by Peter James
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What address has this woman put for these applications, Kelly?’
‘Well,’ she said, sounding doubtful, ‘that’s where the trail runs cold. The mail for each application address seems to have been forwarded to PO boxes at mailbox companies. The direct debit to pay them comes from a company with nominee directors based in Port Victoria, Mahé, Seychelles.’
‘How cooperative is the Seychelles, Kelly?’
‘Unfortunately she’s chosen well, sir. At the moment, all the financial links end up in the Seychelles. It’s a notoriously secretive country and any request for information would have to go via NCA – the National Crime Agency – which could take some considerable time.’
‘Good work. Have you any more information that might lead us to her?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
He thanked her again and was about to hang up when the financial investigator said, ‘The second thing, sir, may be a more tenuous link, but I have a feeling it could be significant. There’s a connection between these three cards and a fourth card being used in the name of Jodie Danforth in the Brighton area.’
‘Jodie Danforth? Shit! Can you spell it?’
She replied, ‘D-A-N-F-O-R-T-H.’
He was thinking hard. Jodie Danforth. The name that Michelle Websdale had given him of the Brighton widow whose husband had died on a cruise from a snake bite.
‘OK, Kelly, as a priority action find out all you can about Jodie Danforth and come back to me as soon as possible!’
He ended the call and immediately rang the Coroner’s Officer’s mobile.
‘Michelle,’ he said when she answered. ‘It’s Roy Grace. Listen, what’s the process from now with Rowley Carmichael’s body?’
‘It’s at Brighton and Hove City Mortuary until the Coroner agrees to release it for the funeral.’
‘I’ve got some significant new information. Can you ask the Coroner not to release it until I give you the OK?’
‘Sure, I’ll inform her.’
‘Thanks. It might be really important.’
77
Tuesday 10 March
After finishing his call to Michelle Websdale, Grace, feeling parched, debated whether to make himself a quick coffee. But he was already late, so he hurried on. Entering the conference room he saw the whiteboards set up, and all his team members, minus Glenn Branson and Norman Potting, seated around the oval table.
Pinned to one whiteboard was a blow-up of the photograph Lesley had flagged in the Argus. An elderly man, handsome and distinguished-looking, if a little portly, in a white tuxedo with a black bow tie, the woman in a long evening dress, her hair in ringlets, with mesmerizing blue eyes. He immediately recognized her from the CCTV images Lanigan had sent.
She sported an enormous, sparkling rock of an engagement ring. But although they were standing together, the man’s arm affectionately round the shoulders of his bride of just a day or two, her body language told Grace everything. She was angled very slightly away from him, and there was too much of a gap between them. Whilst he had a proud, happy smile on his face, her smile looked more like it was put on for the camera – her eyes were very definitely not smiling.
Grace sat down at his place, laying the newspaper, his policy book and his briefing notes in front of him, then began by bringing his team up to speed on the information he now had on the death of Brighton resident Rowley Burnett Carmichael.
Next he reported on the information he had just received from Kelly Nicholls. ‘What may be highly relevant is the Asda in the Marina. So far as I’m aware it’s the closest superstore to the Roedean area of the city. The location where the geo-mapping puts the blurred photograph on the whiteboard, the one taken almost certainly accidentally by Shelby Stonor. The post-mortem confirms Stonor died from a saw-scaled viper bite. Jodie’s new husband has just died from a saw-scaled viper bite. And she has been buying products from a reptile food supplier. Since there is no reported death from a snake bite of a Brighton resident since records began over sixty years ago, I’m viewing this as significant. One question still unanswered is how Shelby Stonor got bitten. Is it possible the house where the photograph was taken was a burglary? Had he broken into Jodie’s house – somewhere in this city – and been bitten in the process?’
He glanced at his notes for a moment. ‘This is an important line of enquiry but we do need to keep an open mind. The newly-wed Carmichaels were in a part of India where I’m told these snakes are commonplace and kill many thousands annually.’
DS Cale raised her hand. ‘Boss,’ she said. ‘I have something that may be significant here. Two hours ago I received a phone call from a Mr Harvey Dexter, a retired consultant radiologist, who lives in Eastbourne. He said he’d just been reading the newspaper – the one you have a copy of in front of you – and he believes he recognizes the woman in the photograph.’ She pointed at the whiteboard. ‘He is convinced he stood opposite that lady in a cable car in the French resort of Courchevel a month ago – he was wearing a GoPro camera on his helmet.’
‘Nice life,’ Guy Batchelor commented. ‘Skiing one month, cruising the next.’
Ignoring him, Grace said, ‘And his point is what, Tanja?’
‘Well – he said his career helped him become extremely analytical of photographs. He said that even though she and the man she was with both had ski helmets on, he’s convinced she was the same lady as in this photograph in the Argus. But his GoPro video is of a man who’s not Rowley Carmichael, but Walt Klein – the disgraced American financier who fell to his death over a precipice in Courchevel.’
‘So this is eye-witness evidence that the woman on the slopes with Klein is the same person as Jodie Carmichael,’ Grace said.
It was more confirmation of what he already knew.
‘Look on the bright side, Walt Klein did better than the next bloke she had her claws into,’ Guy Batchelor commented. ‘He only lasted four days!’
Some of the team laughed.
‘Two dead lovers in a month?’ Grace questioned.
‘To lose one may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose two looks like carelessness,’ DS Exton said. ‘In the words of Oscar Wilde!’
‘I think Wilde was referring to husbands, Jon,’ Tanja Cale said.
Grace remembered an Oscar Wilde play he and Sandy went to see in the city’s Theatre Royal. ‘I think the line was about parents, actually, Jon and Tanja. But I get your drift.’ He turned to Tanja Cale. ‘How certain is this Harvey Dexter character?’
‘Absolutely adamant, sir.’
‘Does he still have the footage?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We need to get him interviewed, and get a copy of the video.’
‘I’m seeing him straight after this briefing, sir. I’m going to his house.’
‘Nice work.’ He turned to DS Batchelor. ‘Any progress on what I gave you, Guy?’
‘Not much I’m afraid, boss. I’ve looked up everyone in the local area who might have a licence to keep a saw-scaled viper and there’s no one. But that doesn’t mean much, I’m afraid. I’ve also spoken to one of the country’s leading experts on venomous snakes – a herpetologist called Mark O’Shea. He’s the Consultant Curator of Reptiles at the West Midland Safari Park, and a well-known broadcaster. He told me that although we have strict rules about keeping venomous snakes in the UK, under the Dangerous Animals Act, anyone can buy them over the counter at the regular snake days at reptile fairs in Hamm, Germany, and in Houton, Holland, where no licence is needed and no questions asked. Saw-scaled vipers cost around one hundred and fifty euros, and you can take them away in a plastic container the size of a sandwich box. You can also walk through UK Immigration with a bunch of these in a bag completely legally – although you are supposed to register them within forty-eight hours.’
‘Seriously? Supposed to?’
‘Hardly anyone does.’
‘This is incredible!’ Grace said. ‘You can’t bring a harmless poodle into the countr
y without a whole raft of veterinary certificates, but you can walk straight in with any number of creatures that can kill within hours?’
The detective sergeant raised his arms in a gesture of despair. ‘Yep. Unless a particular creature falls under CITES – the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species – where they require what’s called either an Appendix 1 or Appendix 2 permit, no one is breaking any law by bringing creatures like this into the country. You could bring in cobras, black mambas, trapdoor spiders, scorpions, anything.’
‘Great,’ Roy Grace said grimly. ‘So we’ve no idea how many of our citizens have venomous reptiles in their homes?’
‘Nope,’ Batchelor said. ‘I’ve found a helpful Met officer who keeps poisonous frogs as pets – his name’s Andy Gibbs. He said most collectors keep their venomous snakes in secure vivariums – these are essentially glass cages with heaters and flora replicating the inhabitants’ natural environments. But as he said, there are some nutters who keep them under the bed in cardboard boxes secured with elastic bands.’
‘Why would anyone want to keep any poisonous reptile?’ EJ asked.
‘All kinds of reasons,’ Tanja Cale said. ‘I read up on it. Some people are just plain fascinated by them. A few get a power kick out of it. It’s like those gun freaks in other countries who get off on owning an arsenal of weapons.’
‘Or people who like bumping off their loved ones?’ said Alec Davies.
DS Batchelor went on. ‘I’ve checked Jodie Bentley’s mailing address – or at least one of them – at a specialist company called Brighton Poste Restante, which is also an internet café, at 23A Western Road, and no one there has ever seen her. But there is something that may be of interest. I was told by the manager there that a strange guy turned up on the morning of Sunday March 1st, around eleven o’clock, enquiring about Jodie – an American, who was quite bolshy. He was rude to her, then went away.’
‘Did she give you a description?’ Grace asked.
‘Not much of one. Said he was short and weaselly, wearing a padded anorak, a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses.’
‘Might have been someone on Walt Klein’s trail,’ Grace said. ‘An official or unofficial investigator from the States. But if it was official, we should have been notified and asked for assistance. Have you got any CCTV?’
‘I’ve requested it, but it’ll be touch and go whether there’s any that hasn’t already been recorded over.’
‘Anything else, Guy?’
‘Yes, boss. We’ve checked the address that Jodie Carmichael gave to the Goan police, according to the Coroner’s Officer. It’s a flat in Alexandra Villas, near the Seven Dials. There was no answer and the neighbours our outside enquiry team officers spoke to say they’ve not seen anyone there for many months. They believe it’s owned by a single woman who lives overseas.’
‘Did anyone give a description of her?’
‘Yes. It sounds like our dear Jodie.’
‘Interesting,’ Grace said.
Batchelor smiled. ‘Something the guys here might want to know – I read it on the internet – some venomous snake bites have a very unpleasant side effect for survivors.’
‘Which is?’ Grace quizzed.
‘It shrinks the male victim’s dick.’
‘Don’t let one near Norman Potting!’ Jon Exton said, lifting his head from his laptop. ‘Rumour is that it’s a bit small anyway.’
‘Thank you, Jon!’ Grace said. ‘Too much information.’
Grace made some notes in his policy book, then he looked up at the photo on the whiteboard obtained from Shelby Stonor’s mobile. ‘We urgently need to find the house where that was taken. Guy, you said you recognized the style of window as mock Tudor, but unfortunately that’s one of the most common architectural styles in the city. It’s definitely not the style of the Alexandra Villas area. I’ll give you the action of finding an architect and going with them to The Keep, where all the city’s architectural records are, to see if you both can find the house from any of the plans they have there. An architect may be able to work out the room dimensions from what’s on that photograph, and see if there is anything corresponding to the plans. I know it’s a big ask but it’s vital we find it.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Grace turned to Emma-Jane Boutwood. ‘EJ, I want you to take charge of viewing all the CCTV footage that Jack has asked for from 23A Western Road around eleven a.m., Sunday March 1st.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t imagine all snakes eat the same thing. Tanja, can you work with Guy to find out the diet of a saw-scaled viper and establish what that reptile food company was supplying.’
‘Scrotes?’ someone proffered.
‘Endless supply of them in this city,’ Dave Green, who had been brought in as the Crime Scene Manager, retorted.
‘A bit indigestible most of them, even for a snake,’ Jon Exton added.
Grace turned to Alec Davies and Jack Alexander. ‘I want you two to arrange the organization of a house-to-house supervisor and a team to cover the Roedean area.’ He pointed at the photograph of Rowley Carmichael and Jodie Bentley on the cruise ship. ‘See if anyone recognizes her, or knows of a neighbour who keeps reptiles. I don’t care how invisible she’s tried to make herself, you can’t live in a city without someone noticing you eventually. There’s got to be a plumber, or electrician, or a builder who’s been to her home, for God’s sake! She’ll be paying council tax; check the electoral register with all those different names. And the driving licence records. Has she ever had a parking ticket?’
He looked down at his notes. ‘The next task we have is to set up a family tree for our mystery lady. Jodie Danforth; Jodie Bentley; Jodie Carmichael; and where do Jemma Smith and Judith Forshaw fit in? She has detailed knowledge of venomous reptiles. And it’s likely she has a house in the Roedean area of this city in addition to this Alexandra Villas flat. Jack and Alec, I’m giving you the action of finding her. See where the flat in Brighton leads us. Is there a connection with Roedean?’
He paused, then went on. ‘Let’s see if we can trace her through her mobile phone – hopefully she’ll still have the one that we have the number for with her. Perhaps we can flush her out using Michelle Websdale – see if she can arrange a meeting with Jodie, which might make finding her a lot quicker. At the same time we have to find this woman’s hunting ground. One place to look is internet dating sites – particularly those for people seeking wealthy partners. I’m told there are a number of sites where rich partners can be targeted. OK? We also need to find out where she met her previous conquests.’
Then he turned to Tanja Cale. ‘Keep me updated on any addresses within the Brighton area which have been supplied with saw-scaled viper delicacies. You might find something for your supper tonight.’
‘Thanks, boss, I’ll stick to Waitrose for that.’
After the briefing ended, Roy Grace, feeling drained, went back to his office. He closed the door, sat in his chair and stared through the darkness at the glow of lights from the Asda superstore car park and the city beyond. Chilly air blew through the window onto his face. From time to time throughout criminal history, ‘black widow’ female characters cropped up. He’d dealt with one earlier in his career, who’d knowingly left her husband-to-be to die trapped in a coffin.
Did he now have another?
His phone rang. It was Kelly Nicholls again. ‘Sir,’ she said. ‘There’s some new information come to light which might be significant.’
Grace listened. ‘Bloody hell, Kelly! Well done!’
78
Wednesday 11 March
Few police officers liked entering a prison on any kind of business. There was always the lurking fear that if you were unlucky enough to be inside the locked compound when a riot kicked off, you would rate even higher than the nonces and the prison officers as the biggest object of hatred and the No. 1 target.
Both Glenn Branson and Norman Potting, in the back of the French polic
e car, were thinking this as they were driven through the tall gates into the wire-mesh enclosed outer perimeter of the Centre Pénitentiaire de Saint-Quentin-Fallavier some kilometres from the city, shortly after 7 a.m. on a damp, chilly morning. To the two Englishmen, the utilitarian modern building looked more like a factory on an industrial estate than a prison. Their driver, who had picked them up from the hotel earlier, was friendly enough, attempting to converse in his very limited English, and they had tried to respond in their even more limited French. But neither Potting nor Branson was in a chatty mood; they were both suffering badly from the previous evening.
Knowing they had to be up at sparrows, they should have been sensible and had an early night. Instead, at a restaurant close to their hotel which their French hosts had suggested, they had downed beers, followed by a bottle of cheap red wine, then a second, as Potting had poured his heart out over the recent loss of his fiancée, and Branson, in turn, had reminisced on his failed marriage and the subsequent death of Ari. Then when they’d returned to their hotel they’d stayed up well past midnight downing cognacs, while Potting confided his fears to Branson about his recent prostate cancer diagnosis, and of having surgery.
Branson had at least eaten fairly sensibly last night: fish soup t hen steak and chips. Potting had gone for escargots in garlic butter and then what he had thought was akin to an English banger, after looking it up on Google Translate, forgetting Grace’s warning to Branson about Andouillette. He had nearly gagged from the stench that had risen from the plate when it had been presented to him. But, hungry, and numbed by the alcohol, he had dutifully consumed it. Now it was all repeating on him, and his stomach felt like it had turned into a tumble dryer.
The plan, in as much as they had been able to understand from their driver, was to witness the collection, by three officers from the UK Extradition Unit, of Edward Crisp from his cell in the hospital wing, accompanied by the prison doctor because of Crisp’s broken arm from his skiing accident. The doctor would accompany Crisp in the prison van, which was waiting in front of them, to the nearby Lyon-Saint-Exupéry Airport, where they would escort him back to England aboard a British Airways flight at 10 a.m.