They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

4 2006 — One year earlier

We are in the back of the taxi. Roy has his arm around me and we are all loved up. All these years of marriage and still in love. I feel hugely grateful despite so long trying, fruitlessly, for a baby, which has been arduous and draining for us both.

We are heading east along Church Road, Hove, one road north of the seafront. A wide, buzzy street, lined with shops, cafes, bars and restaurants. The driver is a young, friendly guy. His plate says Mark Tuckwell. Roy and I are chatting to him, like we always do to taxi drivers, waiters, shop assistants, pretty much anyone, really. We both share an insatiable curiosity about people. I’m sure Roy banks it all, though, somewhere up in that ten-gazillion gigaflop processor inside his skull, whereas I just remember faces. But I know my husband too well. I can see that all the time he’s chatting to this driver he’s looking through the windows, taking in both sides of the street, and suddenly he yells, ‘Stop! Stop! STOPPPP!’

And my heart stops.

I know what’s about to happen because it’s happened before. Roy, with his damned near photographic memory, has spotted a villain he’s been after for a year, or maybe longer, walking along the street.

As the driver pulls hard over to the kerb, Roy already has his door open. ‘Darling, order a bottle of bubbly — I’ll see you at the restaurant as soon as I can.’

Then he’s gone.

The time is 7.30 p.m.

At 8 p.m. I’m sitting in the restaurant, English’s, with a bottle of Champagne, reading the menu over and over. And over. Roy calls with an update. He has chased this suspect down Western Road for over half a mile, finally rugby-tackling and pinning him to the floor at the Clock Tower.

He’s now on his way to the custody centre at Hollingbury. He can’t hand this charmer over to anyone else yet, because of something to do with chain of evidence — after finding Class A drugs on him. But it shouldn’t be a problem, he assures me. It’s early evening, so he will be able to process him through custody quickly, and then join me.

It’s now 10 p.m. I’ve spent much of the past two hours reading the menu until I’ve learned it by heart, and texting my best friend, about my progress on this increasingly boring and increasingly non-romantic date. A combination of the booze and the boredom and I’m really pissed off. It’s escalating in my head, and I can’t stop it even though the evening started so well.

On the plus side I’ve eaten an entire basket of delicious breads with a fish paste and a very yummy butter, and I’ve almost finished the bottle of Veuve Clicquot. And now, Roy has just called with yet another update.

For some reason I don’t fully understand, he’s still stuck in the custody centre but will be with me, he promises, faithfully, in twenty minutes.

I read out the menu to him and he chooses scallops for his starter and monkfish for his main. I select a bottle of Chablis from the wine list, hang the cost. Although I’m feeling a bit smashed and know I shouldn’t drink much more.

It is now 10.15 p.m. and Roy has texted to say he is still delayed. I’m so ravenous I’ve had my starter and half of the bottle of Chablis. Not sure if I’m feeling more pissed or just plain pissed off. Through my haze of alcohol the restaurant appears to be emptying. Actually, it is empty.

Am I really the only person still here? I look around and see tables all tidied and laid for lunch tomorrow. Around the corner a couple of waiters are chatting by the bar. One of them has just asked, with a slightly desperate look on his face, if I would like my main course or would I still prefer to wait. I can’t remember what I said to him, but I seem to recall ordering some chips. Or French fries, as I’m in a posh place.

Then I hear footsteps clumping down the stairs, and I see a tall man I vaguely recognize, and he appears to vaguely recognize me, too. Everything is vague at this moment. I’m definitely drunk. Last time I went to the bathroom — some while ago — and peered into the mirror, even my hair looked drunk.

This guy is tall, good-looking in a kind of supercilious way, as if everything around him is beneath him, and sharply dressed in a dark jacket, crisp white shirt and tailored jeans. His loafers are so polished they are like black mirrors. I’ve seen him before somewhere, but I can’t think who the hell he is. But he’s walking over to me with a knowing look. When he speaks his voice is posh and measured. ‘Sandy Grace, right?’

I give him a guarded, ‘Yes.’

I’m finding him a bit intimidating. And I’m still trying to think who the hell he is. He smells nice, a cologne I don’t recognize.

‘Charming little restaurant this, isn’t it? Are you and Roy having a pleasant evening?’ He looked down, and I could see he was clocking the untouched other side of the table, the glasses and plates and cutlery.

‘Well, I can’t speak for Roy, but mine’s been a bit rubbish, actually.’

He frowned. Or rather, looked pained. Or bewildered. ‘Right,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘Yes, OK. Right — well...’

He looked around him, as if expecting Roy to materialize — perhaps from the loo — at any moment.

‘He’s not here,’ I said to put him out of his misery.

‘Not here? You’ve been stood up?’

I shook my head. ‘Not stood up — not exactly.’ I explained the events. When I finished I picked up the bottle of Chablis from the ice bucket and showed him there was still some left and offered him a glass. He hesitated, saying he was driving, then he said, ‘Why not, I’ve not drunk anything all evening,’ and accepted, sitting down and clinking his glass against mine. ‘I’ve also been stood up,’ he said.

‘Seriously?’

‘My date never showed.’ He shrugged a What-the-hell. ‘You’re wondering who I am and where we’ve met before, aren’t you?’

It threw me, because he was right. ‘I’m trying to place you,’ I replied diplomatically and took a stab. ‘Sussex Police, right?’

‘I’m a DI, we met at the Sussex Detectives’ Ball, at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, last October. I was on the next table to you and your husband — we chatted briefly about how terrible the comedian was. I’m down on secondment to Sussex Police from the Met — briefing the force on counterterrorism.’ He held out his hand and gave a very clammy, limp handshake for much longer than I was comfortable with, all the time staring into my eyes. ‘My name is Cassian Pewe. Maybe I can give you a lift home?’

Have you ever come across someone who you found both attractive and repulsive at the same time? If not, you’ve never met Cassian Pewe. Snake charmers work by hypnotizing venomous reptiles. Cassian Pewe is the reverse. He’s the supercilious reptile with the silver tongue and the golden looks. I knew he was dangerous, but as we talked, there was something about him — I can’t explain what exactly — I found mesmerizing. Hypnotic?

When it got to 11.15 p.m., and the remaining staff in the restaurant were clearly dying to go home but too polite to say so, Roy rang, his voice full of apology. He was still at work, he said, and he would make up for this evening but best I get a taxi to go home.

I hung up on him. Then I accepted Cassian’s gallant offer to give me a lift home in his white convertible Jaguar. He told me it was a classic, although I don’t know much about cars, but it was rather gorgeous, with its soft leather seats and mahogany dashboard, and he was clearly proud of it. It was snug and warm inside, with the roof down and the night air blowing in our hair and on our faces. In my woozy state I imagined for a moment we were in the South of France, Cannes maybe, instead of Brighton.

When we pulled up outside our house ten minutes later, I saw Roy’s car wasn’t on the driveway. He was still at work, still playing with his prisoner. Cassian Pewe suddenly switched off the engine, and before I knew it, had slipped one arm around my neck, pulled me towards him and kissed me passionately on the lips.

Shocked, I was again both attracted and repulsed. Then he stared into my eyes, in the faint glow of a streetlight above us, and said, ‘I really like Roy. I like him a lot.’

‘Well, I hope you don’t kiss him like that,’ I replied.