You Are Dead

66

Wednesday 17 December

At 3 p.m., one and a half hours after his press conference had ended, Roy Grace checked the online version of the Argus newspaper and was pleased with what he saw. True to her word, the reporter Siobhan Sheldrake had given him the headline he had asked for.

The story beneath quoted Grace at the press conference, stating that certain items had been received, purporting to have been sent by the killer of Katy Westerham and the victim from Hove Lagoon, believed to be Denise Patterson.

Grace said this was a major mistake by the killer, providing the police with the potential to identify vital forensic evidence.

The words had been carefully chosen by the psychologist Tony Balazs, and Grace had quoted them. Hopefully they would provoke a response. In the meantime forensic work was taking place on the note that had accompanied the driving licences, and the packaging they had come in.

Having again taken no lunch break, Grace hurried down to the car parking area at the front of Sussex House, deciding to pop home very quickly and see if he could talk with Cleo — and give her at least a little help with the packing. As he drove he munched a very old Twix, with white flecks on the chocolate, which he had found amid a ton of parking receipts in the glove box. It tasted stale but he didn’t mind. He was so hungry, he realized suddenly, that almost anything would have tasted good.

When he opened the front door of the house, clutching a large bunch of flowers he had bought on the way, he stopped and stared in amazement. Two of Cleo’s friends, her sister, Charlie, and her parents were there, all seemingly frenetically at work, wrapping their very personal items in tissue paper and placing them in boxes. Upstairs he could hear Noah screaming.

‘Roy, hi!’ Charlie greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks. He had always liked her; she was a younger, chubbier version of Cleo and seemed to be permanently cheerful. She pointed a finger at the stairs. ‘Noah’s in a total grump — I think he’s teething, poor thing.’ She looked at the flowers. ‘Those from you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good plan,’ she said. ‘It might save your marriage.’ She grinned.

He said a hello and thank you to Cleo’s parents and her two friends, then hurried up the stairs and into Noah’s room. And was shocked by how tired and drawn Cleo looked, sitting on a chair beside the cot, holding Noah in her arms and rocking him sideways, trying to soothe his grizzling. She gave Roy a desultory nod.

‘I bought you these, darling,’ he said, holding them up.

‘Great,’ she said flatly. ‘One more thing to pack.’

‘Hey, come on!’ He walked across, gave his son’s scrunched up face a fond look, then kissed Cleo on the forehead.

She smiled thinly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s all too much at the moment. On top of that I’m worrying if we’re doing the right thing moving to the country. At least when I’m here going stir-crazy with this little one, I can push him around the streets and see life and colour and people. What am I going to do out in Henfield — talk to cows and sheep?’

‘Everyone says villages are much more friendly than cities.’

Noah began bawling again. At the same time Grace’s phone rang. He stepped out of the room to answer it. He heard a voice the other end in erratic broken English that sounded vaguely familiar, but for an instant, distracted by both Cleo’s mood and Noah’s screaming, he did not recognize who it was.

‘Roy, hello, Roy Grace am I speaking with?’

‘Yes, who is this?’

‘Marcel Kullen! You are going senile is it with your old age, forgetting your friend from Germany?’

Grace closed Noah’s bedroom door and walked through into the quiet of his and Cleo’s bedroom. ‘Marcel! Hey, how are you? Great to hear from you — what’s up?’

Marcel Kullen was an officer in Munich’s Landeskriminalamt, the German equivalent of the British CID. They had originally become friends when the German detective had come to Sussex House on a six-month exchange, about five years back. Subsequently they had met again a year and a half ago when Roy Grace had flown over to Munich after a reported possible sighting of Sandy — which had turned out to be erroneous.

‘All is good here.’

‘How are the kids?’

‘Well, you know, OK. My son Dieter is two years old now and driving us crazy — I am thinking it is what you are calling in England the terrible twos.’

‘Yep, well I have a son now myself. You can probably hear him crying right now!’

‘Yah, you have a son? You are married again?’

‘Very happily — I’d love you to meet my wife!’

‘Bring her to München. What is her name?’

‘Cleo.’

‘And your son?’

‘Noah.’

‘So this is the reason I am calling. About your wife — your former wife, Sandy, yes?’

Grace felt a churning in his stomach. ‘Sandy?’

‘There’s a woman who has been brought into hospital here in München after an accident — she was hit by a taxi as she crossed the street. Whilst she was lying in the street, moments after, a motorcycle stopped, took her handbag and drove off. There are some nice people in the world, yes?’

‘Regular charmers,’ Grace said. ‘We have our share of them here. Are you sure this was an accident and not some kind of professional hit?’

‘Yah, sure. There were witnesses — she just stepped out and looked the wrong way. This is the kind of mistake English people make sometimes, because you still drive on the wrong side!’

Grace smiled but his nerves were jangling. Whenever Sandy’s name was mentioned he felt a sudden chill deep in his veins. As if a ghost had suddenly entered the room and walked right through him. ‘So, tell me?’

‘She is in a coma and so far we don’t have any confirmed identification, but believe she could be using the name Lohmann. This is the name her little boy gave us. Alessandra Lohmann.’

‘How old is he, Marcel?’

‘He’s ten.’

‘Marcel, we didn’t have a child — and she’s been gone more than ten years.’

‘It is — yes, as you say I think, a long shot. But the woman’s age kind of fits. To me there are some facial similarities to the photographs I have — but of course these are more than ten years old — and the colour of her hair is dark, not blonde. But I thought I should send you a photograph for you to eliminate her. Can I do this?’

‘Of course,’ he said, more enthusiastically than he felt. He shut the door, not wanting Cleo to hear this conversation. Could the nightmare that had haunted him ever since falling in love with Cleo be about to come true?

‘OK, Roy, I will email some photographs through in a few minutes.’

‘Danke!’

‘You are welcome! I am sorry to make some trouble for you.’

‘No trouble, I really appreciate you calling, Marcel.’

‘We will see us soon, yah?’

‘I’d love Cleo to see Munich, it’s a beautiful city.’

‘Bring Cleo and Noah. Our house is your house.’

‘We might just do that!’

‘Come next year, we go to the Oktoberfest together?’

‘I’ll iron my lederhosen!’

When he ended the call, Roy Grace sat down on the bed, deep in thought for some moments. All kinds of demons had been reawakened inside him. Every time he thought he had finally laid Sandy’s ghost to rest, something happened to revive them.

Some moments later the door opened and Cleo came in. She gave him a wan smile. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘It’s just really hard right now. I don’t want to be angry with you.’

He stood up and hugged her.

‘I’m being useless at the moment, and I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve always been determined never to stand in the way of your work. I guess I just didn’t realize how hard looking after a baby would be. But I wouldn’t change it for the world.’

‘I didn’t either. It’ll be easier when we get a nanny sorted out. But we’ll get through it.’

‘We will.’

As he said the words he felt his phone vibrate, signalling an incoming email. He excused himself, saying he needed the loo, and slipped into the bathroom to open the email in private, feeling guilty at his deception.

It was the JPEG from Marcel Kullen.

He opened it and stared at the woman’s face. Stared for a full, silent minute. His hands were trembling. Could this be her? Could this be Sandy?

The face was puffy and bruised, covered in abrasions, and a part of it was bandaged, with a plaster on her nose. There were similarities, yes. He couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, which were closed and badly swollen. He could see wrinkles where Sandy had never had them before, but this was ten years on. And the short brown hair, in the boyish cut, made it much harder. He enlarged the picture, but it made little difference. It was possible, but... But.

Christ, what would it mean if it was her?

What would it mean to Cleo and Noah? To his life? And there was no way he could take the time out right now to fly over and see for sure, one way or the other.

He emailed the German detective back.

He flushed the toilet, ran the sink tap for a moment, pushed his phone back in his pocket and went back into the bedroom.

Cleo gave him a strange look. ‘Are you OK, my darling?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Why?’

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’