by Peter James
There was an awkward moment of silence between the two men. ‘Yes, well, Roy, we’re one big family, the police. We look out for each other, don’t we?’
Their eyes met. Grace could hear the man’s pitiful screams of terror, the year before last, when he’d hung over a 500-foot drop, held just by his feet entangled in the webbing of Grace’s upturned Alfa’s seat belt, pleading with Roy to save his life. Which he had done, at great risk to himself. And regretted at times since.
‘We do, yes.’
Pewe lowered his voice. ‘Just a word, Roy – our friend Mr Tooth. In view of his prognosis I’ve removed the twenty-four-hour guard on him. It’s my job to think about the police budget.’ He gave Grace a condescending smile, and moved away, leaving the detective speechless.
Grace was soaked through, despite his raincoat, but he was so incandescent with rage at the ACC he barely noticed, staring around the expanse of graves in this vast cemetery and listening momentarily to the distant hum of traffic along the busy Old Shoreham Road. He watched the last of the mourners, heads bowed, hurrying towards them. He saw Glenn, standing a respectful distance away, alongside Jon Exton. Guy Batchelor, beside him, looked silent and sombre. Respectful.
Derek and Margo Balkwill stood almost pointedly several yards distant from him, staring stonily at the grave, but he could see no real sadness in their faces at all. They had avoided all eye contact with him since arriving at the church. If he never saw them again after today, it would be too soon, Grace thought. But he would have to see them again, they’d made it clear they would be wanting time with their grandson. Poor Bruno, he thought, inflicting those wretched misers on him.
He was surprised and pleased to notice forensic podiatrist Haydn Kelly had come along, down from London. Another person he was happy to see here was Sandy’s attorney, Andreas Thomas. A bulky, genial man in his forties, with long hair and a buzz of stubble, the Munich lawyer was wearing a crumpled grey suit that looked like it had spent the night in a laundry bag, and an equally crumpled cream shirt; the top button was undone, and the knot of his black tie hung a few inches below. Grace was unsure whether he had forgotten to do it up, or whether the shirt did not fit.
Not that it mattered. The lawyer seemed a good guy, and had managed to cut through, or sidestep, a huge amount of bureaucracy that might otherwise have kept Bruno in Germany for many months, making him their equivalent of a Ward of Court.
Roy stepped over to say a quick hello. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.
The German shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘I’ve taken your advice about UK lawyers and I’ve been recommended by a friend to a local firm in Brighton called Family Law Partners – apparently they specialize in collaborative law. I’ve spoken on the phone with the owner, Alan Larkin, and Cleo and I have made an appointment with him. I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘Good. And please give him my details.’
‘Of course.’
Roy rejoined Cleo and Bruno.
The freshly dug grave looked dark and deep. Its sides were lined with bright green Astroturf, which also covered the mound of earth on one side. Two wooden planks were laid across. Reverend Smale stood still, seemingly impervious to the weather, a kindly expression on his avuncular face, waiting for the last mourners, hurrying beneath umbrellas, to reach them.
He wished Pewe would move away and leave them alone at this deeply private moment for himself and for Bruno, instead of hovering behind them. But instead, to his complete surprise, Pewe suddenly said something to the boy in German.
Looking up through his tears, Bruno responded, his voice barely audible. Pewe then spoke again in German, and again the boy responded. As the ACC was about to speak again, the pall-bearers arrived, lowered the coffin at the end of the grave and began to thread tapes through the handles.
There was something rough and ready – almost primitive – about burials, Grace thought. Cremations were slick, almost high-tech in comparison. They could have been hundreds, if not thousands of years back in time right now. Shovels, planks, ropes. A wooden box. A mound of earth.
At this moment, Roy Grace was torn between wondering what Bruno might be feeling, and his own thoughts.
Sandy would have hated this. She would have disliked the Astroturf. She hated anything false or fake. How angry would she be right now?
The angrier she was about the funeral the better, he thought, suddenly, bitterly. Then, instantly, he parked that. This was not the time or place for anger. He was laying her to rest. After long years of having no idea where she was, or if she was even still alive, her body was in that coffin in front of him.
And he could have stopped that from happening.
Could have saved her.
Perhaps.
Possibly. Possibly he could have saved her. That last conversation they’d had in the hospital, the Klinikum München Schwabing, just a few weeks ago, when she had been so full of despair about her injuries and her future. If he had responded differently. If he could have responded differently. If he had put his arm round her, hugged her, told her he still loved her, that he would take her back, that they would start their life over again, together?
And destroy everything he now had with Cleo?
That was never going to happen. What he had now was too precious. But in addition, what he had with Cleo was something deeper, more open and honest than he’d ever had with Sandy. She’d been a control freak, and it had taken him all these years to realize that. There was the Sandy he had remembered, through rose-tinted spectacles. Then the reality of the cold, hard woman she could so often be.
And now this reality in front of him. The Rubicon crossed. The point of no return. End of.
Reverend Smale’s rich voice cut through his thoughts.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’ He paused then continued.
‘Friends, welcome here, to these few moments when we come and bring Sandy to her final resting place. We are reminded in the scriptures that we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. Let’s bow our heads for the first prayer.’
Roy Grace watched the coffin lowering inch by inch. Glanced at his son, holding his flowers. And suddenly he remembered what Marcel Kullen had said to him in Munich. Your last shirt has no pockets.
That would have resonated with Sandy. Avaricious people were the kind she had always detested; businessmen who trampled on anyone to get to the top, who would plunder their employees’ pension funds to line their own coffers. Whatever her faults, she had an innate sense of decency and fair play. Somewhere inside that troubled mind of hers had been a good and caring person.
What was she wearing inside that plain oak box that was steadily sinking from view, he wondered? A shirt with no pockets?
He put his arm round Bruno’s shoulder. For a brief moment he felt him lean towards him, as if seeking comfort and warmth. It was the first time, he realized, his son hadn’t shied from his physical contact.
As the pall-bearers stepped back, pulling out the tapes, Bruno walked forward, holding his bouquet in front of him, his lips moving, as if he was talking to his mother. Roy saw tears running down his face. And felt the tears run down his own cheeks.
This was Sandy.
The woman he had thought, once, all those years back, was the love of his life.
Dead.
Already decomposing.
In a few years she’d be just a skeleton in a leathery shell. Then that shell would rot – be eaten – away. Until there was nothing left but her bones.
Bruno stepped forward again, right up to the edge of the grave, then tossed in his flowers and stood still. Staring down.
Two minutes later he was still standing there, still staring down.
Grace walked over to him, and put h
is arm round him. Then stared down at the wooden box too, knelt, scooped up a handful of earth and dropped it, listening to the rattle as it struck the lid of the coffin.
Just as earlier he was lost for words, right now he was lost for them again.
He pulled out his handkerchief.
The boy did the same.
After a few moments, Grace felt for Bruno’s hand, found it and squeezed it. He felt a faint squeeze back.
They were joined at the edge of the grave by Cleo.
The Reverend Smale continued with the final prayer. ‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed: we therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ.’
There was a murmur of ‘Amen’.
‘Would you like to meet your grandparents in person now?’ Grace asked Bruno, nodding at where they stood, still and silent.
‘No, I want to stay here with Mama. Just alone with her for a few minutes, please.’
Roy and Cleo stepped back. Cleo turned to Glenn Branson, who was approaching. Roy walked dutifully over to his former in-laws and held out his hand. ‘Sad day,’ he said.
Neither of them took his hand. Derek looked his usual feeble, slightly lost self. Margot glared at him with utter hatred in her eyes.
‘It’s very sad,’ she said. ‘It was a sad day that our daughter ever met you.’
‘Hey,’ Grace replied. ‘I loved her.’
‘You loved her?’ Margo said, acidly. ‘Is that what you really think? If you’d loved her properly, she wouldn’t have had to leave you. You were incapable of loving our daughter, you were too obsessed with your career. She told us many times after she’d left you how much happier she was.’
He stood, rooted to the ground, in utter shock. ‘You spoke to her after she left me – after she disappeared?’
‘Yes, Roy,’ she said. ‘Regularly.’
‘Regularly? You knew where she was – all along – these past years?’
‘Oh yes, she contacted us from time to time.’ There was grim satisfaction in the woman’s voice and her husband gave a smug smile and nodded. Grace could have decked him, happily, at this moment.
‘I can’t believe it. You knew she was alive and where she was, and yet you put me through living hell for all those years? You didn’t even tell me when I let you know about her accident.’
‘She didn’t want us to tell you, you see, old boy,’ Derek said. He spoke, ridiculously, Grace always thought, in the clipped voice of a wartime RAF officer, frequently using some of the lingo. Long retired after redundancy from a small engineering firm, he spent his time making model fighter and bomber aircraft from that era, as if stuck in a make-believe world.
‘When she found out she was pregnant, that was the moment she knew she had to find a better life for her and her child,’ Margo added.
‘You allowed the police to dig up my garden looking for her body, when you knew full well she was alive and safe?’
‘You put our daughter through living hell from the day you met her,’ Margot said. ‘What goes around comes around.’ Then she and her husband turned and began walking away.
‘Hey!’ Grace said, furiously. ‘I’m not done talking to you.’
Derek Balkwill turned his head back and, almost jauntily, said, ‘We are, old boy.’
78
Thursday 28 April
Grace was silent in the car as he drove Cleo and Bruno away from the cemetery, thinking back to the different mediums he had consulted in the months and then years after Sandy had vanished. One, he remembered clearly, had said that Sandy was working in the spirit world for a healer, and that she was happy to be back in contact with her mother. A slight problem with that one, Grace had decided at that time, since her mother was still very much alive.
Now it didn’t seem that woman was completely off beam, as Sandy had indeed been communicating with her mother. Just not the way the medium had thought.
A small handful of the mediums, one in particular called Ross, whom he had felt was the most credible, had been adamant that Sandy was not in the spirit world. Which meant, he explained to Roy, that she was not dead.
He had been right, he now realized.
Jesus.
That bitch, Margot, had known all along. He felt utterly betrayed.
Half an hour later they arrived at the wake, in the function room of the Elephant and Castle pub in Lewes. Outwardly as he entered he was all polite smiles. Inwardly he was seething with silent fury.
They had known. Had they really? Sandy’s father, Derek, had always been a liar. Were they making this up? No. Her mother could not have known the reason she had left him was because she was pregnant, unless Sandy had told her. Told both of them.
It was shortly after midday. Hopefully this wouldn’t last too long – an hour perhaps and then he could get to the office. He had several fresh thoughts on Lorna Belling’s death and was now itching to get a number of actions implemented, and quickly. Bruno sat with a plate of sandwiches on a chair in a corner, where he was absorbed on his phone. Relieved that, so far at least, Sandy’s parents were a no-show, Grace dutifully looked around for some of Sandy’s relatives to introduce them to Bruno.
‘Nice suit, Roy.’
Grace turned and grinned at Glenn Branson, who pinched some of the fabric between his finger and thumb, rolling it approvingly. A couple of years back, before his first date with Cleo, Glenn had insisted on taking him shopping and getting him a complete makeover, at huge expense. He now considered himself custodian of Roy’s appearance.
‘It’s the suit I bought in New Orleans – quite a while ago.’
‘I know. Still looks good on you,’ he said, slightly grudgingly. ‘What was that place – on Canal Street? Rubensteins?’
‘You remember?’ Grace asked.
Branson tapped the side of his own head. ‘Got it all stored in here. Every designer shop on the planet. I’m a walking encyclopaedia of style.’
‘So you don’t just keep your brain in your dick, after all?’
‘Very funny. Listen, excuse me if I don’t stay long – I need to get back.’
‘Go as soon as you need to – I’m going to make my escape, too.’
Turning to scan the room again, to see who was here that he needed to speak to, he was surprised to see Pewe had come and curious as to why.
He edged through a knot of people until he was in earshot and heard Pewe and Bruno once more speaking in German. Pewe was looking down kindly at the boy. Was the ACC on a charm offensive? Why?
To his right he saw Cleo talking to Dick and Leslie Pope. He had introduced her to his oldest friends outside the church at the end of the service. He walked over to join them, eager to catch up with them, having not seen them for over two years. But all the time he kept an eye on Pewe and Bruno. They seemed to be chatting happily, quite animated. Perhaps it was a relief for him to be able to speak to someone in German? But why the ACC was giving up quite so much time away from work for this funeral was beyond him. Nicola Roigard and Lesley Manning had both left immediately after the church service, and he’d expected Pewe to have done the same. He had been surprised to see him at the committal – and now at the wake. What was the man after?
Being all kind and caring was not part of Pewe’s make-up. Grace suspected he had an ulterior motive, but could not speculate what it might be. A favour of some kind that he was going to ask, he imagined. No doubt he’d find out soon enough.
‘All right, chief, bearing up?’ Norman Potting said, through a mouthful of sausage roll.
Grace nodded, still watching Pewe. ‘Thanks, Norman. I’m pleased to get a chance to talk to you – I keep meaning to ask, what’s the latest news on your health?’
Potting had been diagnosed with prostate cancer some months ago, and had asked Grace’s advice on a couple of occasions, but
hadn’t mentioned anything about it for some time.
‘I’m having more tests in a few weeks, thanks for asking, chief. But I’ve been reading quite a bit recently – you know – where they’re saying a lot of people are having surgery unnecessarily. That if it’s slow-growing you’re more likely to die with it than from it. And a big risk of losing your winkie action if you do have the surgery.’ He suddenly looked deeply sad.
There was a moment’s silence between the two men. ‘I hope today didn’t bring too many memories back of Bella, for you?’
The Detective Sergeant shook his head, then looked like he was struggling to hold it together. He turned away and walked swiftly across the room, weaving through the small crowd. Out of the corner of his eye Grace saw Guy Batchelor approaching, followed by Jon Exton.
‘I’m going to make a move, Roy, if you’ll excuse me, need to get back,’ Batchelor said.
‘Of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I need to have a talk with you and Glenn – three o’clock in my office?’
‘Good with me.’
He shook Guy’s big, firm hand and their eyes met. The DI gave him a reassuring smile and said, ‘We’re going to crack this one soon, boss.’
‘We need to.’
Jon Exton approached him, looking gaunt. He smelled rank, as if he had slept in his suit, and looked a little shaky and on edge. Grace wondered if he had an alcohol problem as he could smell a whiff of it on his breath. Fair play, he had provided wine and beer here, but Exton was on duty.
Lowering his voice, he asked, ‘Is everything really OK with you, Jon?’
‘Oh yes, boss, fine.’
Grace frowned. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Well – strictly entre nous – I’m just going through a little difficulty with my other half.’
‘You and a lot of other police officers – it’s a very big club, Jon.’
‘Yes, ha ha. I think we will work it out. Things sort of haven’t been right since we got back from holiday.’ Exton glanced around anxiously. ‘Yes, yes, it’ll be all right. I’ll – I’m going to get back – er – with Guy, if that’s all right?’