to him too often over the years. Equally, convictions had to be safe. If you locked up the wrong person on a murder charge, that meant the real killer was still at large — and might kill again.

Grace ended the call with a thin smile.