Need You Dead

50 Sunday 24 April

‘Tell me?’ Grace asked Batchelor as they left the custody suite building and headed over to his parked car.

‘Julian Raven says Lorna Belling had been in regular contact with one particular phone number a few days before her death. She had disguised the name on her phone contacts list.’

‘Do we have a name?’

‘Better than that!’ Batchelor said with a grin. ‘We have a plot on his movements.’

Twenty minutes later, back in his office, Grace removed his dark-blue suit jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door, then slipped behind his desk, with his back to the window. Batchelor sat down in front of him.

‘Might this be the James Bond that our friend, Darling, was referring to?’ Grace pondered.

‘His name’s Kipp Brown, he’s an IFA with his own very successful business in Brighton. Kipp Brown Financial Services. He has ads all over the place in the Argus, Latest Homes and on Juice radio — always featuring himself with his catchphrase, “Trust Kipp!”’

‘Does he have any form?’

‘No.’

As Grace wrote the name down on a pad, Batchelor glanced out of the window behind the DS. He could see a man with a clipboard looking up towards the roof of the building.

‘According to Raven,’ Batchelor continued, ‘triangulation on Brown’s mobile phone puts him in the vicinity of Vallance Mansions on two occasions in the past week. The first was for a two-hour period, 2 p.m to 4 p.m. on Monday, April 18th, and the second — here’s the interesting bit — between 1.45 p.m. and 3.55 p.m. on Wednesday, April 20th.’

‘Bloody hell! That tallies with what Darling told us.’

‘Seems like we might have another suspect, boss.’

Grace was pensive for some moments. His private phone pinged with an incoming text and he was momentarily distracted by it. The text was from Cleo and there was an accompanying photograph. It showed Bruno in bed, with Humphrey curled up on the duvet, on his stomach.

He smiled, raised an apologetic hand to Batchelor then texted back.

Then he focused back on the information he’d just received, thinking hard. On his desk was a copy of Friday’s Argus newspaper. The seventh page was dominated by a dramatic photograph of the scene where Corin Belling had been run over. Halted cars and blue and white police tape. The headline read:

From the story accompanying it, Guy Batchelor appeared to have handled the press release skilfully, giving enough to satisfy the reporters, but nothing for them to sensationalize. Just bald facts. Lorna Belling had been found dead in her rented apartment on Thursday morning. She and her husband had a history of domestic violence and the city support service, RISE, had been in the process of intervening. Corin Belling had run from his office when police officers (Grace appreciated the anonymity Batchelor had afforded him) had gone to interview him, and, attempting to flee, had run into the path of oncoming traffic. The incident had been referred to the IPCC.

He held the paper up. ‘You did a good job, Guy. Let’s hope it goes just as well in tomorrow’s briefing with the press.’

‘Protecting our backsides, boss. I did my best. Let’s hope the buggers at the IPCC don’t make it too hard for you.’

‘Yep, Cassian Pewe won’t need much encouragement to take a pop at me. But hey, let’s focus. Kipp Brown. Could he be Lorna Belling’s anonymous sperm donor?’

Batchelor smiled. ‘Shall we go and talk to him?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Screw up his Sunday for him?’

Grace looked at his watch, also. It was too late to try to catch someone having a Sunday morning lie-in, and he was mindful of the potential damage that it could do to Brown’s life. He reminded Batchelor of the aftermath of the IRA bombing of The Grand, and the distress it had caused. Then he added, ‘We need to get Kipp Brown checked out. He has his own, very successful business, he isn’t going anywhere. Let’s find out all we can about him today, then talk to him tomorrow — perhaps on his way into his office — or at his office.’

‘We need to get his DNA. What do you suggest?’

‘The smart way would be to arrest him tomorrow. We’ve got more than enough to do that. He’s on the phone with her and then goes to her flat hours before she was found dead. We’ve enough to arrest him — or am I missing something?’

‘No, boss, you’re smack on the button!’

‘If we get a DNA match to the semen, then we’re cooking with gas.’

‘I’ve a good feeling about this one, boss.’

‘Keep that feeling, but assume nothing.’