by Peter James
Grace smiled. ‘You’re well up on your American quotes, Tom.’
‘I am American.’
122
Monday 16 March
Almost immediately after he had finished his conversation with Tom Haynes, Grace received an update email from Michelle Websdale confirming the findings of the toxicology report in Goa. Rowley Carmichael had definitely died as a result of venom from a saw-scaled viper.
At lunchtime Roy received the final piece of the jigsaw.
As soon as he had left the interview with Jodie, yesterday, with the snake fang locket, he had secured it in a sealed exhibit bag and then contacted Dr Colin Duncton, a Home Office pathologist who had developed an expertise in the interpretation of wounds and weapons.
He had spoken to the man over the phone, explaining what he wanted, and the pathologist had agreed to come down to Brighton Mortuary the next morning. He also informed the Coroner’s Officer of his action.
He was about to call the mortuary to see how Dr Duncton was getting on, when the pathologist rang him.
‘Detective Superintendent, I believe I have the good news you were hoping for. I’ve carried out a microscopic examination of the puncture-mark wound on the right ankle of Rowley Carmichael, believed to have been caused by a snake bite – a saw-scaled viper?’
‘Correct.’
‘I can tell you first that that wound was not caused by an ordinary snake bite, and I can categorically state that the wound was caused by Exhibit RG4, the snake fang that one of your officers handed to me this morning. On examination of that snake fang, I was able to detect striation marks – in particular, a number of specific ridges, furrows and unique irregularities to the surface and point of the fang which are identical with the incision wound. In my opinion, this snake fang caused that wound. In addition, I have arranged for it to be examined in a forensic science lab, as I believe they will find minute fibre traces from the deceased’s trousers. Do you have them?’
‘Thanks, that is brilliant news! I’ll try to track down the trousers.’
‘As always, I will send you a full report outlining my findings in due course. But I will email you something you can use now.’
As soon as he ended the call, Roy Grace updated Pewe, the CPS and his team, and instructed Norman Potting to prepare a murder charge against Jodie Carmichael.
His good mood stayed with him throughout the day. He arrived home earlier than normal, shortly after 5.30 p.m., with a beautiful bouquet of stargazer lilies for Cleo.
It seemed that even Noah sensed his good mood, and slept through most of the night. But Roy lay awake for much of it, running on adrenalin, thinking about the incredible turn of events this past day had brought. With Norman Potting’s discovery of the vial and the subsequent identification of the contents, and the conclusive match of Jodie’s snake fang and the wound to Carmichael’s leg, they now had the evidence to nail this bitch. Tooth, whose disappearance had long been a thorn in his side, was now under police guard. Almost certainly, if he survived, he would be permanently brain-damaged. And tomorrow the Extradition Team, who had travelled back to France this afternoon, would be bringing Crisp home in custody, to face the overwhelming mass of evidence against him.
An added bonus was the phone call he’d received shortly before leaving the office from Pat Lanigan, who was close to ecstatic. The contents of the USB memory stick recovered from Tooth were pure dynamite, Lanigan said. It gave them names, links and associations that the entire NYPD Mafia-busting team had been working a long time to find.
Grace asked him if he would do him a favour and email his arsehole boss ACC Pewe, to tell him of their gratitude.
‘You got it, pal, right away!’ Lanigan had replied.
Finally, an hour of dreamless sleep claimed him before the alarm beeped.
Cleo had not stirred. But he was wide awake again. He went through to Noah’s room and, without disturbing his son, sat in the rocking chair beside his cot, where Cleo sat when she was feeding him, thinking about the day ahead. And the weeks and months of paperwork that now lay in front of him to ensure, as best he could, the successful prosecutions of Crisp, Jodie and Tooth. On top of the rest of his workload of previous cases coming to trial. It would be months of pen-pushing, he thought gloomily, before he would be back as a fully operational homicide detective.
He slipped back to their bedroom, brushed his teeth, then pulled on his jogging gear, went downstairs, grabbed Humphrey’s lead and took him out into the early-morning dark, misty drizzle.
Forty-five minutes later, invigorated by exercise and a shower, he dressed and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for Cleo, and to feed Humphrey. He entered the kitchen, switching the light on, and said his usual, ‘Morning, Marlon!’ to his goldfish. Then as he looked at the square tank on the work surface his heart sank.
‘No!’
He ran across and peered in. The goldfish was floating, motionless, on the surface. ‘Marlon! Marlon!’
He dipped his cupped hand in the cold water and lifted the fish out. ‘Marlon. Hey, old chap. Hey!’
As the water drained from his palm the small fish lay there, eyes glazed and motionless.
His heart heaved. ‘Fellow!’ he said. ‘Hey, fella?’ He blew on the creature, but there was no sign of any movement. ‘Hey, come on!’
He slipped him gently back into the water. ‘Come on, chap, swim! Come on!’
Then his mobile phone rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
It was Marcel. His voice was sombre. ‘Roy, I am sorry for calling you so early.’
‘No, it’s fine, I’m up.’
‘I thought you would want to know. I’m afraid I don’t have good news. I’ve just had a phone call from the clinic. Sandy was found dead in her room a short while ago at around 4 a.m. this morning.’
‘Dead?’
Roy Grace felt as if the floor was sinking beneath his feet. As if he was in a lift that was plunging downward. ‘Dead?’ he repeated.
‘I’m sorry to give you this sad news.’
‘How – I mean – what – what happened?’
The German detective hesitated. ‘Well, I’m sorry if this information is going to distress you. She was found by a nurse. I just went to the hospital to see for myself. She had hanged herself from a cord she attached to a light fitting.’
‘Jesus,’ he said.
The floor was still sinking and the whole kitchen seemed to be swaying. He gripped hold of the oak refectory table with one hand to steady himself. ‘Oh God, Marcel, that’s awful. Thank you – thank you – for – for telling me.’
‘Roy, there is some more information I have for you. Sandy – her son, Bruno, yes?’
‘Bruno. Yes, Bruno,’ he said in a daze.
‘Sandy left a letter in her bedside cabinet. It was sealed, but on the front was written, “To be opened in the event of my death.”’
Grace said nothing. Kullen continued.
‘I just opened it. Inside is a laboratory DNA report on Bruno, confirming from DNA samples from him, yourself and from Sandy that you are the father. And there is a letter, written to you, in her handwriting. Do you want me to read it to you? Or I can scan it and email it to your private address.’
Upstairs, he heard Noah crying. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Please scan it and email it, and I’ll call you back later this morning.’
‘You will have it in a few minutes.’
Roy sat down bleakly at the kitchen table, staring at the tank, willing Marlon to suddenly start moving. But the fish remained motionless. He looked at his phone, waiting. Moments later, the email arrived from Kullen.
He opened the attachment and looked at the words, written in Sandy’s familiar handwriting. It was less neat than it used to be, but still clearly legible. Clearly hers.
Dearest Roy,
If you are reading this then you will know that I am gone. Where, eh? We used to talk about that, didn’t we? All those long discussions about whether we ju
st faded to black, oblivion, or whatever. Guess I’ll find out now – or not.
I know you came to see me looking for answers, I’ll do my best here in this letter. I made a mess of things, that’s for sure, but I don’t blame you for anything, and I don’t want you blaming yourself. But your suddenly coming back into my life is too much. I’ve been happy, being anonymous. Now I’ve got a whole shitload of stuff dumped on me. All the people I’d have to tell – my parents, friends, authorities – I just can’t cope with this – the shame and the embarrassment. I don’t know how to start or where to go. I certainly didn’t want you back in my life, I can’t deal with it. I don’t really think I can face anything, it’s all too much. Like I’ve been living this past decade in some kind of a cocoon – some huge bubble – and suddenly the bubble’s burst. We all make choices in life, constantly, every day, and sometimes they are the right choices and sometimes the wrong ones. I did a bad thing in the way I left you, but back then I really didn’t want a future with a man married to his work. I didn’t want to be the third party in that triangle. I discovered I was pregnant and I had some fast decisions to make. Either I stayed, in which case I would have been trapped by this child into remaining with you – for a while, at least. Or I had an abortion. But I didn’t like that option, not after trying all those years to get pregnant, all the infertility treatments we endured. I was scared about my biological clock ticking – stupid, I know, because I was still young, but I was afraid that if I had an abortion, would I ever get a second chance? So the other option was that I leave, without you ever knowing I was expecting our child.
I don’t really understand what was going through my mind at that time. You know I had never been happy about the hours you worked. I think it was that day, your thirtieth birthday, when we had planned a lovely, romantic dinner together, and then I got your call that yet again you were on a case and would be late. Something snapped inside me, and I made my escape – I’d been planning the possibility for some time, sitting on the fence, wondering if I would have the courage to actually do it. Simple as that. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I hope this, in particular, will help ease your pain rather than worsen it:
You need to know I wasn’t a saint, I wasn’t the good person you always believed I was. This may hurt to read, but you need to know that I wasn’t always faithful to you – I had some one-night stands. I’m not making any excuses – nor am I going to name names. I’ve been in a dark place for years. Since long before you and I ever met. I thought being with such a strong, stable man would help me, that you would be my rock. But it didn’t, not really. I hid things from you, like the medication I took for anxiety. You never knew that I was hooked on valium for quite a while – I managed to keep that from you. I kept a lot from you. I’m not a nice person, I never have been. I’m just a mess. My depression spirals. A guy I was going out with a few years ago got me into drugs and I spent two years, maybe longer, I don’t remember exactly, hooked on heroin. I tried to clean up as much for Bruno’s sake as anything. There’s so much I wanted to tell you – and ask you – when you came here last. I don’t know why I didn’t. I was so shocked to see you, my head was all over the place. I guess I knew then I couldn’t see any future. My face is going to be permanently scarred. I’ve got motor-control problems – the consultant neurosurgeon just told me that my head hit the road at a bad angle – the worst bloody angle it could have hit – all my grey matter is jumbled up inside the box that’s meant to protect it. But hey, I’m rambling.
I never wanted you back, but seeing you and Cleo – that was pretty hard. It drove it home that for me, you’re gone forever.
The thing is, Roy, I just see the future as a long, dark tunnel with no end. There’s no hope, no future. Especially now everyone knows the truth. I just can’t cope, I don’t want to go on. Many people could cope with that, but I’m not strong enough to.
There, you have it. You are well shot of me. But just one thing I ask you, and I know I don’t really have the right to ask you anything – but this is not his fault. So please, when I am gone, take care of our son, Bruno. He worries me; you’ll see what I mean. Don’t give him to my parents, they’d never cope and it would be hell for him. I’m leaving you plenty of money for him, to pay for his education and set him up in life. I’ve also left you DNA proof that you are his father. You won’t know this but I took some samples from our house when I visited Brighton last year.
I do still love you, even though it might not have seemed that way to you for all these years. Sorry, but this is really the end for me. I know I’m a coward, but then maybe I always have been.
Sandy
123
Tuesday 17 March
‘Darling, I’m so late, I’ve got to fly.’ Cleo ran into the kitchen, then stopped. ‘Oh God,’ she said as she saw Grace sitting at the table with his face in his hands, then noticed the goldfish.
She walked across to the tank and peered in for some moments, frowning. ‘No!’ she said. ‘Marlon!’ She dipped her hand in the water and gently lifted the fish out, studying it intently. ‘Awwww, Marlon. You poor little thing.’
She shot a glance back at Roy, lowered Marlon back into the tank, rinsed her hand under the tap and dried it. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She walked over to Grace, stood behind him and put her arms round his shoulders, giving him a squeeze. ‘He lived to a pretty good age. He’s outlived a lot of goldfish by years, and he had a nice life.’
Grace nodded.
‘He won the jackpot having you as his dad!’
He gave a bleak smile. ‘Thanks.’ There was someone else who now had him as their dad. He needed to break the news to her, but now was not the moment as she was dashing off. He would do it later – and that would give him time to think. Time he very badly needed. He needed to compose himself and sort this mess out.
On top of the shock of having it confirmed he had a ten-year-old son, he was still reeling from the news of Sandy’s suicide. Shouldn’t he have spotted the danger signals all those years ago? But what were the danger signals? Leaving him the way she had had made his life hell. By disappearing off the face of the earth, there were plenty of people, he knew, including Cassian Pewe, who had harboured sneaking suspicions that he had murdered her.
Another dark thought swirled through him. ‘I wasn’t always faithful to you.’
So who were you unfaithful with? How many times, how many people? Is there someone I know who you once slept with, who secretly smirks every time he sees me?
And what did you mean when you said about Bruno – ‘He worries me, you’ll see what I mean’?
Cleo hurried over to the door, glancing up at the kitchen clock then at her watch as if for confirmation. ‘Shit, I can’t believe the time! I’m so late – we’ve four post-mortems this morning and we’re one short on the team. Look, darling, why don’t we find something nice to put Marlon in and bury him this evening?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, good idea.’ He could hardly speak. In a way he was relieved by Cleo rushing out, it bought him more time to think. He heard the front door close, a car door slam, followed by the familiar sound of her Audi’s engine firing up and being revved far too hard while it was still cold.
Kaitlynn arrived a few minutes later. He found a small plastic sandwich box in a cupboard, put Marlon in, wrapped in a folded bed of kitchen roll, and placed him on a high shelf. Then he left without eating anything; he had no appetite.
Somehow, Roy got through the morning at work. But he was unable to concentrate. He kept pulling out his phone and reading and rereading Sandy’s letter. Even a call from an uncharacteristically friendly Cassian Pewe, congratulating him, failed to lift his mood.
It was ironic, he kept thinking. For almost all of the time he’d been with Sandy they’d been trying for a child. After she had vanished, for almost another decade he hoped desperately she would come back. Then when he and Cleo began seeing each other, all that changed. But there had always been the spectre of Sandy somewhere in the
background. And he had always felt something would happen one day; something that would shake him to the core.
But never in a million years did he think she’d had their son. God, so much to think of that had suddenly landed on him. What was the boy like? What were his interests? Could he speak any English? How would he feel about being uprooted to England? More irony, he thought, since he was conceived here.
And more important than anything, how would Cleo react?
At lunchtime he asked Glenn to come to the Black Lion, because he needed his advice. Sitting in a booth, while his friend hungrily ate his way through a plate of lasagne, Grace’s sandwich lay untouched in front of him.
‘Suicide?’
Grace nodded.
‘You can’t blame yourself. Her life sounds like one long train crash after she left you.’
‘Maybe if I’d said to her I’d have her back, she’d be alive now?’
Branson stared him hard in the face. ‘What have you got inside that skull of yours? Shit for brains or something? You’ve moved on – like – your life’s moved on a thousand miles. You have Cleo and Noah. They’re your life and your future. Having Sandy back was never an option.’
‘Cleo, Noah and now Bruno,’ Grace corrected him.
‘Do you have any other options for the boy? Grandparents? They could look after him if it’s too big a burden for you and Cleo right now. You told me Sandy’s parents are still alive, living in Seaford, right?’
‘They’re toxic, I can’t stand them. God, I wouldn’t entrust any kid to them, they’re horrible people. When I phoned them last week, despite what Sandy said, to say she was alive and I’d been to see her, there was no thank you! Instead of being thrilled they had got their daughter back, it was almost as if they were disappointed that the focus of their misery for the past decade had suddenly been taken away from them. They didn’t even seem that bothered about phoning her, or jumping on a plane and flying out to see her.’