by Peter James
Fear that if Bryce saw her in the street without it, it might antagonize him further?
Then she heard the words golf course on the television, and instantly looked up at the screen. She saw a cluster of police vehicles in front of a wooded area. Crime scene tape. Officers in blue protective over-suits and a large screen. A male presenter, holding a microphone in his hand, hair matted by the rain and looking like he would rather be anywhere but here, said, ‘Sussex Police have not yet released the identity of the charred body of a male found in a ditch, close to the third tee of Haywards Heath Golf Club yesterday.’
Red felt a tightening in her gullet. Was this Karl? God. Was it? She grabbed her phone and dialled Raquel’s surgery number. But the answering machine kicked in. It was out of hours. She hung up and dialled Raquel’s mobile number. She’d left messages the night before, but her friend had not got back to her.
‘Sorry to call so early, Raq. Can you just tell me something – has Karl Murphy been in the office? I mean, was he in yesterday?’
Raquel’s voice sounded strange. ‘Sorry about last night, we were out at a dinner. No – no, he wasn’t.’
‘Maybe I’m going out of my mind . . . but I think something has happened to him. The police came and saw me last night about a body that’s been found.’
‘You’re not going out of your mind. I think you could be right.’
‘Why – why – what – why are you saying that?’
‘I had to come in early – at the request of the police. Karl’s a patient – they’ve asked for his dental records.’
On the television, the scene suddenly cut to a conference room. Against a curved blue backdrop of a display board bearing the web address www.sussex.police.co.uk and an artistic display of five police badges on a blue background – with Crimestoppers’ number prominently displayed beneath – a slim, suited man, with short gelled fair hair and blue eyes, looking very serious, was speaking. Along the bottom of the screen ran the caption, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.
‘We are hoping to have a formal identification of this man later today,’ he said. ‘However, at this time the post-mortem results are inconclusive. I would appeal to anyone who was either on Haywards Heath golf course or in the vicinity between the hours of midday Wednesday and 9 a.m. Thursday, who saw anything suspicious, or who noticed any motor vehicle parked out of place, to come forward and phone the police, or Sussex Crimestoppers, on the following numbers . . .’
21
Friday, 25 October
Bryce Laurent also had his television monitors on. All six of them. On one screen was breakfast television news. But it was a different one that interested him more. Red Westwood on the phone, talking to her best friend, Raquel.
He’d been out for meals with Red, Raquel and her husband, Paul, a local GP, as well as to the cinema and the theatre; they’d even spent a weekend away together, the four of them, in Bath. Raquel and Paul were all right. He hadn’t exactly warmed to them, but they’d not been negative about him. Not the way Red’s parents had been. Especially her bitch mother.
Dental records.
It wouldn’t be long now.
And then, soon after, she would find out this was only just the beginning.
22
Friday, 25 October
Roy Grace had barely slept all night. He had ended the poker game two hundred and fifty pounds down, one of his biggest ever losses in the game. He often found it hard to sleep after his poker evening, but last night had been worse than usual. It wasn’t the loss that bothered him – over the years it all evened out, and it was the camaraderie of the poker evenings that he enjoyed even more than the game itself. It was the suicide note that did not feel right, that had kept him awake.
Now he sat at his desk, at 8.30 a.m. on Friday morning, sipping his second ultra-strong coffee of the day, staring at the overnight serials – the log of all reported incidents in the city – of which the major one was the Cuba Libre restaurant blaze. He felt a twinge of sadness about the restaurant. It was one of Cleo’s favourite places, and they’d had some great evenings there.
But his thoughts continued to be dominated by the suicide note, which he had photographed on his iPhone.
I am so sorry. My will is with my executor, solicitor Maud Opfer of Opfer Dexter Associates. Life since Ingrid’s death is meaningless. I want to be united with her again. Please tell Dane and Ben I love them and will love them for ever and that their Daddy’s gone to take care of Mummy. Love you both so much. One day, when you are older, I hope you will find it in your hearts to forgive me. XX
There was something very clinical about it. It was carefully thought out. Was that consistent with someone who pours petrol over themselves? Who in hell would choose that kind of a death unless it was someone trying to make a statement, like a political or religious protestor? Surely a family doctor like Karl Murphy would have to be in a deranged state of mind to have done this? And if he was in that state, would he have written such a concise note?
He picked up the phone and called one of the regular members of his Major Crime enquiry team, Detective Sergeant Norman Potting. He asked him to obtain a sample of the doctor’s handwriting from his secretary, then find a graphologist on the books of the College of Policing – which was now the principal research resource all forces used – and get it analysed, along with the suicide note, to establish for certain that they were both written by the same person.
He glanced at his watch. Just a few minutes before financial investigator Emily Gaylor was due in to continue working with him on clearing up Operation Flounder. Cleo had been asleep when he had left, much earlier this morning. It was strange, he thought. He had always loved his work, and it had come above everything else in his life. But now, since becoming a father, he found himself resenting having to be away from his son. He dialled Cleo to say good morning and to see how Noah was.
She answered on the third ring. ‘Hi darling,’ she said, sounding distracted.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Just giving Noah a feed. How was the poker in the end?’
‘Don’t ask!’ he said. ‘But the boys all loved the meal – they said to thank you.’
‘They’re a nice crowd.’
‘They are.’
Suddenly she shouted out an agonized, ‘Oww!’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Noah just sucked my nipple really hard! It’s as sore as hell!’
‘God, there is so much they don’t tell you about being parents. I just wish I could help you more.’
‘Try growing some breasts!’
‘Okay, I’ll get hormone tablets!’
She cried out in pain again, even louder this time. ‘Shit!’ Then she said, ‘You know what the weirdest thing is?’
‘Tell me.’
‘This might sound strange. But I was looking down at Noah in the middle of the night and I suddenly thought, you know, one day you might be pushing me around as a frail little old lady in a wheelchair!’
‘Hopefully not for a few years yet!’
‘You’re right, darling. There’s so much they don’t tell you about becoming a parent.’
‘True, but one day Noah’s going to learn that he won life’s lottery. He has the best mother in the world. Just remind him of that next time he bites you.’
‘Owwwww!’ she cried out in pain. ‘Shit, that hurt!’
There was a knock on his door.
‘I have to go.’ He blew Cleo a kiss down the line, then hung up, smiling. He was filled suddenly with an almost overwhelming feeling of love for Cleo and for his son. Then he looked back at the suicide note once more. It was a big reality check.
It was really bothering him.
‘Come in!’ he called out.
23
Friday, 25 October
There were several things that Glenn Branson had in common with Roy Grace. High up on that list was the dislike of attending post-mortems.
In modern investigations, although the crime scene was a major focus for all homicides, it was the mortuary – and the pathological laboratory – that were in many ways the crucible of any investigation.
But at 8.30 a.m. on a cold, wet Friday October morning, with its grim, grey tiled walls and stark overhead lighting, there were few more depressing places to be than the PM room of Brighton and Hove City Mortuary, Glenn thought.
The Detective Inspector stood, gowned up in green, feeling distinctly queasy at the sickly sweet roast pork smell, tinged with petrol, emanating from the charred corpse that lay on the steel table in the centre of the larger of the two areas separated by a square archway. The smell almost blocked out the normal reek of Trigene disinfectant and Jeyes Fluid that he associated with this place.
Over to his left, in the adjoining room, were three elderly people laid out, naked, on similar tables, their skin the colour of alabaster, buff tags hanging from their toes. They had been prepped by Darren, the Assistant Anatomical Pathology Technician, helped by the locum who was standing in for Cleo whilst she was on maternity leave.
The skullcaps had been removed with a bandsaw, their scalps peeled back and hanging over their faces, exposing their brains. Their sternums had been taken out and laid across the pubis of each of them in a nod at protecting their modesty, exposing their yellow, fatty internal tissue and their coiled intestines. They were awaiting the arrival of the duty local pathologist, who would conduct a far less rigorous post-mortem than the one currently being carried out on the charred victim from Haywards Heath Golf Club, whose arms were still raised in the air as if in a final gesture of defiance.
He remembered something, irreverently, that Roy Grace had whispered to him in here at a previous post-mortem, shortly after he had split up with his wife, Ari, and when he was feeling terrible. Matey, no matter how shit you are feeling, you are going to have a better weekend than any overnight guest in here.
And, for one of the few times since his wife had died, he found himself grinning. Then, after a few moments, he focused again on the present situation.
The moment anyone died they became the property of the local Coroner, who made the decision whether a post-mortem should be carried out or not. The principal criterion was whether the death needed explanation, or whether they had died from illness whilst under the care of their doctor. When the cause of death was obvious, such as from recurrent heart trouble or cancer, no post-mortem would be required. But if the death was sudden, either from unknown causes or from an accident such as a fall from a ladder or a car crash, then a post-mortem needed to be carried out to eliminate foul play.
But it was different for the victim in front of Glenn Branson now, where a more thorough examination was required to confirm whether it was indeed suicide, as the evidence pointed to, or something more sinister.
There were thirty Home Office pathologists in the UK who specialized in possible homicide victims and who were highly paid, on a per body basis, for their work. Dr Frazer Theobald, also gowned up in green, was one. He raised something that Glenn recognized as a human lung, with large forceps. ‘This is very interesting,’ he said, then dictated some technical jargon Glenn Branson did not understand into a small machine he held in his other gloved hand.
On the wall on the far side of the room were weighing scales and a chart itemizing the name of the deceased, with columns for the weights of their brain, lungs, heart, liver, kidneys and spleen. All that was written on it so far was, ANON. MALE and 7.5 against the brain.
In addition to Glenn Branson, Darren and the locum, in the room were James Gartrell, the CSI photographer, who was steadily working his way around the body, and the Coroner’s Officer, Philip Keay. He was standing in a green gown, blue mask hanging from its tapes just below his chin, dictating into a machine with a worried frown.
‘I think you all need to see this,’ Frazer Theobald said. ‘Because of the implications.’
Glenn, along with Gartrell and Keay, moved forward. He tried to avoid looking at the exposed, partly charred brain inside the open skull. But his eyes kept being drawn towards it.
‘The left lung,’ Theobald said. ‘If our victim had set fire to himself, I would expect to find that he had inhaled both flames and smoke. There is clear evidence of fire and smoke damage to the thorax and lungs.’
‘Can you explain the significance of that, Dr Theobald?’ Glenn Branson asked. ‘Are you saying this is consistent with him setting fire to himself?’
He peered at Glenn, his beady nut-brown eyes the only part of his face that was visible. ‘Yes, I am. This is all pointing to suicide.’
‘But why in a ditch, several hundred yards from his car?’ Branson queried.
Theobald shrugged. ‘Who knows what goes on in the mind of someone deciding to kill themselves? That’s not for me to speculate. All I can tell you is this does not have the appearance of foul play, in my opinion, at this stage. But I need to examine the body in more detail and conduct some blood tests.’
Glenn Branson stepped out of the room and called Roy Grace to tell him the news. But, to his surprise, instead of sounding grateful, his boss, and mate, sounded strangely distant – and dubious.
24
Friday, 25 October
Dr Judith Biddlestone, the counsellor Red had been recommended by Rise, the Brighton charity that helped victims of domestic abuse, was in her late forties. Before becoming a counsellor she had been a clinical trainer for the National Health Service, and she now worked out of a basement consulting room in the trendy North Laine district of Brighton, with burning candles around that made it smell like some kind of temple, Red thought. She had a lean, athletic figure, short blonde highlighted hair, a cheery freckled face, and was dressed in jeans and a thin black T-shirt, despite the autumnal day.
Red had pedalled across town, on her shit bike, after leaving work later than planned. The couple she had showed around the Portland Avenue property yesterday had suddenly appeared in the office, panicking that the weekend was coming up and that they might lose the house. They had wanted to put in an offer, and Red had not wanted to miss out on the chance of her first sale.
So now, over half an hour late for her appointment, at 6.35 p.m. on Friday afternoon, she and the psychologist sat opposite each other on beanbag chairs, sipping mint tea while a stern crimson Buddha cast a watchful eye over them from the mantelpiece. This was her sixth session with Dr Biddlestone.
Red started by bringing her up to speed on Dr Karl Murphy, then finished by saying, ‘I do wonder if it’s all my fault.’
‘Tell me why you think that, Red.’ She spoke with a trace of a Newcastle accent.
‘I don’t know. I . . . it seems . . . well . . . it sort of feels like I’m just useless. Everything I do seems to turn to shit. Maybe I’m just shaken up at the moment. I feel so down.’
‘Bereavement plays havoc with the human mind, Red. Tell me why you feel you are useless.’
‘I suppose . . . you know . . . I failed in my relationship with Bryce.’
‘That’s how you see it?’ Judith Biddlestone frowned at her. ‘That you’re the one who failed, not Bryce?’
‘I go round in circles in my thoughts. But yes, I do feel that sometimes.’
‘What I want to do, in the short time we have, is I’d like us to recap on your relationship with him, Red,’ the psychologist said, ‘because there are so many gaps. Let’s go right back to the beginning of your relationship with Bryce Laurent. I feel you are blocking important things out – not deliberately – but try really hard to remember all that you can.’
Red thought back, hard. It had been three days after their first date that they had first slept together. And that had been truly amazing. They had made love, it had seemed, almost all through the night. Never in all her life had she been with a lover so passionate and attentive. She felt totally, utterly and intensely ravished.
She woke on the Saturday morning in his arms, in her flat, and they made love again. And again a s
hort while later.
They spent most of the weekend in bed, ordering in first a pizza, then a Chinese, watching old movies on television while drinking more vintage Roederer Cristal champagne, which he had nipped out and bought from an off-licence. He liked her skin, he told her. He liked her hair, her teeth, her smell, her humour.
She liked everything about him.
‘The following weekend he took me away,’ she said. ‘To a gorgeous country house hotel. He picked me up in his car, a beautiful Aston Martin convertible – which I later found out was rented.’ She closed her eyes and remembered how she had sat back in the soft seat, cocooned in the rich scent of leather, with warm June air blowing on her face.
They’d slept in a suite with a four-poster bed, gone for long walks along sandy beaches, and lunched and dined on endless glasses of vintage champagne and rich white wine.
She told the psychologist all of this.
‘So when did it start to go wrong, Red?’ Judith Biddlestone asked when she had finished.
Red shrugged. ‘God, that’s a big one. I think the truth is, it went wrong way back before we ever met.’
The psychologist waited.
‘He had issues in his childhood.’
‘What issues?’
‘I think he was abused.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Something he let slip a couple of times. It just made me wonder.’
‘What did he let slip?’
‘Well, it wasn’t much really. Sometimes when he was angry he would make a comment about his bitch mother. He hates smoking – I tried not to let him see me smoking. But I remember one time he saw me and said I was just like his fucking mother. But he wouldn’t talk about her. I did try to get him to open up to me, but he would get angry, almost instantly, whenever I did. And violent. So I stopped.’
‘When you tried to talk to him about his childhood generally, he became instantly angry and violent?’