by Peter James
Ten minutes later Call came back out, closing the door behind him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ve done a quick sweep; there are a number of things of interest. Firstly it looks as if some attempt has been made to clean the flat up. I’ve found cigarette butts and beer cans in the plastic bag left by the door. In fast time I’ve developed marks on two of the cans, which I’ve already sent off electronically to the fingerprint bureau. I’ve also swabbed the victim’s body.’
‘Good work, Alex. What about a mobile phone or laptop?’ Grace asked.
‘Not that I’ve come across so far.’
Grace frowned.
‘Could have been taken by her killer,’ Batchelor said.
‘A botched burglary, do you think, Guy?’
‘Possible.’
At that moment there was a ping, and the CSI pulled his tablet from his pocket and stared at the screen. ‘We have a match!’ he said. ‘From the prints on the cans.’
‘Oh?’ Grace replied.
Call looked at both detectives. ‘Corin Douglas Belling. That gives us a starting point.’
23
Thursday 21 April
If they made an arrest within hours of the murder being reported, it would not only reflect well on him, Grace thought, as he left the building. It would take any pressure off him having to explain his sudden absence for a few days.
If.
If they had the right person.
Corin Belling had violently assaulted his wife three times in the past year – at least, three times that the police were aware of, having been called by his wife. In all probability it was many times more than that, unreported. Such was the normal pattern. Abusers would assault their partners, then apologize and beg for forgiveness. Over and over. The average was, incredibly, forty assaults before the partner would contact the police. And still after then the assaults would continue. Until one day they went that bit too far.
There was a ton of questions he needed answering. The first was Lorna’s reason for having this flat. Did the husband know about it? Or rather, when had he found out about it? Was Lorna a secret smoker? If not, who had been using the ashtray? Corin? DNA might provide the answer if they could find any on the cigarette ends.
In the meantime they had the print match on the beer cans. Lorna’s husband, Corin.
Corin had been released from custody after his arrest earlier in the week for assaulting his wife.
Lorna had been renting the flat for over eighteen months – secretly, Grace presumed. Paying cash. Why? And why no phone? Or computer?
The obvious explanation was to give her a bolthole to escape from her husband when he became violent. Maybe she left her computer at home. Maybe also she left her phone. If the husband was a control freak there were any number of ways these days he could track her through her phone.
Another possibility that he’d already considered was a secret trysting place with a lover.
It was unlikely for her husband and her to have a place close to the seafront as a kind of weekend holiday home. But if that was the case, why would it have been in her name and why was she paying in cash, giving the landlord no other address?
He razored away that last explanation, leaving just the first two options.
The husband’s prints, clearly recent, on the cans of beer put him at the scene where she had been found dead.
Had he discovered her bolthole and gone there to confront her? Then turned violent? He looked at his watch. Time was running out on him. He wanted to break the news himself to the man, and see from his face and body language how he reacted.
Grace decided to go to the man’s workplace and talk to him. He was aware of the forensic considerations of going straight from a crime scene to a suspect, but in this case he judged there would be no cross-contamination issues.
Needing a collaborating officer for the questioning and potential arrest, he thought for some moments about who from his team was available, then called DS Exton, gave him the address and asked him to head straight there and meet him outside.
24
Thursday 21 April
Burgess Hill is a small but sprawling town a few miles to the north of Brighton, and Roy Grace always got lost there so, before setting off, he programmed the address into the Mondeo’s satnav.
Twenty minutes later, driving up Station Road, he was lost again as the satnav sent him on a detour back to the roundabout he had just crossed, and then down a dead end. Cursing, he turned round, pulled over, and entered the address into the Maps app on his personal iPhone, which he often found was more reliable. It showed his destination to be over a mile from where he currently was. ‘Great!’ he said aloud, annoyed.
A couple of minutes later he made a sharp left into the shopping precinct of Church Road, passed a large Specsavers shop on his left and turned right into yet another one-way system taking him out of the town. He drove through a network of streets, then finally, some minutes later, he passed a swanky Porsche dealership and, a short distance on, another sports car dealership displaying the name BAYROSS SUPERCARS, then entered a complex of modern, high-tech-designed industrial units. Almost at the far end, he saw to his right a two-storey building bearing the sign SOUTH DOWNS IT SOLUTIONS.
There was a black Ferrari, a grey Bentley Continental and a row of other high-end motors ranked outside, with an assortment of less exotic vehicles occupying most of the rest of the car-parking area. One vehicle he recognized, in a visitors’ parking space, was similar to his own, a silver unmarked Mondeo. He pulled alongside it, gave a wave of his hand to DS Exton who was seated inside it, on his phone, and climbed out.
Exton was one of the longest-standing members of his team and Grace liked him a lot. Tall, and normally neatly turned-out, he was a polite, incisive and highly observant detective, who missed little and was very popular with his colleagues. He was the kind of man, Grace always felt, you’d want to have covering your back in a tight corner.
Moments later, accompanied by Exton, he strode towards the main door and entered a smart reception area. There were sofas to his right and left, and a glamorous-looking young woman sitting behind a curved glass reception module, on the phone.
As they walked up to her she ended the call and gave them a smile.
‘We’d like to have a word with Corin Belling, who I believe works here.’
‘Yes he does – do you gentlemen have an appointment?’
Grace showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Exton from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.’
She looked at it carefully, then said, ‘Oh, right, one moment please.’ She handed them each a visitors’ pass form to fill in.
As Grace filled in his details and car registration he heard her on the phone. ‘David, there’s a Detective Superintendent Grace to see Corin. Right, thank you.’
She took the forms back, tore them off and folded each into a plastic holder with a lapel clip which she handed to them. ‘If you take a seat, someone will be along to take you to him.’
Grace sat down on a bright-green sofa, glancing at a neat display of computing magazines on a table in front of him, mentally comparing the neat, ordered feel of this place to the shabbiness of most police reception areas. Then he shot a glance at Exton. The lean detective was looking slightly scruffy today, he thought, surprised at his turnout. His charcoal suit could have done with a pressing, his cream shirt had several vertical creases in the collar and he had several days’ growth of stubble. Going for the modern look, he wondered? But Exton wasn’t the type – he was conservative, tidy, orderly.
As Grace was still pondering his uncharacteristic turnout, a long-haired man in his early thirties, in a black suit over a black T-shirt, cool glasses and trainers strode up towards them with a hand outstretched. ‘Hello, can I help you? I’m David Silverson, CEO.’
Grace stood up. ‘Thank you.’ He repeated his and Exton’s names and ranks.
‘Is something wrong? Something I could help
you with? Presume you know we’re working with your Cybercrime team at the moment,’ Silverson said.
‘I didn’t – but they’re good people.’
‘Terrific. We’re helping them out on a series of frauds on older people in Sussex.’
‘This is a separate issue,’ Grace replied. ‘We’d like to have a word with an employee of yours, Corin Belling.’
Silverson looked uncomfortable. ‘Is this to do with the issue he had earlier this week?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say. Was he at work yesterday?’
‘He was working from home yesterday – we have a flexible policy here. Would you like me to give you a private conference room?’
Grace thought for a moment, then decided he’d like to surprise the man and not give him a chance to think. ‘No, actually, we’d like to see him in situ in his office.’
‘Sure – come with me, I’ll take you up.’
The detectives followed the CEO up a flight of stairs, into a huge, partly open-plan office with several small offices off it. Around forty people, Grace estimated, all in their twenties and thirties, were seated at desks, almost all concentrating hard on their screens.
‘That’s him over there,’ Silverson said, pointing to a small glass-walled office at the far end. He led them down towards it. Inside was a sullen-looking, lanky man in his late thirties, with a mane of fair hair that fell across his forehead and a sly face with thin lips, who was swigging from a can of Coke. His suit jacket was slung over the back of his chair and his shirt collar was unbuttoned, his tie slack.
‘Corin, there are two police officers to see you,’ the CEO said, and ushered them in.
Grace entered first, followed by Exton, who closed the door.
‘It’s Mr Belling, is that correct?’
‘What of it?’
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Exton. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about your wife.’
The man’s eyes flashed up, warily, at them. ‘Is this about the argument the other night? I’m not going to prison, I’m not going to be locked up over this or lose my job over that bitch.’
Without warning he swung his arms across the desk, sending the Coke can flying, spewing out its contents, pushed his chair back, barged past the two detectives, flung open the door and ran out.
Grace, followed by Exton, gave chase. Belling disappeared through a door marked FIRE EXIT. They reached it a few seconds later. Grace heard steps below him and ran down. As he did he heard a clang, followed by the wail of a fire siren. Moments later, reaching the ground floor, he saw a heavy fire door swing shut. He pushed it open and saw Corin Belling sprinting across the car park. He ran after him, shouting over his shoulder to Exton to radio for backup.
Belling glanced behind him, clocked him, then increased his pace even more. Grace increased his, wishing he wasn’t wearing a sodding suit and boots. He followed the man out onto the road that threaded through the industrial estate, past several industrial units, gaining on the bastard. Gaining on him with every step. Every few moments Belling threw a backwards glance.
I’m going to sodding get you.
Grace hadn’t chased a suspect since his accident, but he was reasonably fit from his regular jogging. Except his right leg was starting to hurt. He put it out of his mind – he didn’t care, the pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting this creep with his floppy hair and thin lips and penchant for beating up, strangling and murdering his wife.
He was gaining.
Gaining.
Past the Bayross Supercars forecourt and on. They were reaching the Porsche dealership.
Ran on past it.
Closer.
Closer.
Approaching the main road. Traffic was coming down it in both directions.
Belling threw another glance and stared right into the whites of Grace’s eyes.
Just a yard between them now.
Half a yard!
In his days of playing rugby, Roy Grace had been on the wing because he was fast. As president of the police rugby team, he had stood on the touchlines of numerous games. He still knew what to do and how and when to do it.
Now!
He launched himself shoulders first at the man’s waist, arms round his midriff, then pulled him into his body, squeezing hard and twisting his upper body. He continued pulling and pushing until Belling began to fall, with himself crashing down on top of him.
Before the man had time to react, Grace grabbed his right arm and pulled it up behind his back in a half nelson.
‘Get the fuck off me!’ the man screamed.
‘Corin Douglas Belling, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘Murder? What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Your wife’s dead, and we believe you may have killed her,’ Grace said, pulling out his handcuffs with his free hand.
Like a serpent, Corin Belling twisted, breaking free of Grace’s grip, and a fist slammed, agonizingly, into the detective’s face, momentarily stunning him.
25
Thursday 21 April
Guy Batchelor continued his assessment of the crime scene, reminded all the time of Roy Grace’s words.
Assume nothing. Believe no one. Check everything.
Clear the ground under your feet.
Every contact leaves a trace.
Think the unthinkable.
The unthinkable.
A beautiful woman lay dead in a bathtub just a few feet away. From the marks round her neck it seemed someone had tried to strangle her. A hairdryer in the tub.
Think the unthinkable.
Had the husband killed her? Too obvious.
How had the hairdryer ended up in the bath?
Think the unthinkable.
If not the husband, who? Could she have hated someone so much she’d made it look as if someone had tried to strangle her, then committed suicide?
Unthinkable?
The fury of a woman scorned?
A history of being abused by her husband, dead in a secret bolthole. Had Belling done it or, perhaps, had he been fitted up?
26
Thursday 21 April
Roy Grace saw, through his haze of pain, the bastard running away. Belling was a hundred yards ahead of him, maybe more. He clambered, shakily, to his feet. His nose was hurting. Busted? That would be the third time in his career. But right now that wasn’t important. One thing and one thing only mattered. That fucker, Corin Belling.
Glancing round, he saw Exton lumbering towards him, speaking urgently on his phone. He broke into a loping trot, then stepped it up into a sprint. His eyes were watering. He was going to catch that wife-beating shit.
Going to catch him.
That bully boy.
Murderer.
He increased his pace. Faster. Faster. His right leg felt as if it was on fire, but he ignored the pain, running on through it. They were beside a main road now, heading towards a roundabout. There was a wide grass verge on either side. Corin Belling ran straight across it, onto the island, right in front of a motorcycle which had to swerve to avoid him, then on again, across to the far side, passing a sign that read BRIGHTON A23.
On along the road.
Grace took the same route, racing across in front of a lorry with blaring horn. His chest was hurting. His nose was agony. His leg was throbbing.
He blanked it all.
He was going to get the bastard. Going to get him. Going to see him in court.
Corin sodding Belling, you are breathing your last gulps of air as a free man for the next twenty years. Enjoy them, savour them, you miserable little wife-abusing murderous shit.
He was gaining on him.
Could see the man’s shirt stuck to his back with perspiration.
Perspiring f
rom fear.
The pain in his right leg was fading. So was the pain in his chest. His speed was increasing.
Increasing.
The gap between them closing.
Fifty yards.
Thirty yards.
Twenty yards.
Corin Belling shot a glance over his shoulder.
Ten yards.
Five yards.
Another glance over his shoulder. His expression utter defiance. He turned sharp right, and raced back across the road, right across the path of a lorry bearing down on him.
The lorry blocked any view of the yellow Lamborghini that was overtaking it.
It was being driven by a potential customer of Bayross Supercars, the salesman encouraging him, as he said later in court, ‘To give it some wellie!’
The client was giving it wellie all right. The car was doing, so the officer from the Collision Investigation Unit established later, 85 mph at the time of impact. In a 40-mph zone.
27
Thursday 21 April
Grace stopped in his tracks, staring in disbelief. He heard the scream of tyres. Saw Belling cartwheeling up over the bonnet of the car, smashing into the windscreen, then hurtling thirty feet, maybe higher, into the air, clothes shedding from him, two long, broken sticks each flying off in different directions.
Vehicles swerved, brakes squealing.
There was a thud, like a sack of potatoes dropped from a great height.
Then a moment of utter silence.
For an instant it was as if someone had pressed a freeze-frame button on a video.
Momentarily numb with shock, Grace looked at the scene in front of him, trying to absorb it.
The blue sky. The wide, well-kept road. The surface so black it might recently have been painted. Cars, a grey van, a man in Lycra on a bicycle, all stopped, many at strange angles as if some unseen hand was playing with a giant set of Dinky Toys and hadn’t quite figured out where to put all the vehicles.
Then he saw a young man run to the middle of the road, towards the half-naked, crumpled heap, from where a long, dark stain of blood was spreading. He saw the man stop, turn away and throw up. Grace’s head was spinning.