Need You Dead

43 Saturday 23 April

Saturday night, Grace had learned many years back, was not a good time to book someone into custody. But as the arresting officer, he had to stay with his suspect throughout the whole procedure, to avoid the possibility further down the line, when the case came to court, of a smart defence brief picking holes in the chain of evidence.

On every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night a massive police presence, Operation Marble, did its best to prevent central Brighton from becoming a war zone of drink- and drug-fuelled fights. He was lucky to have arrested Darling relatively early in the evening, and he’d had to wait for little over ninety minutes before the man was processed and banged up. A couple of hours later and he could well have been there, waiting his turn among the drunks, until dawn.

As he headed home, just after 10 p.m., having conducted with Batchelor a brief interview of Darling, during which he had gone no-comment on them, he was thinking hard. The clock was ticking. Thirty-six hours was the maximum time the police could keep a suspect in custody without applying to the magistrates’ court for an extension to detention.

Darling had made numerous threats to Lorna Belling. He was standing outside her flat the night of her murder, and on a number of occasions prior to then. The police had cast-iron grounds to arrest him. The man had a grievance over the money he had paid for her car and, as was usual, requested an on-call legal aid solicitor. By giving him a chance to talk to the lawyer and having had an overnight breather, hopefully the facts would be clearer in the morning. And with luck sometime tomorrow they’d get the DNA results from the semen back from the lab.

In his mind he ran through the possible scenarios, creating other hypotheses. Darling had raped her but had not murdered her. Darling had not raped her but had murdered her. Or Darling was an innocent — if angry — bystander.

What about Lorna Belling? The victim of domestic abuse. With a cheap rental apartment. Had her husband known about it for some time, or just discovered it? What bit of equipment had the printed circuit board with his fingerprints on come from and why was it lying there, seemingly discarded?

So many questions, so many things that didn’t add up.

Did Lorna have this place just to escape from her husband, or was there another reason? A shag pad for her and a boyfriend? Her sister in Australia had confirmed she had hopes of moving out there. Was she trying to earn enough money to give her sufficient cash to flee? Could hairdressing have been her cover, and she made her real money from her activities in the flat?

Was she dealing drugs or stolen property from there?

So often in his experience it was the obvious answer that was the correct one. However obscure it might seem at first. But equally he knew he could not always rely on that.

Right now one possibility was that Seymour Darling was Lorna Belling’s killer. DNA would establish if it was his semen inside Lorna. If it was, that would be strong evidence.

And if not?

That would not necessarily mean he hadn’t killed her. But it could mean that someone else had. He needed some fast-time intelligence on the woman if the DNA failed to produce a match with Darling.

Was Darling too obvious a suspect? Because the husband was still in the frame. It would be interesting to see what examination of his electronic devices revealed.

He couldn’t explain why, but all his instincts, backed by his experience, were telling him there was something more than the obvious going on here. Ordinarily he would have delegated the interviewing of a suspect like Darling to two trained cognitive suspect interviewers from his team. But he didn’t want to do that. Instead he decided that he and Batchelor, who were both also trained interviewers, should do it themselves.

Grace called the DI and told him to meet him in his office at 7 a.m.

Ten minutes later he pulled up outside the country cottage on the edge of the village of Henfield, which now truly felt like home, and walked up to the front door. As he opened it, an appetizing smell of cooking greeted him, and he heard the sound of the television. Canned laughter, then an indignant female voice. More laughter. Moments later, Humphrey rushed up to him, barking.

‘Hey, boy!’

Cleo appeared from the kitchen, in jeans, a loose jumper and battered slippers, looking all-in. He put his arms round her and kissed her.

‘Missed you,’ he said.

‘Missed you, too. How was your day? You’re limping badly. How’s your leg?’

‘Hurting a lot. But, hey, we could have a result!’

‘Really?’ She suddenly looked genuinely excited. ‘Talk me through it over a glass of wine!’

‘Over three glasses, I think. Maybe four! And I’m craving a fag. So, how’s Bruno?’

‘Yes, OK, I think. Actually, he seems a nice boy. I can see a lot of you in him — particularly when he smiles. I took him for a walk with Humphrey and let him feed the hens some scraps. We had a nice chat — I think we’re going to get on.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘He asked if his friend Erik could come and stay with us some time. I told him of course, he’d be very welcome.’

‘He asked me the same thing.’ Grace smiled.

‘We talked about what he likes to eat — for breakfast, lunch, supper. About his school in Munich — and about going to St Christopher’s school in Hove. The former Chief Constable’s wife, Judith, teaches there. I’ve already had a word with her and she’ll make sure Bruno is well looked after when he starts.’

He frowned. ‘If they accept him. Didn’t you say they have strict criteria?’

‘They’re going to give him some assessment tests on Monday in verbal and non-verbal reasoning — and they’ve said they’ll make an allowance for him being bilingual — but that can also be an asset.’

‘What happens if they don’t accept him?’ Grace asked.

‘Plan B,’ Cleo said.

‘Which is?’

She smiled. ‘I haven’t figured that one out yet. There are other private schools in the area. I’m told that the Lancing Prep in the Droveway is a good one. I’m sure it will be fine, darling, we’ll just have to see what happens. Bruno’s a bright boy. From everything Judith Martinson has told me, I can’t see there’s going to be a problem.’

They walked through into the kitchen. ‘So what other interests, apart from his drums, does he have? Have you found out?’ Grace asked.

‘He told me he likes to swim. Listen, there’s that really nice country club down the road that has an indoor pool. It also has a spa with a sauna. Didn’t your physio tell you that regular saunas would be good for your leg?’

He nodded.

‘What about joining this club — it’s called Wickwoods.’

‘Darling, we’ve got enough expense with this house. I’m not sure we can afford the membership fees of a country club.’

‘They do a really reasonable weekday membership rate. And I thought you were getting something towards medical expenses for your leg from the police?’

‘Well, I might be, yes.’

‘I had a word with the manager and he’s offered us the full family membership with one month’s free trial. What do we have to lose? It would be great for Bruno to do his swimming. And it might help your leg. I could ask Mum and Dad to help us with the fee if you can’t get any money from the police fund.’

He liked Cleo’s parents but was reluctant to take any charity from them. ‘What are the rates? Let’s take a look at them.’

‘I’ve got them here.’ They sat down at the small oak kitchen table. The television was still blaring in the living room. Cleo poured him a large glass of Australian Chardonnay, then put an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the windowsill in front of him.

He took a large gulp, leaned over and opened the window, then lit a cigarette and sucked in the sweet smoke, gratefully. For some moments it made him feel dizzy. It was the first cigarette he had smoked in over a week, he realized. He talked Cleo briefly through the events of the evening.

‘What a little shit,’ she said. ‘Seymour Darling sounds horrible. Even his name! Yech, creepy!’

‘You should have met his wife. She was a charmer.’

She pinched a drag of his cigarette. ‘Yup, well, as my mum always says, there’s someone out there for everyone.’

He smiled. ‘So where are the kids?’

‘It’s going to take a while to get used to the plural.’ She sipped some wine and hunched her shoulders. ‘Noah’s asleep, he’s been fine all day — really taking an interest in his play mat thing — and finishing The Times crossword.’

Roy grinned. ‘Maybe I should let him read my investigator’s notes on Operation Bantam. He might solve it for us! And Bruno — where’s he?’

‘In his room, gaming — the last time I looked in.’

‘What kind of game?’

‘Football. He’s playing it on his television with Erik in Germany.’

‘So how was it with Jason and Stan at the football game today — how did he get on with Stan?’

‘He was a bit subdued when he came home — I think he was shattered, to be honest. But it sounds like it was OK. Jason said he’d have a word with Stan about inviting him over to play. And as soon as he gets settled in at school, I’m sure he’ll make more friends.’

‘Has he had supper?’

‘I made him spaghetti bolognese, because that’s what the Lipperts told you he liked. But he only had a few mouthfuls before excusing himself, very politely, and going up to his room. Probably because he was exhausted.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ Grace smoked some more of the cigarette. ‘It’s hard to imagine what this is like for him. This kid’s been brought up as a single-parent child, by a wonky mother who spent part of his childhood a junkie. She commits suicide, and the next thing is a father he’d never been told about pitches up, takes him away from his home, from everything he knows, and dumps him in the middle of nowhere, in rural England, with a bunch of strangers. How would that feel if it was you?’

She pinched another drag of his cigarette. Exhaling the smoke, she replied, ‘Like I’d won the bloody lottery!’

‘Maybe he doesn’t see it quite that way.’

Noah began to cry. Cleo shot an irritated glance upstairs. Then she picked up her wine glass. ‘That was a frivolous answer I gave you, I’m sorry. But, honestly? I don’t know.’

‘Something I read in one of those books on philosophy you gave me — I can’t remember the title — kind of makes sense here.’

She looked at him, quizzically.

‘It was one of the American Indian tribes. Before you judge any man first walk ten moons in his shoes.’

She seemed about to say something, then fell silent.

‘What?’ Roy Grace asked.

She remained silent.

‘What, darling?’

She shook her head then drank some wine. ‘I want to help Bruno, make him happy. I guess I don’t know where to begin.’

‘Do you think I should go up and say a quick hi to him, and see how he is?’

‘I think that would be nice.’

His phone rang.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered. Then with dismay he heard the voice of his boss, Pewe.

‘Roy?’ Pewe said. ‘Are you back from Germany? Sounds like it from your ringtone.’

‘I am, sir.’

‘Why has no one given me an update on Operation Bantam?’

Grace held his temper. ‘As you’re off this weekend, I thought the good news could wait.’

‘Good news?’

‘We have a suspect in custody.’

For a brief, sweet moment which he relished, Roy Grace knew that he had rendered the ACC, albeit momentarily, lost for a snide reply.