Want You Dead

by Peter James

  He fancied Bella like hell. Although his wife, Ari, had died only a couple of months ago, they had been living apart for over a year and before her sudden death, following a bicycle accident, she had started divorce proceedings. Even beneath the blue hood of her crime scene protective oversuit, Bella looked attractive. In her mid-thirties, she was not conventionally beautiful, but she had something about her face, and a good figure, and Glenn believed that if she would allow him to organize a total makeover – as he had once done with Roy Grace – she would really blossom.

  There was one fly in the ointment, however. It seemed that at the moment she was dating one of his colleagues, Detective Sergeant Norman Potting. It was hard to understand what she could see in a four-times divorced, shabby, balding, pipe-smoking male chauvinist in his mid-fifties, and Glenn was determined to make a play for her. He felt her respond, a little, to the pressure from his right arm, and she moved closer, snuggling against him.

  ‘I am soooooo cold!’ she said. ‘And starving.’

  ‘Can’t offer you any pork scratchings, I’m afraid.’

  She shuddered. ‘Yech! Thanks, Glenn.’

  Suddenly her phone rang. She answered and Glenn strained to hear the voice of the caller, but was unable to. As Bella stepped away her whole demeanour changed. Her face was alive, animated. ‘I’m just attending a rural suicide with Glenn. Call you later, depending on what time we get finished?’

  Glenn watched the pathologist take a ruler measurement on the upper part of the victim’s right leg. It never ceased to amaze him quite how different all the pathologists he worked with were. Short, tubby and jolly. Slender and beautiful. Tall and cynical. Wiry and deadly serious. This particular one, Dr Frazer Theobald, was a short, stockily built man in his mid-fifties, with beady nut-brown eyes; he sported a thick Adolf Hitler style moustache beneath a massive hooter of a nose and an untidy, threadbare thatch of wiry hair on his head. It was Roy Grace who had first mentioned it, and he totally agreed: Theobald would not have needed much more than a large cigar in his mouth, to have gone to a fancy dress party as a passable Groucho Marx.

  After Bella had hung up, Glenn gave her a quizzical look, but she deliberately avoided eye contact. ‘Glenn,’ she said, ‘if you need to go home, don’t worry – I can stay on.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said.

  ‘What about your kids?’

  ‘Ari’s sister is babysitting. They adore her, it’s all cool.’

  Then she looked at him tenderly. ‘And you’re okay, are you? It must have been terrible for you – your wife—’

  She was interrupted by his phone ringing.

  ‘Glenn Branson,’ he answered.

  It was quiet, methodical Ray Packham from the High Tech Crime Unit, who had stayed late in his office, with another colleague, to work on the charred phone that had been recovered from the victim.

  ‘We’ve got lucky, Glenn,’ he said, ‘with the phone. If it had been an iPhone, which are encrypted, we’d have been stuffed. But this one’s a Galaxy S11, and we’re able to read the chip off the main board. We’re still working on it, but I thought it might be helpful to you to know that someone has called this number several times in the past twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Do you have the caller’s number?’

  Sounding very pleased with himself, Packham said, ‘I do!’

  16

  Thursday evening, 24 October

  There was a cool blast of air in the downstairs room of Cleo’s townhouse, where Roy Grace sat around the makeshift card table with his poker buddies. Like some of the others, he had a cigar smouldering in the ashtray beside him. He checked the two cards in front of him – an ace of diamonds and a nine of clubs – as Sean Mcdonald, a recently retired Public Order Specialist Constable, dealt the flop.

  The queen of hearts, ace of clubs and nine of spades.

  Two pairs, aces on nines. This was potentially a good hand.

  A pile of gambling chips lay in the centre of the table. Alongside each of the six players were tumblers of whisky or glasses of wine, piles of cash and chips, and a couple of overflowing ashtrays surrounded by fragments of crisps and nuts. There was a fug of smoke in the room which the draught from the open window was helping to clear. Cleo was upstairs, working on her Open University philosophy degree, with Noah asleep, his door shut against the cigar fumes, up in his bedroom.

  Grace stared ruefully at his diminished pile of chips. He was too distracted to focus tonight. But with a hand like this he had to play. He tentatively put down two one-pound chips.

  Bob Thornton, to his left, a long-time retired DI in his mid-seventies, was by a wide margin the oldest of the group of regular players. They took it in turns to host an evening every Thursday, week in week out, year in year out.

  The game had been going on long before Grace had joined the force. Bob was a frequent winner and, true to form, there was a mountain of chips and cash in front of the man right now.

  Grace watched Bob hunch his shoulders as he checked his two hole cards, keeping them close to his chest, peering at them through his glasses with alert, greedy eyes. He opened and shut his mouth, flicking his tongue along his lips in a serpent-like manner. Grace, who reckoned he could read the man’s body language, knew immediately he didn’t have to worry about Bob’s hand – unless he got lucky on either of the next two cards, the turn and the river.

  But to his surprise, Bob Thornton matched his two pounds and raised him three. Grace eyed the rest of his companions. Gary Bleasdale, wearing a sweatshirt over a T-shirt, was a thirty-four-year-old detective in Brighton CID; he had a serious, narrow face beneath short curly hair; he was peering at his cards impassively.

  Next to Gary sat Chris Croke, a motorcycle cop in the Road Policing Unit. With lean and wiry good looks, short blond hair, blue eyes and a quick-fire charm, Croke was a consummate ladies’ man, who, thanks to having married a wealthy woman, seemed to live the lifestyle more of a playboy than that of a cop. He was a reckless and unpredictable gambler, and in seven years of playing with him, Grace found his body language hard to decipher. He never seemed to care whether he won or lost; it was much easier to read people who had something at stake. Croke now doubled the ante by raising a full five pounds.

  Grace turned his focus on Frank Newton, a quiet, balding man who worked in IT at Brighton police station. He rarely bluffed, rarely raised, and as a result rarely finished any evening up. Newton’s giveaway was a nervous twitch of his right eye – the sure-fire signal that he had a strong hand. It was twitching now. But then, suddenly, he shook his head. ‘I’m out.’

  It was back round to Grace. He either had to raise his bet or drop out. He had two pairs and there were two more cards to come. No other aces or nines were showing. He tossed in a further eight pounds.

  Then his mind went back to the suicide note which he had photographed on his phone and now knew by heart. And could not stop thinking about. He’d dealt with his share of suicides over the years, as well as two homicides in the past that had been set up to look like suicides. The pattern for every suicide was different, and who the hell knew what truly went on in the mind of someone about to take that terrible step?

  From the little he knew about the victim so far, he was a well-liked and respected family GP. Dr Karl Murphy had gone to play in a golf tournament, and had played well. His sister had collected his two small sons from school, and had been waiting for her brother to return. He had confided to her that he had a date that night and was excited – and had a babysitter arranged.

  The mindset of someone on the verge of suicide?

  Another card had appeared face up on the table. The three of clubs. No sodding use at all to him, he thought. He looked again at the four cards on the table. With his hidden ace and hidden nine he was still in reasonable shape. There was a total bag of nails in terms of numbers and suits on the table. So it was unlikely anyone was holding a run or a flush in their hand. He pushed a five-pound chip forward, then, as he sank back into his thou
ghts, his phone rang.

  Looking at the display, he saw it was Glenn Branson.

  Stepping away apologetically from the table, he answered it.

  ‘ Sorry to wake you up, old timer.’

  ‘Very witty!’

  ‘Our suicide victim at Haywards Heath, yeah?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Frazer Theobald can’t confirm it’s suicide, at this stage, but he’ll know more tomorrow after the post-mortem.’

  ‘Is he suspicious?’

  ‘No. But he needs to do a post-mortem before he can be certain.’

  ‘Okay. Where are you? Still on the golf course?’

  ‘I’ve been working on my handicap.’

  ‘Haha!’

  ‘Yeah, too fucking funny. It’s bloody brass monkeys out here.’

  ‘Roy!’ someone called out. ‘Are you in?’

  Grace ended the call and returned to the table, and saw the final card, the river, was lying face up. It was the nine of hearts.

  And suddenly his adrenaline was surging. With his concealed ace and nine he now had a full house. Nines on aces. He looked at the five open cards carefully, thinking hard. There was virtually nothing that could beat him, from what was showing. The only possible higher full house was if someone had two aces as their hole cards. He looked at his fellow players, then raised the bet to ten pounds.

  Bob Thornton, tongue flicking again, raised to thirty pounds. Everyone else folded.

  Grace studied the old detective for some moments. He was bluffing, he was sure. He matched his bet and raised him by a further thirty pounds.

  Thornton moved a further thirty pounds of chips forward. ‘See you,’ he said.

  Grace flipped up his two hole cards triumphantly.

  But his triumph was short-lived.

  Thornton flipped his cards to reveal a pair of queens. ‘Full house,’ he said. ‘Queens on nines.’

  Grace grimaced as Thornton scooped the pot over towards his already massive pile of chips.

  Thornton grinned at him, then flicked his tongue mischievously.

  Bastard! Grace thought, realizing he had been outsmarted. The canny sod had realized, somehow, that Roy had picked up on his little giveaway and had just now used it against him.

  At that moment Cleo appeared. ‘Supper’s ready! How’s everyone doing?’

  17

  Thursday evening, 24 October

  Red sat in front of her television with a glass of wine in her hand, mesmerized by the images of the blazing restaurant, Cuba Libre, on the edge of Brighton’s Lanes.

  And deeply dismayed.

  It was her favourite restaurant in the city, and it was where, in happier times, Bryce had taken her on their first date. It had a big, airy interior, with a great bar, comfortable sofas and a terrific menu. Karl, by coincidence, had also taken her there on their first solo date.

  On the screen she watched a helicopter circling above the building. A reporter standing in the road, mike in her hand and surrounded by strobing blue lights, was shouting to the camera that the blaze, which had begun in the kitchen, was now out of control.

  Red drained her glass, refilled it, and although she was making an effort to quit smoking to please Karl, she lit her third cigarette of the evening.

  Then her doorbell rang.

  Please God, be Karl!

  She ran over to the intercom and stared at the tiny black-and-white video screen. And her heart sank. She saw two uniformed police officers.

  She pressed the speak button. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms Red Westwood?’ The female officer spoke. ‘This is Sergeant Nelson and PC Spofford from Sussex Police. I’m sorry to trouble you so late. Is it possible to have a word?’

  Red’s heart was pounding. Constable Spofford had been to see her on many of the occasions she’d called the police when Bryce was being violent to her, and she had met Sergeant Nelson before, too.

  It was 10.30 p.m. Her nerves had been shot to hell after being with Bryce. Some months ago, at the suggestion of her friend, Raquel, who had read about the charity in the Argus, she had turned for guidance to the Sanctuary Scheme. On the day she had finally plucked up the courage to throw Bryce out, they had arranged the securing of the front door and windows, and the installation of a spyhole in the door. They had recommended she make a formal report to the police and press charges, but she hadn’t wanted to do that and risk angering Bryce further.

  Despite these precautions, she had still been concerned, which was why she had moved to temporary accommodation in this flat, in the hope that he would not be able to find her.

  She walked out into the hall, past her expensive Specialized road bike, which she kept inside her flat after having had the previous one stolen. She had a second bike for getting around town, which she referred to as her shit bike, padlocked down in the hallway. If that one got stolen, it wouldn’t matter too much.

  ‘Come on up.’ She pressed the buzzer, peered through the spyhole, because she could never be totally sure who might be out on the landing, then removed the safety chain, turned the key in the two deadlocks and opened the reinforced front door.

  The stairwell light came on. She heard footsteps. Moments later she saw the familiar uniformed figure of Rob Spofford, his tall, trim frame almost dwarfing the petite figure of uniformed Sergeant Karen Nelson following behind him. She had wavy fair hair that bounced down as she took off her hat, and despite a composed demeanour she had a distinct presence of authority about her, Red thought, that no one sensible would want to mess with.

  Her colleague had a friendly face beneath close-cropped dark hair that made him look much younger than his twenty-nine years, and gave him the air of a listener. And boy, Red thought, had he listened! On the frequent visits he had paid her, responding to her 999 calls, and then checking up on her during the days and weeks that followed to ensure she was okay, she had talked and he had listened and offered his wisdom. She liked him enormously, and he seemed wise beyond his years.

  Red invited them in and closed the door behind them, then looked at them anxiously. ‘What’s . . . what’s happened?’

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions, Ms Westwood,’ Sergeant Nelson said.

  ‘Yes, of course. Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee, a glass of wine?’

  The sergeant shook her head. ‘No, thank you. But perhaps we could sit down.’

  Red led them through to the sitting room, grabbed the remote and muted the television. ‘Terrible, that fire,’ she said.

  ‘My wife’s favourite restaurant,’ Constable Spofford said. ‘Not that we can afford to go there, except on very special occasions.’

  The three of them stared at the silent images for some moments after they had sat down. ‘It’s nice to see you, Rob – Constable – Spofford,’ Red said, wondering if it was inappropriate to use his first name in front of his superior.

  ‘Been a few months,’ he said. ‘All’s quiet?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe Bryce has moved away – or hopefully found someone new.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’ He looked a tad uneasy.

  ‘Ms Westwood,’ Sergeant Nelson said, ‘records we’ve obtained from the O2 phone company indicate you’ve made numerous calls to one particular number during the past twenty-four hours.’ She gave her the number. ‘Is that correct?’

  Red nodded hesitantly, suddenly feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. ‘Why . . . why are you asking?’

  The two police officers glanced at each other in a way that made Red feel extremely uncomfortable. Then the sergeant responded in a bland, impersonal way.

  ‘The registered owner of this phone is a Dr Karl Murphy. Do you mind if I ask how you know him?’

  The flickering images on the television screen were too distracting. Red grabbed the remote and switched the television off. ‘Why? What . . . what’s he done? Has something happened to him?’

  ‘Can I ask what your relationship with Dr Murphy is?’

  Spofford’s phone started ri
nging. He removed it from his pocket, looked at the display and silenced it, giving his colleague and Red apologetic glances.

  ‘We’re going out together,’ Red replied. Then she shrugged. ‘He was meant to pick me up at seven o’clock yesterday evening and he never showed up. Why? Has he had an accident?’

  ‘How long have you been seeing each other?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘About six weeks.’

  ‘Without being too personal, Ms Westwood, how would you describe your relationship with Dr Murphy?’

  ‘What is all this about?’ Red asked, her nerves making her irritable. She looked at Spofford, but only got a blank expression and uncomfortable body language back from him.

  The sergeant stared sympathetically at her and for a moment Red thought she was softening. But then she responded with the distancing, formal tone of a professional copper.

  ‘I’m afraid you might want to prepare yourself. We’ve found a body, in strange circumstances, that might be Dr Murphy, and we think you might be able to help us.’

  ‘A body?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s dead?’

  ‘We don’t have formal identification at this stage. But we’re pretty certain it is Dr Murphy.’

  ‘It’s not him, not Karl,’ Red said emphatically. ‘You’ve got that wrong. What makes you think it could be him?’

  ‘Did you have any kind of falling out with him?’ the sergeant asked.

  Red shook her head resolutely. ‘Absolutely not. Far from it. I thought that we . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

  Karen Nelson looked at her expectantly. After some moments she prompted, ‘You thought what?’

  Red shook her head. ‘For one brief moment in my life, I thought that Karl might be different from other men, that’s all. Then he stood me up last night.’ She gulped down some wine, picked up her pack of cigarettes and shook one out. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘It’s your home,’ DS Nelson said.