Need You Dead

44 Sunday 24 April

Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor met in HQ at 7 a.m. on Sunday to plan their interview strategy. Grace had worked so many weekends during his career that it never felt odd for him to be suited and booted on a Saturday or Sunday. His right leg was giving him grief, and he knew he needed to organize some massages and time in a steam room. Cleo’s idea about joining Wickwoods was a good one, but he had no time right now.

Seated in his office, cradling a mug of coffee, Grace yawned, feeling tired. He discussed with Batchelor the order of the questions they would put to Darling, their tactic being to try to get him to say as much as possible, before they revealed what they knew. He often thought suspect interviews were like games of poker, at times. The cards you held in your hand and the way you bluffed could be the key to winning.

This was assuming the creep didn’t continue going no-comment on them, as he had done last night. Hopefully he’d have been talked out of that by his solicitor, if he had nothing to hide. It was of course everyone’s right under questioning, but that was a big waste of time and most briefs knew that it did not look good to a jury when endless ‘no-comment’ replies from the accused were read out in court.

Grace looked at his watch. ‘Probably too early to call the lab, especially on a Sunday. Let’s try them in an hour. If we can get a DNA match to Darling with the semen that would be very helpful.’

‘But equally I guess, boss, if it isn’t a match, that doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t murder Lorna.’

‘I agree. Let’s see what we can get out of him now — it might make the DNA irrelevant one way or another.’

At 8.30 a.m., with a light drizzle falling, they headed into Brighton in one car, so they could continue talking. The custody block, where they had booked Darling in last night, was located right behind Sussex House, the building on the edge of the Hollingbury industrial estate which had been Roy Grace’s second home for the best part of a decade.

He wondered what had happened to Duncan on the front desk, who was also a runner like himself. It was strange to think it was now empty and would soon be demolished. ‘Bugger!’ he said, suddenly.

Batchelor looked at him. ‘What, boss?’

‘I’m craving a coffee. Was just thinking about grabbing a couple from Asda for us, but I forgot it’ll be shut.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Doesn’t open until ten on Sundays.’

‘Yup.’

‘You OK, Guy?’

‘OK?’

‘You’re very quiet.’

‘I’m fine, boss, thanks. Had one of those nights where I couldn’t get to sleep — brain whirring.’

‘I get plenty of those sleepless nights, particularly when my leg’s playing up. Hate them.’

Batchelor braked and turned in, pulling up in front of the massive green-painted steel gate. He wound down his window and pressed his card against the wall-mounted reader. Moments later the gate began to slide open. They drove through and up the short, steep incline to the rear of the custody block itself, with the row of green garage doors which prisoners under arrest were driven through, and then escorted straight into a small bare room, furnished with nothing except a hard bench and a notice pinned to the wall telling them the procedure they were about to undergo.

To be stripped of all possessions, searched and then put into a cell, the door banged shut deliberately hard and loudly on you, is a humiliating process. It takes only a few hours for any suspect to start feeling institutionalized.

Both detectives were hoping that after his night on the hard, narrow bed in the bare room, Darling might be more cooperative this morning.