Left You Dead

by James, Peter

  ‘Was it serious, do you think?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I asked her about this. She said there were times when he’d been violent before, where he threatened to kill her – particularly around the time his business went bust. She said his mood swings frightened her.’

  Branson said, ‘So he was in turmoil. Perhaps he saw her doing well in her career and resented that she was now the bread-winner? That’s ugly.’

  ‘When we interviewed him, he struck us as being pretty macho, the kind of man who might resent the little woman doing better than himself. A big ego?’ Grace probed.

  She gave a thawing smile. ‘From what Eden told me, that’s a pretty accurate assessment.’

  ‘How frightened was she by these mood swings?’ Grace asked.

  ‘She was scared – very scared.’

  ‘But she was never scared enough to go to the police?’ he continued.

  Jill Riddle looked at each officer in turn, then laid her palms flat on the surface of her desk. ‘All too often in my experience, officers, it isn’t that people in abusive relationships, both male and female, are not scared enough to go to the police,’ she said. ‘It’s that they are too scared to go.’

  97

  Monday 9 September

  Back outside on the pavement in the bright sunshine, the lunchtime crowds out on the streets, enjoying the last few weeks of the summer rays, Glenn Branson said, ‘That’s something I seriously was not expecting – that she’s in – or was in – a relationship with her boss.’ He pulled his shades out of his jacket pocket and put them on.

  Roy Grace looked nonplussed. ‘In this job, always expect the unexpected.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Remember that and you’ll seldom be disappointed.’

  Branson pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘And didn’t your old mate Nick Sloan once say, “No matter what happens, at the end of each month the golden goose will shit into your bank account”?’

  Grace grinned. ‘I miss his humour.’ Instantly, he looked serious again. ‘Eden’s in a relationship with her boss and her boss is in a relationship with her husband. It’s all a bit Jeremy Kyle, don’t you think?’

  Branson glanced at his big, loud watch. ‘Ten to one – want to grab a quick bite before we head back to the office?’

  The Detective Superintendent checked his more modest watch, too. ‘Are you thinking healthy or a carb fest?’

  Branson looked wounded. He patted his six-pack midriff. ‘Healthy.’

  ‘But not too healthy, eh?’ Grace suggested.

  They ended up, a few minutes later, perched on stools in a sandwich bar, Branson munching on a vegan wrap and Grace a tuna one with a bag of crisps on the side. Branson drank bottled water and Grace a Diet Coke.

  ‘Too scared to go to the police,’ Grace pondered.

  ‘Yep,’ Branson said, through a mouthful of food. ‘Too scared of what their partners might do when they found out. Or too scared of being on their own, on the shelf. That’s what abusive bastards do, isn’t it? They destroy their other half’s self-esteem to the point where they believe they are such rubbish human beings that no one else would ever want them. So they stay on in the relationship, in some kind of desperation, rather than risk being alone for the rest of their lives. What’s the stat? Something like the average person in an abusive relationship endures an assault thirty-nine times before going for help.’

  ‘That’s about it, very sadly.’ Grace tore open the bag of crisps and passed it to Branson, who shook his head dismissively.

  ‘I don’t eat crisps – you shouldn’t either, they’re bad for your body.’

  Grace watched his friend then dig his hand into the bag and scoop out almost half the contents, shovelling them into his mouth. He grinned and raised his eyebrows.

  A woman, wearing light blue earbuds, sat down on the stool to Grace’s right, placing her phone in front of her. With a sly glance, Grace could see she was listening to a talking book, Humankind. Taking a bite of his wrap, he chewed, thinking hard. Swallowing and lowering his voice, he said, ‘Eden confides about her brutal husband to Rebecca Watkins – who is clearly in a failing relationship with her own husband. They become lovers. Then, at some point, Rebecca Watkins starts a relationship with Eden’s husband. What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘Eden Paternoster falls in love with Rebecca Watkins,’ said Branson, his voice discreetly low, barely above a murmur. ‘She feels secure enough to leave Rebecca all her money. In the interim, Eden has been moving her assets into an overseas company controlled by nominee directors. Emily Denyer’s working on establishing who actually owns and controls that company, and I’m betting on Eden Paternoster and Rebecca Watkins.’

  ‘I’d bet with you. So Rebecca Watkins has pulled a flanker? Has she conspired with Niall Paternoster?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be the most outlandish scheme we’ve ever come across, would it, boss?’

  Grace drank some of his Diet Coke. ‘No. But there’s a bit missing.’

  ‘What bit?’

  ‘The missing bit.’ He took another bite of his wrap.

  Branson gave him a quizzical look. ‘You’ve gone cryptic on me.’

  ‘It’s the bit between charming Rebecca Watkins becoming passionate lover and future life partner to Eden Paternoster, and her getting up close and personal with Eden’s husband. How did that happen? Why did that happen? Who is driving this? Rebecca Watkins or Niall Paternoster?’

  Grace’s job phone rang. He answered and heard Mark Taylor’s voice.

  ‘Sir, subject’s on the move. We’ve been tracking him north out of Brighton and heading into Croydon. Looks like he’s going to the industrial estate where Mutual Occidental Insurance are based.’

  ‘For a spot of nooning?’

  ‘Could well be, sir.’

  ‘Thanks for the update.’

  ‘I’ll keep you posted. And I just wanted to say I’m very sorry, sir, that we’re again being redeployed this evening back to the drugs job, Operation Cockerel. But we will still be with you until 6 p.m. We’re glad to give you this extra day and we’re hopeful we’ll be back with you full-time later in the week.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Mark.’

  Ending the call, Branson frowned at him. ‘Nooning? What’s that?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot you’ve led a sheltered life.’

  ‘Haha.’

  Grace brought him up to speed with Taylor’s report, adding, ‘It means having an illicit lunchtime liaison.’

  ‘Ah.’ He dug into Grace’s crisps and ate most of the rest of the packet. Munching on them, he said, ‘Just saving you from yourself.’

  ‘I appreciate your altruism.’

  ‘I’m all heart.’ Then Branson frowned. ‘OK, so no surprise they are meeting at lunchtimes. Rebecca has a husband expecting her home after work. To me, the big question in all of this is where does Eden Paternoster fit in?’

  ‘Or where did she?’ Grace posited darkly.

  They’d finished their food and the place was getting increasingly rammed. ‘Let’s head back and talk outside,’ Grace said, and drained his drink.

  As they walked up Church Street towards the car park, Grace, who had been silent for some minutes said, ‘We’ve had our share of femme fatale characters in the past, haven’t we? Ashley Harper and Jodie Bentley spring to mind.’

  ‘We sure have. Think this is what we’re dealing with here?’

  Entering the car park, Branson inserted the ticket into one of the pay machines, followed by his credit card. The area was deserted. ‘It is interesting that Rebecca Watkins made no mention of this relationship when we interviewed her at headquarters. She appears to be cunning and resourceful.’

  ‘She is.’

  Collecting his ticket, they walked up the three flights of stone stairs to the level where they were parked. Grace waited until they were in the privacy of their car before continuing. But he was interrupted by another call from Taylor. He put it on speaker.

  ‘An
update, sir. Subject is out of his car, walking down the street, holding hands with Rebecca Watkins.’

  ‘Sweet,’ Grace commented.

  ‘Orman is parked up close – looks like they might be heading somewhere for lunch. When we get the location, she’ll go in.’

  ‘Good work, Mark.’ Ending the call, he turned back to Branson. ‘So which came first, the chicken or the egg?’

  His colleague frowned. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Was Rebecca Watkins already having an affair with Eden’s husband, and they hatched a scheme between them for Rebecca to seduce Eden and become her lover, get her to change her will and then kill her, making it look like she’d disappeared?’

  ‘The flaw in that, as I see it, boss, is how would Rebecca know that Eden would be up for being seduced?’

  ‘Fair point,’ Grace said. ‘Maybe it only started as a friendship and they became closer? I don’t know, it’s just another hypothesis. But it seems to me that we have two people in deteriorating relationships – Niall Paternoster and Rebecca Watkins. We know from Emily Denyer’s investigations that Niall Paternoster is skint, apart from the small change he makes as a taxi driver.’ He paused. ‘With me so far?’

  ‘I’m on your bus.’

  Grace smiled and went on. ‘Rebecca and Niall are lovers. Niall’s wife has a considerable net worth. Somehow, whatever Eden Paternoster’s proclivity, Rebecca Watkins succeeds in seducing her, and then taking it further, to the point where they are planning a future life together – at least, in Eden’s mind. Rebecca convinces Eden to move all her assets out of Niall’s reach and, for extra security, she gets her to change her will in her favour. Then Rebecca plots with Niall to murder Eden, making it look like she has simply disappeared. But Niall has screwed it all up, leaving a trail of evidence.’

  ‘But they’ve still been smart enough to dispose of Eden’s remains, leaving us with a “no body” murder investigation – perhaps aware how hard they are to prove. Remember all those crime novels and true crime DVDs in their house?’

  ‘I reckoned we had enough evidence on her husband, until the will popped up,’ Grace said. ‘But, of course, it provides another motive if he knew about this more recent will.’

  ‘Do you think we might have enough for the CPS to consider a “conspiracy to murder” charge against both Paternoster and Watkins?’

  Grace shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  His phone rang once more. It was Taylor again. ‘Sir, subject and Rebecca Watkins have entered a pub. Orman’s only two minutes away and is going there now.’

  Ending the call, Grace shook his head. This was the level of professional surveillance he needed for this case. Hopefully Orman would get a line of sight on the couple and be able to lip-read their conversation. ‘Pewe,’ he said. ‘What a bloody idiot.’

  Sure, he understood that, as the overall head of Major Crime for Sussex Police, Pewe had to make decisions on deploying his limited resources. But drugs came down from Liverpool all the time – the docks were a major point of entry for them into the country. You’d bust one lot and another supply chain would take their place. But this was a potential murder, one he felt close to cracking, and the ACC had taken away his most valuable resource. At least, a small win, he’d been able to get them for today.

  Branson gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I don’t know how he’s got to where he is. His entire career, he just seems to have failed upwards. Where does he go next – Chief Constable or Commissioner of the Met?’

  Jail, hopefully, Grace thought, but did not say. Other than to Cleo, he’d not breathed a word about the evidence he had against the ACC. Maybe this would be the last time Pewe would mess things up for him, he hoped. But he was getting increasingly concerned that no action, as yet, had happened against the man, and he was starting to have doubts. Had he made a big mistake, trusting the word of a disgraced former officer, no matter that they had once been friends? Had he been stupid to ignore Cleo’s warning that this could all backfire on him? Professional Standards normally acted swiftly to suspend an officer if there was any whiff of suspicion – but now eight days had gone by since he had given the information to Alison Vosper. Although, of course, they would need to secure the evidence before taking any action.

  Could he have made the biggest mistake of his career?

  ‘Still with us?’ Branson asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

  Grace smiled. ‘At the moment, yes.’

  98

  Monday 9 September

  Rebecca Watkins and Niall Paternoster sat, side by side, on a curved banquette in a corner booth of the rammed Green Dragon on Croydon High Street. Rebecca had in front of her a half-eaten plate of prawn salad and Niall a beef-and-mushroom pie. He raised his pint glass, which he had nearly drained, and clinked her glass of white wine. ‘To the future!’

  ‘To our future,’ she corrected.

  ‘To our future!’

  They clinked glasses again and locked eyes. Niall’s right leg pressed tightly against her left. They were so absorbed in each other that neither of them noticed the lean woman with long hair, wearing ripped jeans and a lightweight jacket, who was standing at the bar, drinking a lime and soda and picking at a sandwich, who kept glancing in their direction and then making notes in what looked like her diary.

  ‘How’s your week looking?’ Rebecca asked.

  ‘Pretty dull – so long as I’m not rearrested for my beloved wife’s non-murder. Otherwise I’m free all week.’ He gave her a cheeky look. ‘Do you have something in mind?’

  Her hand was sliding provocatively down between his legs and pressing against his crotch. ‘Hmmn, maybe,’ she said, nudging up closer to him. ‘I have the thing I’m holding in my hand very much in my mind.’

  After a quick glance around, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘And I have you very much in my mind.’

  She squeezed him a little harder and he gasped. ‘We have our annual sales conference this week, at the Grand in Eastbourne. Hubby’s not coming, of course, he’s away. I have to make a presentation on Thursday afternoon, then put in an appearance at the dinner – but I thought, if you’re up for it, we could have ourselves a cosy rendezvous late night after I’ve escaped.’

  ‘Like, your hotel room?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too many work people around. I’ll have a think. Somewhere wild, crazy, deeply romantic.’

  The erotic tingling inside him was so strong, Niall could barely speak. ‘I like it.’

  ‘I’ll text you. Late night, somewhere where there won’t be anyone around. I can put the rear seats of the Rangey flat. You bring a bottle of Prosecco and glasses?’

  ‘What sort of time?’

  ‘Whenever I can get away without being rude. Probably be near to midnight. Does that sound like a plan?’

  He winced as she stroked him. ‘It sounds like a very good plan.’

  ‘The best plan you ever heard in your life?’

  ‘Even better.’

  After a discreet glance around, checking there were none of her colleagues about, she kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’d better be there.’

  99

  Monday 9 September

  There was now a fourth whiteboard behind Roy Grace in the conference room. It was labelled Rebecca Watkins. Two photographs of her taken through long lenses, and another of her and Niall Paternoster walking on the street, captured by the Surveillance Team, were stuck to it. Below them was a partially filled-in association chart, showing her known network of family and other contacts.

  It was 5 p.m. Grace looked up from his notes at the crowded table. ‘This is the twelfth briefing of Operation Lagoon, and we have some significant developments. The first is that, unfortunately, our Surveillance Team has again been temporarily redeployed, but they’re leaving the tracker in place beneath Niall Paternoster’s rental Fiesta.’ He turned to Alexander. ‘Jack, I’m giving you the action of arranging the monitoring of all movements of his vehicle until we get the Surveillance Team back.’<
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  ‘I’m on it, sir, and I’m sharing with all the team.’ Addressing them, Alexander said, ‘You’ll each be able to track any movements on your computer and phone screens.’

  DC Boutwood raised her hand. ‘Yes, EJ?’ Grace said.

  ‘Sir, why have they been redeployed at such a critical point?’

  ‘I’m sure ACC Pewe would be happy to explain, EJ.’ He shrugged. ‘Resources – I’m afraid it is what it is, and we have to get on with it.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad you understand, EJ,’ Norman Potting grumbled. He turned to Grace. ‘Resources – is that shorthand for being dumped on from a great height, chief?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment, Norman,’ Grace replied with a thin smile. ‘I’ll leave you to form your own conclusions, but we do get the team back later in the week.’

  Potting shook his head, making a tutting sound. Ignoring him, Grace continued. ‘I’ve called this briefing earlier than usual because I particularly wanted to have Sharon Orman here this afternoon before we lose her valuable skills. Orman, as some of you know, has developed a formidable lip-reading ability. Around 1 p.m. today she followed Niall Paternoster and Rebecca Watkins into a pub in Croydon, where she was able to observe them from a safe distance and pick up most of their conversation.’ He turned towards her. ‘Sharon, could you tell us what you saw after you entered the Green Dragon pub?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, then read from her notebook, ‘Niall Paternoster was in a corner booth with Rebecca Watkins. They were sitting intimately close, eating lunch. He raised his glass of beer and clinked her wine glass and said, “To the future!” Rebecca corrected him, “To our future”. Niall then repeated the toast. “To our future”.’