Love You Dead

by Peter James

  ‘Thank you,’ Grace said. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘I’m off on holiday later today,’ she said. ‘I’m short-staffed at the moment, so West Sussex Coroner, Penny Schofield, has seconded one of her officers to me, Michelle Websdale. She’ll liaise with you.’

  ‘I’ll wait to hear from her. In the meantime, I’m contacting London Zoo, as soon as they’re open, to see if they could send down an expert in snakes to accompany a search team to Stonor’s home, as a precaution. I’ve just established he lived with his girlfriend, a woman called Angi Bunsen, who has no criminal record.’

  Roy ended the call and returned to his now lukewarm porridge. Too often with murder enquiries he felt deep empathy for the victims. But it would be harder to feel much for such a vile shitbag as Shelby Stonor, as many of his past victims had been old and vulnerable.

  So often, people like Stonor, who blighted the lives of decent folk, got away with it for decades, thanks to the injustices of the legal system. Equally, he recognized that he was a human being who, regardless of his criminal past, deserved the same in-depth enquiry he would give anyone. Undoubtedly, as was the case with most villains, Stonor’s past would turn out to be a tragic one: a broken home, or alcoholic or abusive parents, who had never given him much of a chance in life, never set any kind of example or moral boundary for him. A sad victim of life and robbed of any future by an early death. Grace knew now that Stonor had had a girlfriend and probably a family, and they, too, deserved his best efforts.

  55

  Monday 2 March

  Tooth arrived back in his hotel room soon after 11 a.m., having walked the few miles there and back to Roedean Crescent. He’d talked to two builders who were Polish and they had trouble understanding him. He explained he was a private detective working for a car insurance company, and that the occupant of the house, Jodie Bentley, whom he was trying to find, had given her name as a witness at an accident. But he got very little from them.

  They worked for a London property management company engaged by the house’s owner, and were currently fitting new guttering. There had been a break-in last week, which was why they’d boarded up that particular window – it was the one where the intruder had entered. They seemed pretty glad the window was boarded up, because of the reptiles in the room, which neither of them had liked the look of. They’d seen the woman – she’d asked them to board up the window, but they were not able to tell him anything about her, or when she was due back.

  At this moment there seemed only one way to find out. And that was to keep watch on her house until she returned. However long that took. Which was fine.

  Back in his days as a sniper, he’d once sat for three weeks in the shell of a building, in blistering heat, permanently thirsty and hungry, with scorpions, spiders and the occasional curious snake as his only visitors, waiting for his target to appear in the cross-hairs of his sight. The spray of crimson from the exploding enemy head, when he’d finally pulled the trigger, had made it all worthwhile.

  Sitting in a rental car, for however long it took for Jodie Bentley to return home, would be relative luxury.

  56

  Tuesday 3 March

  ‘What are you reading, my angel?’

  Luxuriating on a blue-cushioned lounger on the open-air pool deck of the Organza, with her third Mimosa of the afternoon in a champagne glass beside her, Jodie Carmichael tilted up her straw hat and turned, with a smile, to her husband of just twenty-six hours, who had an art magazine folded across his plump, reddening stomach.

  They were protected from the wind by tall windows all around, and there was a round Jacuzzi at the far end. A row of wheelchairs, mobility scooters and Zimmer frames were lined up beyond it.

  ‘I’ve just finished the Simon Toyne. I’m now reading a book on Mumbai I got from the ship’s library. I’m so excited – I’ve never been to India.’

  ‘Crazy place, Mumbai,’ he said. ‘I went to a cricket match there a few years ago. It’s their national game – almost their unifying religion. Ever watched a game?’

  She shook her head. ‘Never really understood it. Have you played much, yourself?’

  ‘I was quite a useful spin bowler in my youth,’ he said, digging his fingers into a bowl of nuts beside him. Then he snapped his fingers at a passing steward and barked an order for a pink gin for himself and another Mimosa for his bride. Jodie cringed at his rude treatment of the sweet, young Filipino.

  She continued reading. It was the four pages on the crocodile farm that she was focused on and studying intently. Sizing up the opportunities. There was plenty of wild terrain that visitors had to walk through, and that was good. That was exactly what she’d hoped.

  Wild terrain.

  The perfect home for the kind of cold-blooded creatures she was fond of, and understood.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘there’s cricket on in Mumbai when we arrive there – they have a magnificent stadium. I think you’d find it quite something! But, of course, if you’d still prefer the crocodile farm . . .?’ His voice was full of hope and she didn’t want to dash that.

  ‘My darling, of course, if you’d rather we do that?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, my angel,’ he said. ‘If my beautiful bride has set her heart on the crocodile farm, that’s what we’ll do. Hell, I can see cricket any time.’

  ‘Are you really sure?’

  He took her hand and held it. His palm felt sweaty, repulsing her. ‘Being with you is all that matters. I couldn’t possibly concentrate on a cricket match – my mind would be on far more naughty thoughts!’

  ‘I love your naughtiness!’

  ‘And I love yours. Fancy going back to the cabin – you know – get out of the sun for a bit?’

  ‘Haven’t you just ordered more drinks, my love?’

  ‘Ah – yes – ah – good point.’

  She slipped her free hand across and down the front of his orange trunks, which had dollar signs all over them, and gently stroked him. ‘Now this is what I call a good point,’ she said, feeling him stiffen in her hand.

  He let out a gasp of pleasure.

  Then, as the steward arrived with their drinks, she hastily removed her hand and returned to her book. To the photographs of the crocodile farm.

  How lucky she was, she thought, to have such a sweet, understanding husband.

  How sad that it would only be for a short while longer, if all went to plan.

  So sad she almost shed a crocodile tear.

  57

  Tuesday 3 March

  Haydn Kelly had positively identified the woman from the footage DC Alexander had obtained, entering the arrivals hall at Heathrow Terminal Three on Friday 20 February, and heading towards the exit.

  But, so far, none of the taxi drivers or limousine companies had come up with anyone remotely matching her description.

  Shortly before 9 a.m. Roy Grace drove past the black and gold sign which read BRIGHTON AND HOVE CITY MORTUARY. As he pulled into a parking space at the rear, Glenn Branson drew up alongside him. There was no sign of the Home Office pathologist, who was due to start the examination of Shelby Stonor’s body at 10 a.m. after travelling down from Birmingham.

  ‘Morning,’ Branson greeted him, then, as his self-appointed style guru, eyed him up and down as usual, to Grace’s annoyance. Grace was dressed for work in a dark suit, white shirt, plain tie and polished black shoes. ‘Expected to see you in tweeds and muddy wellies, chewing straw – you know – with your move to the country and all.’

  ‘Haha. How’s Siobhan?’

  ‘Yeah, all right. We took the kids to a farm shop place at the weekend to see the animals – they have chickens, rabbits, guinea pigs roaming around. Noah would love it. If you need any chickens, they sell them.’

  Grace grinned. ‘I usually get mine from the butcher in Henfield.’

  ‘Very funny. Listen, we came back along the coast and the kids had brilliant burgers in a place in Peacehaven. Big Mouths – know it?’

&
nbsp; Grace shook his head. ‘How were the kids with Siobhan?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Branson smiled, and Grace caught a glimpse of something wistful in his expression. ‘It’s hard for them, you know. But Siobhan’s finding ways to their hearts – mostly by spoiling them! And they’re really taking to her, which is a good thing cos there’s going to be times when she’s going to have to look after them without me there. At least she understands about working round the clock, you know, with her own job. She’s not like Ari, she gets what we do and the crazy hours we have to work. But she’s finding being a journalist much more demanding than she’d expected whilst she was a student.’

  ‘Where did she study?’

  ‘Here in the city at a place called Brighton Journalist Works.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A specialist college. They train journalists – they work closely with the Argus.’

  ‘Let’s hope they trained her better than her predecessor – bloody Spinella,’ Grace retorted.

  Part of the reason Glenn Branson’s marriage had broken up was the long and frequently unsociable hours that he worked. Ari had taken up with a new man who had started to act as a father to their son, Sammy, and their daughter, Remi. Branson had taken back that role as soon as Ari had died. Grace was relieved he was now with someone who understood his world.

  To be a homicide detective meant putting work above your family. You could be called out at a moment’s notice, any time of the day or night and any day of the year. If the phone rang during Christmas lunch or in the middle of your daughter’s birthday party or while you were out at dinner celebrating your wedding anniversary, that was it. You just grabbed your go-bag, that was always packed with essentials as you might need to sleep in the office, working very long hours for days on end.

  ‘Does she want kids of her own?’

  Branson nodded, then shrugged. ‘That could be a problem.’

  ‘You don’t want any more?’

  He shrugged again. ‘This job – you know? When I was a nightclub bouncer at least I worked regular hours, even if I was out most nights. Everyone knew when I’d be home and when I wouldn’t be. I was able to be a decent father to them then. Even when I first joined the police it was OK. All that changed when I moved to Major Crime – and no longer had a proper home life.’

  Grace put his arm round his friend’s massive, powerful shoulders and squeezed. ‘It’s what it is.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. And it’s always going to be.’

  ‘Unless you apply for a transfer to another department or transfer back to division.’

  Branson shook his head. ‘No way, I love this work. You said to me once that you never wanted to do anything different. I get that, I’m the same.’

  ‘Make sure you make it up to her when you get home late. Offer to cook dinner or buy her a nice, thoughtful present.’

  ‘Good advice.’

  They reached the mortuary’s front door.

  A large, opaque window to their right provided light for the main post-mortem room. Grace rang the bell.

  Moments later, Cleo, in green scrubs, gloves and white rubber boots, opened the door. Her face brightened when she saw them. ‘Hi, guys – great you’ve arrived before the pathologist – I need you to help me with a bit of a dilemma.’ She gave Branson a peck on the cheek and Grace a kiss on the lips, and ushered them into the changing room.

  They gowned up and put on rubber boots also, then Cleo led them through into the large, open-plan post-mortem room. The place had a neat and tidy post-weekend feel about it. All except one of the steel post-mortem tables were empty and spotless. In the alcove to the left lay a motionless figure encased head to toe in black rubber, with two tiny eye-slits in a gimp mask.

  Cleo stood over it and peeled back the mask to reveal the face of an elderly man. His eyes were wide open and, despite being dead, they seemed to have a twinkle in them.

  Branson giggled, irreverently. ‘A proper little bouncing boy you’ve got here!’

  Grace smiled. The poor man looked ridiculous. ‘Seems like he died having a nice time,’ he said.

  ‘He was,’ Cleo confirmed, also smiling. They were joined by Darren, Cleo’s Assistant Mortuary Technician, a sharp, good-looking and pleasant-natured young man in his twenties, with spiky black hair, similarly clad to the rest of them.

  ‘They called him Rubber Johnny,’ Darren said, his mouth twisted into a grin.

  ‘Who did?’ Grace asked.

  ‘All the girls who worked there, apparently.’

  ‘Didn’t Rubber Johnny use to be slang for a condom?’ Branson asked. ‘I saw that in a movie – was it Quadrophenia?’

  ‘The problem I have,’ Cleo said, ‘is that this sweet little old man, Ian Rolf, has been visiting a dominatrix dungeon in Saltdean every Monday morning for the past ten years. Apparently he would tell his wife he was off to play golf, put his clubs in the car and then go to this dominatrix place. Yesterday, he suddenly stopped breathing. They panicked, tried to resuscitate him, then called an ambulance.’

  ‘Either a heart attack or a stroke?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Seems likely,’ Cleo said.

  ‘Lucky sod,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘That’s the way to go. Out with a bang and a hard-on. Beats being wheeled around an old folks’ home, playing tiddlywinks and pissing in your pants any day.’

  All of them laughed.

  ‘Maybe,’ Cleo said. ‘But what the hell am I supposed to tell his widow?’

  ‘The truth,’ Grace said.

  ‘I can’t, Roy! That would just be so cruel. Can you imagine finding that out about the man you loved? That he’d been deceiving you for so long?’

  They heard the doorbell and Cleo went off to answer it.

  ‘Does his widow need to know, Roy?’ Branson asked.

  Grace stared down at the dead man’s face. He really did look happy. Most dead bodies he’d attended had their faces frozen in shock or pain. ‘I’m sure it would be better for her and her family if she didn’t. But she has to know the truth – it’ll come out.’

  ‘You implying I’ll tell Siobhan so she can write it in the Argus? Never!’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. But it’s going to come out at the inquest. Better to let his widow find it out sensitively.’

  Grace reflected for a moment on his own massive issue, and when he was going to tell Cleo.

  ‘Morning all!’

  They turned to see a tall, reedy man in his mid-thirties, with lank, floppy hair, dressed in a jacket over a black T-shirt, blue jeans and fancy, knobbly, black and white trainers. He strode into the room in light, bouncy steps, followed by the Coroner’s Officer, Michelle Websdale, a slim, fair-haired former Border Agencies officer, whose attractive model looks belied her tough character. She even managed to make her baggy green scrubs look like they were designer chic, Grace thought. Behind her was the youthful Crime Scenes Investigator, Chris Gee, also gowned up and holding a camera. Grace always thought Gee, much like Cleo, looked too gentle a person for such a grim job, yet Gee was unfazed by almost anything – except children. Children were the one thing that most affected all those in the emergency services, without exception.

  Grace held out his hand to the stranger he presumed must be the Home Office pathologist, Nick Best. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace – and this is my colleague, Detective Inspector Branson.’ He introduced Websdale and Gee also.

  Best had a warm smile but a rather brusque nature. ‘Good to meet you all. So, my information is we have a suspected death from poisoning?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ the Coroner’s Officer said.

  ‘I’ll go and get my kit on.’

  ‘I’ll show you the changing room.’ Cleo smiled at him. ‘This way.’ She led the way back out into the corridor.

  The pathologist looked at Cleo in a way, suddenly, that Grace did not like. It was a really lechy stare.

  Nor did he much like the smile Cleo gave the man back.

  Shit, he was jea
lous! And he felt almost ridiculously relieved when Cleo came straight back in. It was the first time, ever, that he had felt such an emotion. He didn’t like it. And he didn’t like himself for feeling it.

  ‘So, guys,’ Cleo said. ‘What am I going to do with – er – Rubber Johnny?’

  ‘Remove his kit for the viewing,’ Grace said. ‘The widow’s going to have to formally identify him. It’ll be easier for her if he’s not in a latex shroud.’

  ‘Yep, you’re right,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’ Then she led them all through towards the Isolation Room.

  As they crowded round the door, peering in through the glass panel at the body on the solitary table, Cleo instructed them all to put on their face masks.

  ‘Righty ho!’ said Nick Best, joining them. He was gowned-up in white, head to toe, with a full head mask and visor, as if ready to enter a nuclear waste site, and holding a small bag. ‘Let’s go and check out le plat du jour!’

  He entered the Isolation Room, followed by the others. Last in, Grace closed the door behind them. As he did, Glenn Branson took a shocked step back and said, his voice muffled, ‘Oh Jesus!’

  58

  Tuesday 3 March

  After Rollo had left the cabin to play bridge again, at 4 p.m., Jodie waited a few minutes to ensure he didn’t come back for something he had forgotten, then she changed. She slipped on a push-up bra, slinky top, a short skirt and high-heeled sandals, then admired herself in the full-length mirror, mouthing, with a grin, ‘You are so sexy!’

  She made her way along to the ship’s doctor, on a lower deck down in the bowels of the ship, placing her hands in the wall-mounted disinfection unit before entering. She explained her reasons for her visit to the nurse, who asked her to take a seat and fill in a form. Then she was ushered into the consulting room, which contained an examination couch, eye-test chart, towel dispenser and a desk with a computer screen and keyboard.