Left You Dead

by James, Peter

  ‘No comment,’ Niall said flatly. ‘I’m not answering any more of your questions.’

  Rattigan said to the detectives, ‘Gentlemen, it is now 8.40 a.m. You have until 9.45 a.m. to either charge or release my client.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Norman Potting replied politely. ‘We have until 9.47 a.m., actually, but let’s not split hairs. Interview terminated at 8.40 a.m.’ He reached forward.

  The monitor went blank and silent.

  62

  Wednesday 4 September

  In the observation cubicle, Glenn Branson asked, ‘How are you reading Paternoster’s body language?’

  ‘Extremely uncomfortable,’ Roy Grace replied. ‘You?’

  ‘Copy, boss.’

  Grace smiled. ‘You’ve been watching too much American TV.’

  ‘Would you rather I said “well dodgy”?’

  Grace smiled thinly, then fell silent.

  After some moments, Branson said, ‘So, what do we think?’

  There was no reply.

  He glanced round. Grace was crying.

  Branson waited patiently in silence.

  After a couple of minutes, Grace sniffed, wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and apologized.

  ‘You don’t have to apologize for anything. I wish I could do something, say something. I can’t begin to think what you’re going through – I can feel some of your pain, but not the enormity of what you’re facing.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, in my situation. Hang on for a miracle, which isn’t going to happen, if the medics are right? Give him the dignity of keeping his body intact for his funeral? Or—’ He fell silent again.

  ‘Or donate his organs?’ Branson prompted.

  ‘Yes.’

  Branson took a few moments before replying. ‘If we’re dismissing the possibility of his ever recovering?’

  ‘We are.’

  He nodded. ‘You’ve already said that the longer you leave it to make a decision, the more likely it is that some of the major organs won’t be viable for donation, if I understood it?’

  ‘Yes, correct.’

  ‘OK, well, once someone’s dead, their soul – if we have one – departs elsewhere, leaving behind an empty shell. That’s how I see it. The shell just rots away. If you could have the knowledge that his death has helped some others to live, and some others to have a better quality of life, wouldn’t that at least make some small sense of what’s happened – and give you and Cleo the knowledge that you’ve done a good thing?’

  Grace gave a slight smile which was layered with sadness. ‘I appreciate it, you’re pretty much echoing what Cleo said to me earlier. Yes, you’re right.’

  ‘But, ultimately, it’s only you and Cleo who can make the decision, and it has to feel right.’

  ‘Thanks, it is feeling right.’

  ‘Why don’t you go now and deal with it – that’s far more important than what’s going on here, I can handle this.’

  ‘I will, but another fifteen or twenty minutes isn’t going to make a difference. So let’s just review the footage from last night, OK?’ He spoke firmly, as if he’d now made up his mind and his decision had freed him.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Norman and Jon did a good job, but—’ He hesitated.

  After some moments, Branson prompted, ‘But?’

  ‘Let’s look at it now.’

  Branson pressed the control buttons and the interview from the evening before began to replay. Both of them watched it, Grace particularly intently. Suddenly, he called out, ‘Stop!’

  Obediently, the DI hit the pause button.

  ‘Replay that and watch Paternoster’s reaction,’ Grace said.

  Moments later, the segment played again.

  Norman Potting was speaking. ‘During the search of your house last night, two large sacks of cat litter were found at the rear of a cupboard, in the utility room off your kitchen. Do you have any explanation for that?’

  Niall Paternoster stared back in silence for some seconds, then he said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Pause it again!’ Grace said.

  The image froze.

  ‘He’s either a damned good actor,’ Grace said, ‘or he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘And we know he’s not telling the truth.’

  Grace looked pensive. ‘Roll it on.’

  Norman Potting was speaking again. ‘Do you have any explanation for how they got there, or are you saying the police planted two sacks of cat litter in your house?’

  Paternoster looked at his solicitor, then up at the ceiling and around at the walls. ‘Two sacks of litter?’

  ‘Correct,’ Potting said. ‘Two large sacks of Tesco Lightweight ten-litre cat litter – several weeks’ supply for a normal household cat.’

  Paternoster ran his hands through his hair. Then he said, ‘All I can think of is that Eden must have bought the stuff in Tesco after I dropped her off, and someone she met in the store drove her home.’

  ‘Pause it again,’ Grace said.

  Branson hit the button, freezing the image again, and looked at Grace, then at the screen.

  ‘He’s holding eye contact,’ Grace said. ‘His blink rate is steady; he’s not covering his mouth or throat.’ He shrugged. ‘None of these things is conclusive, he could just be a bloody good actor. If he had been planning to murder her for some while, he might have looked up on the internet all the signs of a liar, knowing that when the police interviewed him, they’d be looking at his body language.’

  ‘So you’re saying he’s either innocent – or smarter than we’re giving him credit for, boss?’

  ‘Bearing in mind his business partner vanished overboard while they were sailing off Perth in Western Australia, do we have a repeat pattern here?’

  ‘Want me to fly out to Perth to talk to the police there?’

  ‘Sure, ask Cassian Pewe to sanction your ticket. Tell him you need to fly Business or maybe even First so you’re fresh when you arrive.’

  Branson looked at him, for a moment wondering if he was being serious, then wised up. ‘Maybe you should ask him on my behalf, boss?’

  Grace pointed to his neck with his forefinger. ‘You know what? I prefer to keep this attached to my head.’

  Branson smiled. ‘So we have a potential history here of our friend, Paternoster, dispatching someone with no trace – you think?’

  ‘I’m suggesting the mantra of all experienced financial investigators, Glenn. Follow the money.’

  Branson nodded. ‘OK, so what we know is that Niall Paternoster is struggling, with a failed business, and making a small living as a taxi journeyman, driving a mate’s taxi during unsociable hours. After returning to the UK from Australia he met, charmed and married Eden, who – maybe coincidentally – has a house worth over half a million quid, plus a fair stash of cash. And now he’s offed her? Am I on the right track?’

  Grace nodded. ‘That’s how the evidence is looking.’

  ‘Apart from his body language, boss?’

  ‘Apart from that – which we know is only an indication,’ he replied, then continued, ‘We made the decision as part of our interview strategy not to ask him specific questions about what has been found at Ashdown Forest. They’re still searching there and we’re waiting for DNA results. He already said in interview that he didn’t leave the house in the early hours of Friday morning, but we know the BMW was at the forest. The camera images don’t help us as to who was driving. We can ask him questions in due course and he may not pick up about the police search activity there. You never know, he may return to that area and with any luck our people will be behind him. So let’s summarize what we have so far in addition to that evidence.’

  ‘OK,’ Branson said. ‘Three key issues.’ He raised a finger in the air. ‘First, we’ve established he may be lying about the cat litter and the photograph.’ He added a second finger. ‘The forensics against him at the house don�
�t look good.’ He raised a third. ‘He has a motive, but now we have the potential sighting of Eden, his wife, on the Isle of Wight hovercraft.’

  ‘Your priority,’ Grace said, ‘is that sighting. Throw everything at it.’

  ‘We always get loads of sightings of mispers, and 99.9 per cent of the time they turn out to be wrong,’ Branson said.

  ‘I’d be happier if we’d seen Paternoster clearly lying just now, but we didn’t. It would help us move forward one way or the other to either verify or dismiss that sighting PDQ.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘In the meantime, see if we can organize a surveillance team. Regardless of the possible sighting, I want Paternoster watched from the moment we release him. Killers often behave suspiciously or return to the deposition site, either out of some macabre curiosity or to make sure the site hasn’t been disturbed.’

  ‘Understood and will try.’

  There were only two Surveillance Teams these days, and they worked with both Sussex and Surrey police forces. And they were kept busy. Both detectives knew they’d be lucky to get one.

  Grace stood up. ‘OK, I’m going to go out to my car, for privacy, and call Cleo. I think I’m ready.’

  Branson took his hand in his and crushed it. ‘Good luck, mate. I’m thinking of you all.’

  Grace turned away, unable to face him, not wanting him to see his tears again.

  63

  Wednesday 4 September

  Niall Paternoster sat in the front passenger seat of the Skoda Superb taxi owned by his pal, Mark Tuckwell, as they drove out through the gates of the Brighton custody centre. It was 11.15 a.m.

  ‘Been a bad boy, have you?’ Tuckwell, a relaxed, good-natured man of thirty-five, jested.

  ‘That’s not funny – I don’t know what’s going on. They reckon I’ve offed Eden.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Do I look like a murderer?’

  Tuckwell was nonplussed. ‘Did Dr Harold Shipman or Ted Bundy?’

  ‘Thanks a lot, mate. Thought I might count on you for a bit of sympathy.’

  ‘Not if I’m driving a fugitive from justice!’

  ‘You are not driving a bloody fugitive.’

  ‘So what’s happened, talk me through it.’ Tuckwell grinned. ‘What weapon did you use?’

  ‘I’m not in a mood for joking, really I’m not, all right? Two sleepless nights in a cell – Jesus – I’m not surprised people confess to shit they haven’t done, just to get it over with. So, OK, right, Sunday we go out for a drive – Eden and me – we both like going to stately homes – National Trust places, that kind of thing. It’s something to do – and something to dream about, right?’

  ‘Dream about their heating bills and the cost of their roof repairs, you mean?’

  Paternoster tutted. ‘We actually have the vision to look beyond that. When we go to these places, I’m looking for ideas, inspiration, right? I want inspiration for the kind of house I’m going to buy when my new business comes good and my first million rolls in.’

  ‘So until then, when are you going to open 507 Nevill Road to the public? Will you be serving cream teas? What attractions will you have in the grounds – a safari park?’

  ‘Haha.’

  Paternoster stared for some moments through the windscreen, appreciating his freedom; appreciating being away from the confines and tedium of his cell and from feeling, in just that brief time, almost immediately institutionalized. It was a fine day. He’d barely seen any daylight since Monday.

  ‘You’ve got a nice back garden – maybe make it a dinosaur theme park?’

  ‘Will you stop this? I’m in serious crap, Mark, OK? I need your wisdom, not your rubbish humour. Seriously. Please?’

  Tuckwell braked as they joined the rear of a queue of traffic on the slip road. He shook his head. ‘Tell you what, how long have we known each other?’

  ‘Since Year Ten?’

  ‘Pretty much – so – over twenty years. In all that time, all you’ve ever done is dream, you’re always wanting something more, something better than you have.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘What’s wrong is you don’t know when to stop, Niall. You’ve got a lovely wife in Eden, but I’m guessing she’s not enough; you’ve got a nice house – for a lot of people it would be a dream home – but you want something way bigger.’ He paused. ‘You know what I learned a long time ago?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Success isn’t about wanting what you don’t have, it’s wanting what you do have.’

  ‘Yeah, well, obviously I’m not a success, yet. So, yeah, you’re lucky, you have the perfect life – a woman you love, and a great kid. Good for you. Do you want me to tell you what’s happened or are you going to carry on bloody lecturing me?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘So me and Eden went last Sunday to Parham House. We had a nice time there, wandering around, and a good lunch in their cafeteria. I wanted to get back to watch the Belgian Grand Prix and do a bike ride and she starts going on about needing to pick up some cat litter that I’d forgotten to buy the day before.’

  ‘Had you?’

  ‘Maybe, but hear me out.’

  Tuckwell nodded.

  ‘So, Eden’s very specific, she wants to go to the Tesco Holmbush, because they stock the brand the stupid cat likes – I dunno – maybe it’s soft on its bum or something.’

  ‘Or it’s the cheapest,’ his friend suggested, subtly reminding him of his parlous finances. But the dig went over his head.

  ‘Whatever, she promises to be only a few minutes. But I know what happens when Eden goes into a store – she’s like, Oh, I’ll get some of this while I’m here, and, Oh, maybe we need more loo roll and we only have two bananas left and, oh, better get some more yoghurt and butter while I’m here, and, Oh, we’re running low on tomatoes and cat food and – and all the bloody rest, right? Cheryl’s the same, right?’

  ‘Aren’t we all when we go into a store?’ Tuckwell said pragmatically. ‘Don’t stereotype!’

  ‘Not me, I’m in, gottit, out – boom! Anyhow, so Sunday afternoon, I sit in the car, she swears blind she’ll be back in five minutes – and I reckon on turning that into fifteen. So twenty pass. Then twenty-five. The Grand Prix’s about to finish and the store’s about to close and I’m annoyed, so I go in to find her – and she’s not there. Like, gone.’

  ‘Walking back to your car?’ Tuckwell suggested.

  Paternoster shook his head. ‘I look everywhere for her and there’s no sign. I call and text her – no response. I WhatsApp her, no reply. She’d done this once before, after we’d had a row, she bumped into a friend in a store and got her to drive her home. So eventually I drive home and she’s not there. Next morning, she’s still not home – I call the police. They come round to the house and I can see immediately they don’t believe me. The next thing, I’ve got some bigwig detective and his flunkey from Major Crime rocking up.’ He fell silent.

  ‘And?’ Tuckwell prompted.

  ‘I could tell from the way they looked at me and the questions they asked, they think I’ve done something. They treat me like I’m lying. I’m going mad with worry, but they don’t seem to see that. I looked again on all her social media accounts – nothing. Next thing, early Monday evening an entire posse rocks up. I’m arrested on suspicion of murder and our house is crawling with cops. God knows what her mother said to them, especially with her track record – she loathes me, always has, but anyhow, I’m told all kinds of rubbish the next day – Eden’s engagement and wedding rings and her passport have all been found, hidden. And that there’s two sacks of bloody cat litter in the house.’

  ‘Two sacks of cat litter?’

  ‘Yeah, big ones.’

  Tuckwell frowned.

  ‘None of it makes any sense. I mean, I can’t get my head round what’s happened. People don’t just vanish. What has happened to her? Did someone smack her over the head and drag her into a van
or something as she walked across the car park? Or am I going crazy? I’m starting to wonder if I’ve got like, what do they call it – selective amnesia – or something? Seriously, I’m lying on my bunk in that cell, staring at the walls, wondering if there’s some great big blank in my mind. Did I imagine dropping her at Tesco? Did I do something to her that I don’t remember? Hide her rings and passport?’

  ‘Sounds more plausible than any other scenario.’

  ‘You’re really not being much help,’ Paternoster said.

  ‘OK, another thought. Has it occurred to you Eden might have vanished to teach you a lesson?’ Tuckwell suggested.

  ‘A lesson? About what? Why?’

  As they finally reached the roundabout and drove up to the A27 on the far side, Mark Tuckwell gave him a sideways glance.

  ‘Wakey-wakey! Are you missing anything here? A certain lady?’

  Paternoster blushed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  Another glance. ‘Did you climb out from under a rock, Niall?’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Eden’s gone missing. The spouse or partner is always a prime suspect if you watch any crime show. And I read in the papers long ago that eighty per cent of all murders are committed by a spouse or immediate member of the family. The police aren’t stupid – it’s not going to take them long to connect you and your mistress.’

  ‘Girlfriend.’

  Tuckwell nodded. ‘Is she wealthy?’

  ‘No, but she does all right.’

  They were only a few minutes away from his house now.

  ‘Well, isn’t there a motive right there? You’re having an affair with a woman, neither of you have loads of money. Your wife owns the nice house you live in and has independent wealth. Suddenly she disappears. And you have got a bit of a temper on you, mate. Remember decking me when you were pissed that night at the Deep Sea Anglers?’