by Peter James
Ray Packham, from the old High Tech Crime Unit, had been brought back to help with training new staff in the Digital Forensics Team. He had been temporarily seconded to the investigation, to report on the contents of all the suspects’ seized mobile phones and computers. A quietly methodical man, who looked more like a middle-management executive than a geek, Roy Grace had, over the years he had known him, developed a great respect for his abilities. He raised a hand.
‘There is something we’ve – um – recently been using that might be of value here, with this number of possible suspects,’ Packham said. ‘Mobile phones are quite chatty things – when the Bluetooth is left switched on – as most people do – they are constantly seeking other Bluetooth connections around them. But what we have only recently realized is that when the Wi-Fi is left on, that also looks to chat with any other Wi-Fi within range – and that leaves digital footprints, as it were, that can be found on certain routers that it passes.’
‘What kind of routers, Ray?’ Grace asked.
‘They’re known as “enterprise level” routers – a kind of advanced router, more powerful than the normal domestic one most people have in their homes. Some geeks use them, but they’re most common in offices and hotels where they have a network allowing multiple connections. We have a bit of kit – in layman’s language – that can suck out the IP address of any device that has tried to connect to the router for up to several previous weeks.’
There was complete silence, except for the sound of Norman Potting crunching on a chocolate-coated peanut.
‘Very interesting, Ray,’ Batchelor said. ‘What have you found relevant to this enquiry?’
Packham shook his head. ‘We haven’t started looking yet. But I took a walk around the streets adjacent to and bordering Vallance Mansions and there are several pubs, restaurants and B&Bs, some of which might well have such a router. There are also a few businesses operating in some of the premises. If we did another specific house-to-house in the surrounding area, we might get lucky. Even just one such router might show people who have been recent regular visitors to the area. It is possible one of them might turn out to be this Greg character.’
‘Very smart, Ray,’ Batchelor said. He shot a glance at Roy Grace, who nodded his approval. ‘What would you need to resource this?’
‘Just a couple of police officers for credibility – I could start right away.’
Batchelor glanced around, then looked at DC Alexander. ‘Jack, I’ll delegate this action to you.’
Looking pleased as punch at the responsibility placed on him, the young detective constable said, ‘Yes, sir.’
Then Batchelor looked at Arnie Crown, not able to get Potting’s nickname for the American detective, NotMuch, out of his mind. ‘Arnie, would you like to go with Jack? It’ll give you some experience of how we do these house-to-house enquires – if you’re OK with that?’
‘And we go in unarmed?’ the American said.
‘Unarmed? No, we always throw a stun grenade through the letterbox first.’
‘Are you serious?’
Everyone in the room started to laugh.
71
Tuesday 26 April
Roy Grace sat with Glenn Branson in the observation room, watching the video screen in front of them. Grace had a mug of coffee and his colleague a bottle of water. Seymour Darling sat in the room with his solicitor. Opposite them were Guy Batchelor and Jon Exton.
For the benefit of the interview process, the two officers introduced themselves. Batchelor gestured in turn to the suspect, then the solicitor. ‘Could you please state your names for the recording?’
The man spoke aggressively. ‘Seymour Rodney Darling.’ Moments later the woman said, stiffly, ‘Doris Ishack of Lawson Lewis Blakers, solicitor for Mr Darling.’
Batchelor continued. ‘I’m confirming the time as being 10.17 a.m., Tuesday, April 26th.’ He looked at the suspect. ‘I’d like to remind you, Mr Darling, that you are still under caution.’ He repeated the caution to him. ‘Is that clear to you?’
Darling nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us where you were last night?’
‘I was at my home.’
‘What is the address?’
‘I think you know that. 29 Hangleton Rise.’
‘Can you give us an account of your actions last night, at 29 Hangleton Rise?’
‘Yes. I arrived home from work around 7.30 p.m., and my wife had put the safety chain on the front door, so I couldn’t get in. It was only when I threatened to break the door down that the bitch opened it – I was ringing and banging for sodding ages.’
‘Is that the normal time you arrive home?’ DS Exton asked.
‘If you were married to her you’d understand. I needed a couple of pints before I could face her.’
His solicitor tried to interrupt but he brushed her aside. ‘She’s made my life hell for years. Accusing me all the time of one thing after another.’
‘Why had she put the safety chain on?’ Batchelor asked.
‘To piss me off.’
‘Can you tell us why you think she might have done that?’ he continued.
‘She had it in her head that I was having an affair. Some days I’d come home and she was mental – she’d just fly at me, or throw things at me. Anything. Ashtrays, furniture, a saucepan of hot soup.’
‘How did you feel about that?’ Batchelor asked.
‘She was terminally ill with cancer, I always tried to be understanding.’ He glanced at his solicitor then back at the two detectives. ‘I don’t know how anyone would feel with that hanging over her. She felt anger, you know – why me?’
Exton nodded sympathetically.
Batchelor looked down at his notes. ‘Mr Darling, when we last interviewed you, on this past Sunday, you told us that she had terminal cancer, with a prognosis of four to six months to live. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘The officers who talked to your wife whilst you were in custody asked her about this. She was astonished to hear it and told them she was perfectly healthy. What do you have to say about that?’
Roy Grace shot a glance at Glenn Branson. They saw the fury in Darling’s face, as he raised his balled fists in the air. ‘She fucking what? She said that?’
Batchelor looked down at his notes again. ‘I’ll read you out the relevant part of the statement she gave, Mr Darling, in her words: I am completely healthy. This is a line he spins to all his girlfriends. He has a whole fucking fantasy world inside his head. He’d love it if I was terminally ill, but too bad for him, I’m not.’
Darling looked, for a moment, crushed and genuinely shocked. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘I’m happy to let you and your solicitor see a copy of the statement she signed. We are also checking her medical history with her GP.’
Darling shook his head. ‘What does it matter any more? One lie after another. Anything she could do to hurt me, she’d find a way and do it. Jesus.’ He buried his face in his hands in despair.
Watching Darling, Roy Grace felt a fleeting moment of sadness for the man. Having met Trish Darling, and been shocked by her vitriol, he wondered where the truth actually lay. No one knew what really went on behind any couple’s closed doors. Was Darling a monster, or just someone who became one when pushed beyond his limits?
‘Could you tell us what happened after you arrived home last night?’ Batchelor asked.
Darling was silent for some moments, staring vacantly ahead. Then he said, ‘I had had a bit to drink, yes, a couple of pints, and maybe some whisky, too. I was hammering on the door. She let me in and started on at me, right away, that she could smell alcohol on my breath and another woman’s perfume. Her eyes were glazed, like they always were when she went off on one.’
‘One what?’ Exton encouraged.
‘One of her fucking moods. Like a veil of mist dropped over her. She was obsessed with the idea I was having an affair.’ He raised his arms, looking path
etic. ‘Do I look like a bloody womanizer? I’m not exactly Brad Pitt, am I?’
‘What happened next?’ Batchelor asked.
‘I don’t remember exactly. She began screaming at me, punching me. I tried to keep my cool. Then she shouted at me about my manhood. Said I’d never satisfied her in years – you know – it was too small – that even on our wedding night she’d faked it. I just lost it. Lost the plot. I don’t remember exactly – I punched her. She ran upstairs and locked herself in the bedroom, and was ranting at me through the door. Told me she was screwing someone she’d met who had a twelve-inch dick. That she wanted to have proper sex for the first time in her life before she died. I just couldn’t bear it. I tried to get her to open the door, but she wouldn’t. So I went out to the garden shed and got the wood axe and hacked the door open. Then I saw her inside. I – I – I—’ He broke down into uncontrollable sobs, his head falling forward onto his hands on the table, and just lay there. Crying his heart out.
72
Tuesday 26 April
Roy Grace sat in the sauna at Wickwoods, cushioned by a towel from the burning hot wooden slats of the bench, thinking hard.
When he’d arrived home earlier this evening, he had hurried upstairs to see Noah, and then Bruno, to find out about his son’s first day at his new school, St Christopher’s. The boy was once more on his bed, playing a video shooting game online with Erik, and although he politely told Roy his first day had been fine, he clearly did not want to be distracted. Roy had hoped to have a chat with him about his mother’s funeral, to see if he wanted to say anything or do a reading, but realized this wasn’t a good time, and decided to leave it until the morning, when he would drive him to school. They could talk in the car.
Cleo had persuaded him to take some time out at the country club, in the pool and sauna, before having supper, as it had done his leg so much good last time.
It was good advice. He had done twenty minutes of lengths in the pool, and now ten in here, and he was determined to stick it out for longer.
He spooned some more water on the brazier and felt the instant burst of searing heat on his face and body. Those grim photographs of Trish Belling were firmly imprinted in his mind. He’d seen so many things that had disturbed him during his career. A drug dealer who had been tortured to death with a branding iron; a once-beautiful fashion model who’d had sulphuric acid sprayed in her face by a disgruntled ex. The capacity for human evil had no boundaries. He had learned, or maybe just become accustomed – or immune – to every kind of horror. But nothing he had ever seen had numbed him to the point where he could accept it.
Evil was evil.
And that quote from Edmund Burke always stayed with him: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’
But something was still bothering him. Instincts. Always in life he had trusted his own judgement and an alarm bell was ringing. Tiny, muted, like one of those irritating car alarms in a nearby street that keeps sounding every few minutes and you can’t quite tune out.
Something.
Not right.
Missing something.
Or was it wishful thinking?
He replayed over and over in his mind the interview with Seymour Darling today. Thinking about everything Darling had said. And his own experience talking to the man’s wife.
He could understand – although not condone, ever – how the man might have lost it with his wife. But the astute observation of Donald Dull stayed with him.
‘My point is, Temporary Detective Inspector,’ Dull had said to Guy Batchelor, ‘Seymour Darling may have murdered his wife in a fit of rage. Why does that make him a prime suspect in the murder of Lorna Belling? The circumstances are very different.’
Grace had not initially been in favour of the recent Direct Entry initiative. It brought into the force a limited number of officers at middle-management level. These new entrants had no experience out on the beat, which was such a huge learning curve for every police officer. But he had to admit that twenty years in the police service would make anyone jaded and automatically suspicious. ABC. Assume nothing. Believe no one. Check everything.
It would be all too easy to assume because Darling had chopped his wife into bits that he may have killed Lorna Belling. But he, too, had doubts.
Sure, it would be a fast-track to reassuring the public that a man had been charged with her murder. There had been plenty of circumstantial evidence to support a prosecution of Darling for Lorna Belling’s murder, although that evidence had been reduced with the result back from LGC Forensics confirming that the DNA on the semen was not his. Still, Darling had a motive, he was in the right place, he had a history of violence against people who had upset him – and now he had been caught red-handed after committing murder, and almost certainly would be charged later, after his next interview, when he had had time to compose himself.
It would be a slam-dunk for any prosecuting counsel to go for a conviction for Lorna Belling, if – and it was a big if – the police were allowed to link the two crimes. It was a grey area of the law, and it could well turn out that in a trial situation, absurdly in his view, Seymour Darling’s murder of his wife would be inadmissible evidence. In that case their evidence would be mostly circumstantial. And from all his experience with juries, it was highly likely they would only convict on the facts before them.
But, in his opinion, it would be a totally unsafe conviction. And when the wrong person was convicted it meant the real killer was still out there, at large. Free to kill again. That was the true danger of a wrong conviction.
He turned his mind to the other suspects. Corin, the husband. Arrogant Kipp Brown. The mysterious Greg. And still not ruling out Lorna Belling having killed herself.
Greg needed to be found and identified urgently. He would task the Intelligence Cell with a comprehensive social media search.
Then he switched to thinking about the grim task ahead, that of Sandy’s funeral, wondering if he had overlooked anything. For Bruno’s sake he hoped there would be a decent turnout. The funeral directors had placed an announcement in the Argus, and he had circulated the details to all his family, friends and colleagues, and of course to all Sandy’s relatives that he knew about; he hoped Sandy’s parents had covered the rest. He was really not looking forward to seeing Sandy’s parents again. But he’d put on his best face, and he knew that Cleo would, too.
He’d discussed with Cleo what he should wear, and fortunately they’d both favoured the same suit, the black one he kept for special occasions that she liked him wearing, saying it made him look like a character in the movie Goodfellas. He had bought it on a whim in New Orleans, from the famous Rubensteins, when he had been attending an International Homicide Investigators’ Association conference in the city, and had only been able to afford it because it was in a sale.
Reverend Smale had suggested he give a eulogy, and he knew the wise clergyman was right. But he really didn’t know what to say. He’d made a start, but he was struggling. Cleo had advised him to keep it short and personal.
What the hell should he say?
73
Wednesday 27 April
Once again, as they had done yesterday, Roy Grace and Glenn Branson sat in the observation room, watching the live feed from the interview room. Seymour Darling was still in custody as a result of a superintendent’s authorization.
Batchelor and Exton ran through the formal interview procedures with Darling and his solicitor. Darling spoke meekly, like a lost soul, his voice barely a whisper. Very different from the last time he had been in this room.
Batchelor reminded him that he was still under caution and said, ‘Do you understand that, Mr Darling?’
‘Yes I do.’ He shot a baleful glance at Ishack, who gave no reaction, then continued. ‘I’m not going to deny killing my wife, who provoked me beyond – beyond – all reasonable endurance. But your accusations against me for killing Lorna Belling are wrong. I didn’t kill h
er, I really didn’t. You have to believe me.’
‘Why should we believe you?’ Batchelor asked. ‘You were angry at her because you felt she had screwed you financially over the sale of a motor car and you confronted her. We already know you have a history of violence – particularly against women.’
‘I don’t need this, I’m in enough shit as it is.’
‘Mr Darling,’ Batchelor said, ‘whatever happens in your own case, you are a witness in our investigation of Lorna Belling’s death, and after this interview we have some CCTV footage we’d like you to look at. It may help you to cooperate.’
‘I’ve already told you she had a lover. Isn’t he someone you should be looking at? He’s the man who killed her.’
‘The description Darling gave when he was previously interviewed certainly fits Kipp Brown,’ Grace replied, keeping his voice low. The observation room was soundproofed and it would be impossible for anyone in the interview room to hear them even if they were shouting at the top of their voices, but Grace always found himself talking in a hushed tone in here.
‘What makes you so certain of that, Mr Darling?’ Exton asked, gently.
‘I told you before, in an earlier interview, that I’d seen this matt-black Porsche driving around, like it was looking for a parking space, and then a short while later, up in her window, I saw them embracing.’
‘The man you told us previously looked like James Bond?’ Batchelor asked.
‘I said he had James Bond’s build. Tall, lean, good posture.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell us about this man, Mr Darling?’ Batchelor pressed. ‘Did you catch sight of him in the car? Getting out of the car?’
Darling shook his head.
‘So is there anything else you can think of, beyond what you told us on Sunday, that makes you link the driver of this Porsche to the man you saw with Mrs Belling?’ Exton asked.
Darling shrugged. ‘Flash personalities and timing. A hunch, right?’