by Peter James
Grace looked at him. ‘I’m sorry – who did you say, Norman?’
‘Arnie Crown. NotMuch.’
‘NotMuch?’
Potting nodded. ‘Yes, he’s very short – you know, chief. Not much cop.’
Branson and Grace both grinned. ‘Very good, Norman. So you’re planning to ruin any possible friendship we might have with the FBI?’
‘Actually, chief, he told me that was his nickname in the States.’
Grace looked at his watch. ‘OK.’ He turned to Potting. ‘You’ve done a great job, Norman. I’ll leave you and Guy to get on with everything. Make sure you get hold of Lorna’s appointment book.’
As the two detectives left his office, closing the door behind them, Grace said to Branson, ‘So what do you think?’
‘Four suspects, each with a rock solid motive. Her husband, Seymour Darling, Kipp Brown and now this Greg. And suicide still in the frame.’ Then seeing the Detective Superintendent’s quizzical look, he said, ‘What?’
Grace smiled.
‘Am I missing something?’
Grace shook his head. ‘Not you specifically. All of us, including me. We’re all missing something.’
‘Oh yes – what is it?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t bloody figured it out. It’s just a gut feeling – something’s not right.’
‘Not right?’
He was interrupted by his private phone ringing. It was Cleo.
Apologizing to Branson, he answered. ‘Hi!’
‘Can you talk?’ she asked.
‘I’m in a meeting. Anything urgent? How did it go at the school?’
‘They’ve accepted him! Bruno can start right away – I’m just sorting out his uniform now.’
‘That’s brilliant news – is he pleased?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Listen, I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’
‘Love you!’
Sheepishly, looking at Branson, he murmured, ‘Me too.’
As he ended the call, Branson asked, ‘What’s not right, Roy? What are we missing?’
Grace shoved the bundle of SIO files on Operation Bantam across to him. ‘Can you take a look through it for me with fresh eyes and see if you can find out?’
‘OK, sure. Want me to read it here or take it to my desk?’
‘Take it to your desk, bell me when you’ve finished.’
Branson looked at the thickness of the file. ‘In about three weeks?’
‘Try three hours.’
61
Monday 25 April
As the DI closed the door behind him, Grace sat and called Cleo back, but her phone went to voicemail. He left a message then sat quietly, thinking, ignoring the steady ping of incoming emails.
Few things in this imperfect world could ever be made perfect, or be made wholly right. But he knew in his heart that he always tried his damnedest. It had destroyed his first marriage to Sandy, and he hoped desperately it would never do the same for his second, to Cleo. But he knew equally from this career he had chosen, that however much he loved his family, there were always going to be times when, hard as it was on his private life, his work had to take priority.
Only occasionally, during rare moments of downtime when he had the opportunity to reflect, would he wonder whether, if he had known when he had chosen to work in Major Crime just what it would mean to his home life, might he have chosen a different career altogether – or at least a different area of policing? And always he came to the same answer. No, never. There was nothing in the world he would prefer to be doing. This job had almost chosen him – perhaps, he wondered sometimes, he had the same certainty about it as priests who had a calling. It felt like his destiny, and the principal reason he existed.
And this despite the knowledge that whilst the scales of justice hung from the statue on the roof of the Old Bailey, the Central Criminal Court, the crime and the punishment rarely balanced – especially when it came to murder. Sooner or later most murderers would be freed on licence. Killers might walk out of jail; but murder victims would never walk out of their final resting place.
In those moments of doubt, he would recall what he had learned at police college all those years back, when he had been training to be a detective. The FBI moral code on murder investigation, written by its first director, J. Edgar Hoover: ‘No greater honour will ever be bestowed on an officer, nor a more profound duty imposed on him, than when he or she is entrusted with the investigation of the death of a fellow human being.’
There was something else, incredibly wise, that Hoover had also once said, that Roy Grace agreed with: ‘The cure for crime is not the electric chair but the high chair.’
It wasn’t only the impact on his family life that got to him at times, it was all the bureaucracy that the police were saddled with these days. Sure, public accountability was important – police officers were, after all, public servants. But the extent to which they had to justify every action could be wearing. The current Independent Police Complaints Commission investigation into the death of Corin Belling would take hours, if not days, of his time and quite possibly lead to a hearing which, if it went the wrong way, could result in him being disciplined – or worse.
But for now he put that aside, focusing back on Lorna Belling. He wanted Guy Batchelor to remain as deputy SIO, but at the end of the day the ultimate responsibility rested with him, and if there was a screw-up, Cassian Pewe would be giving him short shrift for delegating to an inexperienced officer.
Thinking hard, he opened his notebook and picked up a pen from his desk. Four suspects. Plus a potential suicide as an alternative explanation. Corin Belling was a plausible suspect. As well as Seymour Darling – Mr Angry? Possible but unlikely – although clearly an irrational man, he could not be ruled out. Kipp Brown? An old flame who wanted more? What would he have had to gain by killing her? Lorna’s silence perhaps? OK, for a man in his position in society that could indeed be a motive. There were plenty of social studies that showed being a psychopath was one good qualification for succeeding in business. Kipp Brown displayed signs of psychopathy, for sure.
Suicide after discovering the bitter truth about the man who had promised her a future? Possible, too.
And now the new suspect, Greg. Mr Mystery Man. He needed to be found urgently and eliminated. Or not.
When you have eliminated the impossible . . .
He leaned forward and tapped his keyboard, calling up the Murder Investigation Manual. Then waited and waited. God, the sodding computer system could be so slow at times. It was a common frustration he shared with every member of Sussex Police – and with every officer he had ever met from any other force around the country. Just how ridiculously slow at times the computers could be. Another example of police bureaucracy – by the time decisions were made on a new system – often taking years – it was already archaic. And by the time it was installed and everyone had got their heads round it, systems had moved on a decade. And, of course, there was no budget to upgrade.
The Manual finally appeared and he navigated the index, clicking on MURDER INVESTIGATION MODEL.
Despite all his experience, Roy Grace was always aware of the dangers of being complacent. There were times when he felt the need to check and tick every box in order. Both to ensure he did not miss anything, but also to cover his back with Pewe.
First up on the list was Identify Suspects. He checked his entries in his Investigators’ Notebook, reading down the list; the reasons for each potential suspect, and the possibility of suicide.
Next came Intelligence Opportunities, which included house-to-house, CCTV and ANPR.
He updated the entries relating to the beer cans and cigarette butts, as well as Lorna’s phone, her possibly missing laptop, and the circuit board found in the flat.
Postmortem Forensics. The interim report from Theobald gave the cause of death as being: 1A. Head trauma. 1B. Electrocution. He also made a note that he was awaiting DNA results.
>
Crime Scene Assessment. He refreshed the details, noting the apparent missing picture on the wall.
Witness Search. He wrote a summary of Seymour Darling’s interview, and the further deployment of an outside enquiry team to do a house-to-house.
Victim Enquiries. He wrote a summary of Norman Potting’s interviews with Lorna’s friends.
Possible Motives. That filled two pages.
Media. He wrote down the appeals for information in the press release that had been put out to the Argus newspaper, the local television station, Latest TV, as well as Radio Sussex, Juice and the weekly Brighton & Hove Independent.
The final item was Other Significant Critical Actions. He checked through the details of his attempt to interview and his pursuit of Corin Belling, the arrests and the interviews under caution of Seymour Darling and Kipp Brown, and the latest information about the new suspect, known only as Greg.
When he’d finished he called Batchelor. ‘Guy, I need you to speak to Seymour Darling, purely as a witness, with his solicitor present, and show him the recording of Kipp Brown. Ask him if this is the James Bond character he claims he saw outside Lorna Belling’s rented flat.’
‘Leave it with me, boss.’
‘Let me know right away.’
‘Absolutely.’
When he ended the call, Grace called the DI in Professional Standards for an update on the IPCC investigation, but he wasn’t overly worried. Only one thing would make a man like Belling run away from a police officer wanting to question him – and that was guilt.
62
Monday 25 April
He’d heard it said that you cross a personal Rubicon when you kill. And now he understood that. Murder was the one act for which there was no possible restitution. He preferred to think of it as an act rather than a crime. He wasn’t a criminal and he still was not sure that Lorna Belling’s death was as a result of his act.
Not completely sure.
Maybe he never would be. But the one thing he was sure of was that no one was ever going to get him over her death.
Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, you’re a smart man and you have a smart team behind you. Honestly, if I ever had the misfortune to have a loved one murdered, you are the detective I would want to have heading the enquiry. Well, let’s put this into perspective. Ordinarily I would.
Really, and I’m not just saying this out of bullshit. It’s true.
Because you are so smart.
And this is the problem I have with you.
I can’t go down over this, it’s just not an option. If it ends up in a choice of you or me, I’m afraid it would have to be you.
I know you’ll think I’ve probably lost the plot and you’d be right. Everything’s broken loose inside my head, the fixings have all sheared, the stuff – my thoughts – are all over the place and I’m having a hard time holding them together.
But please take one thing with you – and it is this: My respect for you. You’re good! Shit. You are really good! But get too close and you’ll be a goner, just like sweet Lorna. And that thought makes me sad.
Really, very sad.
In another life you and I could have been just fine.
But it doesn’t look like it’s working out that way.
So sad.
63
Monday 25 April
Juliet Solomon and Matt Robinson, partnered again on B Section, were an hour and a half into their eight-hour shift on lates. It was just gone 7.30 p.m. After catching up on paperwork whilst waiting around at Brighton’s John Street police station for a shout – a call-out to an incident – they decided to take a car and go out hunting, as Matt called it. Cruising around, being the visible police that the Police and Crime Commissioner Nicola Roigard, and the public, wanted.
Juliet Solomon drove, heading down towards the seafront. They crossed the roundabout in front of the Palace Pier and headed along Kingsway. As they drove they were watching the streets and the occupants of cars, looking for the usual suspects – local drug dealers, criminals who had absconded from prison or failed to meet bail or probation terms, drink drivers, someone on their mobile phone whilst driving.
It was a foul night, with rain pelting down. ‘PC Rain’, the police jokingly called it. The streets were almost deserted. Not many people ventured out on a wet Monday night. But the overcast sky wasn’t completely dark yet.
‘I like this time of year,’ Juliet said. ‘After the clocks have gone forward and it’s suddenly lighter much longer in the evenings. Spring on its way. It always cheers me up.’
Peering at the road ahead through the wipers, then at the deserted pavements on both sides, Matt Robinson retorted, ‘Spring? You must have good vision!’
‘Ha ha.’
As they approached The Grand and Metropole hotels she nodded at the tower coming up on their left, which rose 160 metres into the sky. A mirrored doughnut-shaped glass pod – the viewing platform – was slowly rising, like a vertical cable car. Its construction had caused much local controversy.
‘What do you think now it’s finished? You didn’t like it when it first started going up, did you?’ asked Juliet.
‘Yeah, actually I really like it now. It’s pretty cool – took Steph and the boys on it a couple of weeks ago – awesome view! How about you?’
‘I’m getting more used to it. I love the underneath of the pod, all mirrored – very UFO!’ she conceded. ‘I guess we now have to wait for the first jumper.’
‘You’re a right cynic!’ he said. ‘Or should I say pessimist.’
‘You know the definition of a pessimist?’
‘I think I’m about to. What is it?’
‘An optimist with experience.’
He shook his head, grinning. ‘I think it’s sealed – no one could get up there to jump.’
‘Sure they could, there’s an inspection ladder up the inside – metal rungs.’
Matt Robinson shuddered. ‘I don’t have a head for heights.’
‘I’m fine with them, my dad was a builder – I was always scaling ladders with him and crawling over rooftops when I was a kid.’
‘Bloody hell – hadn’t he heard of health and safety?’
‘Clearly not, he fell to his death when I was eighteen, off one of the roofs at the Pavilion.’
‘Wow, I’m sorry, that’s so sad.’
They drove on along the seafront, but there was barely a soul around, and the traffic was light. They stopped a van with a tail light that was out, and Robinson hurried through the rain to the cab to advise the driver. Then as he got back in the car, and began wiping his glasses, a Grade One call came in. A man reported acting suspiciously outside an electrical goods depot on the Lewes Road.
Pleased at having some action, he leaned forward and switched on the blue lights and siren as his colleague accelerated forward, racing past two vehicles, and tapped in the address on the satnav. Then, as they turned right into Grand Avenue, they were told to stand down as two other response cars were now at the scene and the suspect was being spoken to.
They turned the car round, deciding to head back into central Brighton and cruise around there. As they drove they passed the time by discussing their favourite – and least favourite – kinds of incidents. He loathed minor road traffic collisions, he told his work buddy, when both sides were arguing hammer and tongs with each other and you could get no sense out of anyone. She replied that what she disliked most of all were domestics – fights between couples. Not many officers enjoyed intervening in those – too often a chair would come flying at you as you went in through the door, or one or other of the parties would turn on you.
Juliet said she liked blue-light runs most of all – the money-can’t-buy adrenaline rush that was better than any fairground ride, in her view. Matt said he enjoyed getting in a roll-around in a pub fight.
As they turned left up Preston Street, a road lined with restaurants on both sides, and a regular hotspot of trouble later in the week, a swarthy man
in a bomber jacket suddenly jumped into the road in front of them, flagging them down urgently.
Juliet Solomon halted the car, and Robinson lowered his window. Before he could say anything, the man, very agitated, pointed at a Ferrari parked just behind him.
‘Look! Those fuckers in that shitbox Prius just reversed into me – and they’re saying I drove into them!’
Robinson turned to Solomon with a quizzical expression. ‘Want it?’
‘It’s all yours,’ she replied.
Pulling on his cap, Robinson opened his door and climbed out into the rain, which was coming down even harder now. Although not tall, his hefty frame gave him the aura of a nightclub bouncer, and he had a particular glare for confronting troublemakers that he had honed to perfection over the years – and it generally worked.
Two men climbed out of the small saloon parked just up the hill from the Ferrari. One was tall, wearing a beanie, most of his face and hands covered in tattoos, the other short and mean-looking, whom Robinson recognized. A local scrote, with a barbed-wire tattoo round his neck, who had a long record of mostly petty crime – and jail.
‘All right,’ Robinson said calmly. ‘Who are the drivers of both cars?’
The swarthy man and the scrote each said they were.
Robinson could have sworn that through the windscreen, in the dry warm interior of the Ford Mondeo, he could see his colleague grinning.
He raised two fingers at her behind his back.
64
Monday 25 April
The Sussex Police Force Control Room is housed in a futuristic-looking red-brick structure on the headquarters campus. Inside is a large, open-plan area, covering two floors, with rows of computer terminals, many of their screens showing multiple images – some small-scale street maps, others live images from the Sussex Police’s 850 CCTV cameras located around the county.