by Peter James
‘Good thinking. Did you get up to anything else?’
‘I thought he might like to get to know the area a bit and we could take a drive around, but he told me he’d agreed to play an online game with Erik. Then – this is interesting – when I was working on my uni stuff, Bruno was up in his room and Noah started crying. I left it for a few minutes, then, when I went up to calm him down, he’d stopped by the time I got to the top of the stairs. When I went into his room Bruno was standing by his cot, spinning his mobile and blowing raspberries – and Noah was giggling. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘It is. That’s really good.’
‘Maybe he’s never really had a proper family life before. But it was lovely to see him with his little half-brother. He really looked quite besotted with him.’
‘It’s a good sign. Terrific.’
‘One thing that I do know, Roy, is that we’re going to have to do something about the bathroom now we’re a bigger family – or if we can afford it, build the extension we’ve been thinking about with an additional one. It’s been a bit of a nightmare this weekend with everyone trying to get ready at the same time.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Bruno seems to spend an awfully long time in the bathroom – especially for a boy. He’s obviously meticulous but it’s not great when I’m trying to get ready and sort Noah out as well.’
‘Perhaps we could have an en suite fitted and leave the existing one for the kids and guests?’ he suggested. ‘Or one upstairs for Bruno – there is space up in the loft.’
‘I’ve already been in contact with a bathroom company called Starling Row – the Porsche guy down the lane recommended them earlier – they’re a small Sussex firm apparently – I’ve arranged for them to come and do a site visit next week, to give us some options.’
‘Good thinking,’ he said.
‘So how was your day?’
‘Interesting – to put it mildly. But the positive is that Guy Batchelor is handling his new role well, which is giving me a bit more time to get on with all the pre-trial paperwork I have to deal with.’
‘Good, darling. I didn’t think you’d be home until much later so I told Bruno I’d take him to Wickwoods for a swim. Do you want to come with us? Maybe you could try the sauna and see if it helps your leg.’
‘Sure, good idea. I’m sure Noah would love it too.’
She nodded. ‘Oh, there’s one other thing – that American band you like – Blitzen Trapper?’
‘Yes?’
‘I read in the Argus they’re doing a gig in a pub on Queens Road, Brighton, next Sunday evening. Do you think you might be able to avoid working then?’
They were his current favourite band. ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ he retorted.
‘Is Luxembourg small?’
He hugged her again. ‘Yes! How do we get tickets?’
‘I’ve already booked them – online. And I’ve booked Kaitlynn.’
Kaitlynn Defelice was their nanny – a Californian currently living over here, who they both liked a lot, and even more importantly, trusted. The only issue, for Roy Grace, was a silver ring through her right nostril. But she had such a warm, engaging personality that he dismissed any problem he had over that, putting it down to a youth culture he was too old to understand.
‘I knew there was a reason why I loved you,’ he said.
‘Only one?’
54
Sunday 24 April
Half an hour later, Roy Grace in the fancy Gresham Blake swimming trunks with guns on them that Cleo had given him for his last birthday, and a towel slung round his neck, was perched on a lounger beside the large indoor pool at Wickwoods, watching Cleo and Bruno doing lengths. Noah was asleep beside him in his pushchair, breathing steadily, seemingly unfussed by the activity around.
They had the place to themselves. Cleo, in a turquoise swimming cap, was doing a steady backstroke, while Bruno, wearing goggles, did a powerful crawl, ripping past her as if his life depended on it. He reached the end and did a fancy flip turn, then raced past her in the opposite direction. He would ask Bruno sometime to teach him how to do those turns, which he had never got the hang of.
After ten minutes, Cleo climbed back out of the pool. ‘Darling, I’m done,’ she said. ‘Go to the sauna, I’ll sit with Noah.’
‘OK, thanks. Oh – I meant to ask you, how do you change the clock on your Audi? Do you know how to put it forward an hour?’
She shook her head. ‘Dunno! I just leave it – for six months every year it tells the right time!’
Grinning at her logic, he headed towards the sauna, pulled open the door and entered the blast of heat.
Laying out his towel, he sat down on it, grabbed the wooden ladle, spooned up some water and tipped it onto the electric brazier. Instantly there was a burst of steam and the temperature rose. He repeated the action, then leaned back, soaking up the heat, breaking into a sweat within moments.
His mind returned to work. To Operation Bantam. And to the caseload of trials looming up. Brighton’s first serial killer in some years, the vile Dr Crisp, the man who had shot him – the reason why he was in this sauna now, to try to relieve the pain. Jodie Bentley, the black widow, whom he knew for sure had been targeting and murdering a whole series of rich elderly men – but he could not be certain, from the evidence he had so far, of getting a conviction. He had a lot of work to do on this case. And with both of these he had the shadow of ACC Cassian Pewe hanging over him.
And now he had Lorna Belling’s suspicious death. Suicide was still a possibility, given her history with domestic violence. But there was an increasing list of suspects. Her dead psycho husband, Corin. Creepy Seymour Darling, the pissed-off and very dubious character who had been buying her car. Her newest acquaintance, Kipp Brown, whose involvement was yet to be determined.
He thought about Corin Belling. Certainly he had a history of escalating violence against her. She had lived dangerously, renting a flat – as a bolthole, or as a secret trysting place with her lovers? But letting the puppies out onto the street – that sounded like a message to her – something he wanted her to see, another nasty way of getting at her. If he had killed her, what would have been the point in doing that?
Gail Sanders, a counsellor he had spoken to earlier at RISE, told him that in her view, Lorna Belling had been playing with fire, apparently renting a place in secret. Discovering it could well have been enough to tip her husband over the edge. Corin Belling at this point had to be their strongest suspect, although pathetic and nasty Seymour Darling ticked a lot of boxes. They would know more about Kipp Brown when he was questioned.
Grace was glad that Glenn Branson would be back at work tomorrow. He was missing his mate, and he needed his help with the trial cases.
How well did any of us know anyone? He thought about Jon Exton. The DS had not convinced him when they had spoken earlier that all was OK. He was certain there was something troubling him, and he needed to get to the bottom of it. Then he returned to his thoughts to the case.
Was he missing something? The obvious that was staring him in the face?
Shit, it was getting hot in here. He had always been slightly claustrophobic, and this tiny sauna, with the misted-up window in the wooden door in front of him, and the searing heat, making it harder and harder to breathe, was getting to him.
He stood up, pushed the door. It did not move. Shit. He pushed harder and it still did not move. The heat felt like it was searing his skin and his lungs, and he felt panicky. He pushed even harder, and suddenly the door swung open, a cooling blast of air greeting him. Stepping out with relief, he pushed it shut behind him. He’d tell the receptionist the door needed looking at – someone less strong could easily get stuck in there.
There was a small, square plunge pool ahead of him, with a warning sign advising that people with a heart condition should consult their doctor before using it.
Holding his breath, he jumped into it.
Hoooooollllllllyyyy shit!
He was
shivering as his head bobbed to the surface.
It felt like he had jumped into a vat of acid.
But he hung on in there. The cold biting away at him, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He hauled himself out and hurried back into the retreat of the sauna cabin, pulling the wooden door shut behind him again, but not quite so tightly this time.
As he sat back down on his now hot towel, he suddenly realized that his right leg wasn’t aching any more.
Result!
He ladled more water onto the brazier, and lay back, eyes shut, as the steam exploded all around him. Within minutes it became unbearable.
But he stuck it out.
This is doing me good. Doing me good. This is doing me good. Doing me good.
Until he couldn’t take it any longer.
He pushed the door, and to his surprise, even though he’d not shut it so hard, again it did not budge. He charged it with his shoulder, bursting through it, hurried through the changing room and jumped into the deep end of the pool.
Like a fish in its element, Bruno did a flip turn right beside him, and powered away towards the far end.
Grace swallowed a mouthful of lightly chlorinated water, spluttered and coughed. By the time he had gained enough equilibrium to start swimming, Bruno had turned again and shot past him. But he barely noticed, he was so deep in thought.
Every killer had a motive.
Corin Belling was a seriously twisted individual.
Seymour Darling had a sick wife. He believed Lorna Belling had screwed him out of the money he had paid for her car. Was that really enough of a motive to kill her?
Kipp Brown was the wild card. What might his motive have been?
Suicide? That was another possibility. But Lorna Belling had no history of suicide attempts.
Just what was he missing here, in all this mix?
Something.
All his instincts were telling him he was missing something.
The obvious.
It might be staring him in the face, but he couldn’t see it.
He thought back, as he often did when stuck, to the words of Arthur Conan Doyle – through the mouth of Sherlock Holmes: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’
The truth; Grace made a mental note. Then another: the improbable.
Bruno once more flip-turned past him, with an expression of grim determination, and powered away towards the far end of the pool. As if he was racing ahead of an unseen demon.
Lorna Belling. What demon killed you? One of the men in your life, or your own private, internal demon?
55
Monday 25 April
The electric wrought-iron gates slid open. When there was just enough of a space to squeeze through, Kipp Brown, impatiently revving the engine of his matt-black 911, tugged the paddle and the car moved forward towards the clogged morning rush-hour traffic on Dyke Road Avenue.
There was a gap between a white van and a shitty little Hyundai. The moment the Hyundai driver saw the nose of the Porsche, he moved to close the gap.
‘Tosser!’ Brown said, and pulled straight out, turning sharply left, causing the Hyundai to brake. The angry man at the wheel gave him a long blast of the horn. Some people hated Porsches but they didn’t want a collision with one and the hike in their insurance forever after.
‘Dad!’ his wuss of a son, Mungo, admonished.
As the Hyundai driver hooted again, angrily, Brown raised two fingers, making them clearly visible through the rear windscreen.
‘What?’ Brown challenged.
‘That was dangerous, we could have had an accident.’
He tousled his son’s dark-brown hair. Mungo shrank away from him.
‘You know what, old chap? Life’s dangerous. None of us get out alive.’
‘Yeah, well, we could have been killed just then.’
‘By a shit-heap doing ten miles an hour? I don’t think so.’
‘You’re a crazy driver.’
‘Fine, you’d rather walk to school? Be my guest – want me to pull over?’
‘Jeez!’
‘Jeez? What’s with Jeez? You’re not in America, you’re in England. That what they teach you at Brighton College?’
‘You know what, Dad, you’re an idiot.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. You’re making me late for school, again.’
‘We’d be even later if I hadn’t pulled out like that.’
Ignoring him, Mungo peered down at his phone, tapping the keys furiously. His father glanced down and saw he was on Snapchat. He saw the words ‘road rage’, accompanied by a scowling emoji. Then his own phone rang. It was his PA.
‘Yes, Claire?’ he answered on the hands-free.
‘When will you be in?’ she asked.
‘When Brighton and Hove council stop digging up every sodding road in the city at the same time! Tomorrow. Or maybe the day after at the rate we’re moving. What’s up?’
‘I’ve just had Jay Allan on the phone. He says he’s been offered a mortgage rate of .75 per cent below ours fixed for five years from another IFA.’
‘From who?’
‘Well, he was reluctant to say but I managed to get it out of him. Skerritts.’
‘Bloody Skerritts! That’s the third time in the past week they’ve undercut us.’
‘He wants to know if we can better it.’
‘Remind me of the value of the property?’
‘2.5 million.’
‘Tell him to piss off.’ He hung up.
His son looked up at him reproachfully.
‘What?’ he said, staring daggers at him.
Mungo shrugged and tapped on his phone again.
Thirty minutes later, and twenty minutes late for the start of school, Kipp Brown on the phone again, negotiating another mortgage deal, pulled up outside the grand, neo-Gothic front entrance of the school. His son shook his head at him, grabbed his rucksack from the rear seat and ran off through the archway.
Moments later, as he pulled away, shouting down the phone at a total twat at the North and Western Mercantile Bank, and pulling out a pack of cigarettes – his son didn’t like him smoking, nor did his other two kids, nor his wife, but he sure needed one now – Brown saw the blue flashing lights of a police car in his mirror. He pulled over to the kerb to let the car pass, but instead it slowed, pulling in behind him, flashing its headlights twice at him and giving him a whup-whup on its siren.
He halted the car, terminating the call abruptly in mid-sentence, then slid down his window as a uniformed traffic officer approached from the BMW, straightening his cap.
‘I was on hands-free,’ he said as the officer, a fair-haired man in his late thirties, knelt to peer in, moving his face close to his own, too close, sniffing his breath.
‘And I haven’t been drinking – I don’t drive my son to school drunk. Anything else I can do for you gentlemen?’
‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’ the officer said, politely.
‘No, it belongs to Bart Simpson – I’m his chauffeur. He’s in the back.’ He gave the officer a grin.
‘I see.’ The unsmiling officer stood up, walked round to the front of the car, then spoke into his radio. He returned to the driver’s door. ‘Where have you come from, sir?’
‘What is this? I’m really late for work.’
‘Where have you come from this morning, sir?’
‘Home.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Dyke Road Avenue.’
‘Can you give me your address?’
‘Wingate House, Dyke Road Avenue.’
‘And where are you heading, sir?’
‘To work.’
‘And where would that be, sir?’
‘My office, Kipp Brown Associates, Church Road, Hove. And I’m late – thanks to all the insane roadworks going on.’
The officer stood up and stepped away a few paces, speaking into his radio again.
‘Detective Inspector Batchelor and Detective Sergeant Exton,’ the older man said. ‘Would you mind stepping out of your vehicle and having a chat with us in our car, sir?’
‘What is this? I’m already late for work and I have a very busy day ahead in my office.’
‘Sir,’ Batchelor said firmly. ‘We can either have a chat in our car now, which shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, or we will have to ask you to accompany us to Brighton police station.’
‘Am I under arrest or something?’
‘No, sir, but if we have to arrest you, we will.’
‘Would somebody mind telling me just what this is about?’
‘We will do, if you step out, sir.’
Reluctantly, and angrily, Kipp Brown switched off the engine, climbed out then pressed the key fob to lock the doors, pointedly. ‘It’s a yellow line – I assume you’re not going to ticket me for parking here?’
‘No, sir, we won’t.’
Accompanied by the two detectives, he walked to the Ford and climbed into the back seat. Batchelor and Exton sat in the front, closed the doors and turned to face him.
‘Mr Brown,’ Batchelor said. ‘This may seem like an intrusion, but we have a very delicate situation here and we didn’t want to embarrass you, or cause you any problems by visiting you at your home yesterday, or your office today. So we thought this would be the best place to have a talk.’
Brown raised his hands in the air. ‘What do you need? An ISA? A new mortgage? Some advice on your police pension scheme?’
‘Police pension scheme? That’s another story,’ DS Exton said, bitterly. ‘Best not go there.’
‘I hear you guys got stuffed by the Tory government. Theresa May? She’s on a par with the Antichrist with you guys, right?’