by Peter James
Grace turned to DC Nicholl. ‘Nick, what do you have to report?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s actually quite interesting. After I did a nationwide search on Wilson, which didn’t come up with anything we didn’t already know, I decided that a businessman like him, with his smart house in Hove 4, was likely to have some life insurance. I did some digging and discovered Ronnie Wilson had a life insurance policy of just over one and a half million quid with the Norwich Union, taken out in 1999.’
‘Presumably his widow didn’t know this?’ Grace said.
‘I think she did,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘They paid out to her in full in March 2002.’
‘When she was in a rented flat, in distress?’ Grace asked.
‘There’s more,’ the DC said. ‘In July 2002, ten months after her husband died, Lorraine Wilson received a payment of two and a half million dollars from the 9/11 compensation fund.’
‘Three months before she jumped off the ferry,’ Lizzie Mantle said.
‘Allegedly jumped off the Newhaven–Dieppe ferry,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘She is still officially recorded as a Sussex Police missing person. I’ve checked the file and the investigators at that time were not entirely convinced that she had killed herself. But the trail went cold.’ Then he added, ‘The insurance investigator assigned to the claim on Ronnie Wilson’s policy wasn’t happy either. But there was a lot of political pressure to pay out quickly to the survivors of 9/11 victims.’
‘Two million five hundred thousand dollars – with the exchange rate back in those days, that would have been worth close to one and three-quarter million quid,’ Norman Potting said.
‘So she died in abject poverty, with over three million in the bank?’ Bella said.
‘That amount of moolah would buy you a lot of Maltesers,’ Norman Potting said to her.
‘Except the money wasn’t in the bank,’ Nick Nicholl said. He held up two folders. ‘Managed to get these a bit quicker than we should have done, thanks to Steve.’
He waved a hand in acknowledgement to thirty-year-old DC Mackie, seated further down the table, dressed in jeans and an open-neck white shirt.
Mackie spoke with quiet authority and had a tidy, efficient air about him, which Grace liked. ‘My brother works for HSBC. He fast-tracked my request.’
Nick Nicholl then removed a sheaf of documents from one folder. ‘These are all the joint-account statements of Ronnie and Lorraine Wilson going back to 2000. They show an ever-increasing overdraft, with just occasional small amounts coming in.’ He put them back in the folder and raised the second one. ‘This is much more interesting. It’s a bank account opened in Lorraine Wilson’s sole name in December 2001.’
‘For the life insurance money, presumably?’ Lizzie Mantle said.
Nick Nicholl nodded and Grace was impressed. Normally the young man lacked self-confidence, but at this moment he seemed really together.
‘Yes, that was deposited in March 2002.’
‘I don’t understand how it was paid out that fast,’ Lizzie Mantle queried. ‘I thought if there was no body found, there was a seven-year-wait before a missing person could be declared dead.’ As she spoke she deliberately avoided Roy Grace’s eyes, knowing what a sensitive issue this was for him personally.
‘There was an international agreement, thanks to an initiative from Mayor Giuliani,’ Steve Mackie said, ‘to waive this period for the families of victims 9/11 and fast-track payments.’
Nick Nicholl laid out several of the bank statements in front of him, like a dealer in a card game. ‘But this is where it gets interesting. The entire amount of that payment of one and a half million pounds was withdrawn in different-sized chunks, in cash, over the next three months.’
‘What did she do with it?’ Grace queried.
Nick Nicholl raised his hands. ‘Her sister was totally and utterly gobsmacked when I told her. Just didn’t believe it. She said that Lorraine was relying on handouts from her and from friends.’
‘And what about the 9/11 compensation payout?’ Grace asked.
‘That went into her account in July 2002.’ Nicholl held up the relevant statement. ‘Then the same thing happened. The money was withdrawn in different chunks, in cash, between then and a few weeks before she left the suicide note.’
The whole team was frowning. Glenn Branson tapped his teeth with a ballpoint pen. Lizzie Mantle, busy for a moment jotting down a note, looked up.
‘And we have no idea what this money was being used for?’ she asked. ‘Did she tell anyone at the bank what the cash was for? Presumably some questions would have been asked with that amount going to her in cash.’
‘The bank has a policy to check whether clients are under any kind of duress when withdrawing large sums in cash,’ DC Mackie said. ‘When she was asked about it, she said the bank had not supported her when her husband had died and she was damned if she was leaving the money with them.’
‘Sounds a feisty lady,’ Lizzie Mantle said.
‘Do we have a bit of a pattern forming here?’ Norman Potting asked. ‘Wilson’s first wife inherits, tells her friends she is off to America, and ends up in a storm drain. Then his second wife inherits and ends up in the Channel.’
Nodding at him, Grace decided it was time to add his latest information, courtesy of Cassian Pewe. ‘This may shed some light on things,’ he said. ‘Last month police in Geelong, near Melbourne, Australia, found the body of a woman in the boot of a car in a river,’ he said. ‘Forensic reports estimate she has been dead for a maximum of two years. The woman had breast implants, which were traced to a batch delivered to the Nuffield Hospital here in Woodingdean in June 1997. The recipient of the ones matching the serial number was Lorraine Wilson.’
He paused to let this sink in.
‘So – she like swam from the English Channel to Australia and then up a river?’ Glenn Branson said. ‘With three million quid in folding in her bathing costume.’
‘And that’s not all,’ Roy Grace went on. ‘She was four months pregnant. The Australian police were not able to find any DNA match on their records for the mother, or a familial match for the father, and wondered if there might be anything on the National
UK DNA Database. We’re waiting to hear now. Hopefully we’ll know tomorrow if there is any match on either.’
‘Seems like we have a problem, Houston,’ Norman Potting said.
‘Or perhaps a lead,’ Grace corrected him. ‘The post-mortem in Melbourne indicated the probable cause of death was strangulation,’ he continued. ‘They arrived at this conclusion because Lorraine Wilson’s hyoid bone – the U-shaped bone at the base of the neck – was broken.’
‘Which was the same probable cause of death for Joanna Wilson,’ said Nick Nicholl.
‘Well remembered,’ Grace said. ‘You’re on peak form today, Nick. I’m glad your sleepless nights haven’t dulled your wits!’
Nicholl blushed, looking pleased with himself.
‘Ronnie Wilson’s not done badly for a dead man,’ Norman Potting said. ‘Managing to strangle his wife.’
‘We don’t have enough evidence to make that assumption, Norman,’ Grace said, although privately he was wondering. He glanced at his agenda. ‘OK, so this is what’s going to happen. If she spent over three million quid in cash, in the space of a few months, someone will know about it. Glenn and Bella, I want you to prioritize that. Start with the Klingers again. Find out everything you can about the circles the Wilsons moved in. What did they spend money on? Did they gamble? Did they buy a place abroad? Or a boat? Three and a quarter million quid is a lot of money – and it’s value was even more five years ago.’
Branson and Bella nodded.
‘Steve, can you use your banking fast-track to find out what happened to Joanna Wilson’s inheritance? I appreciate we’re talking ten years back and there may not be any records. Just do all you can.’
Grace paused to check his notes, then went on. ‘I’m flying to New York tomorrow to see wh
at I can find. I’m intending to fly back overnight, Thursday night, and be here for Friday morning. I want you, Norman and Nick, to go to Australia.’
Potting looked pleased as punch at the news, but Nicholl seemed worried.
‘Reservations have been made for you on a flight out tomorrow evening. You’ll lose a day and get there for early Friday morning, Melbourne time. You could have a full day’s investigation and, with the time difference, be able to report back to us by our morning briefing here on Friday. You look like you’re fretting about something, Nick. Can you not tear yourself away from your paternal duties?’
The DC nodded.
‘You OK about going?’
He nodded again, more vigorously this time.
‘Either of you been there before?’
‘No, but I’ve got a cousin in Perth,’ Nick Nicholl said.
‘That’s almost as far from Melbourne as Brighton is,’ Bella said.
‘So I wouldn’t have time to go and see him?’
‘You’re not going on a vacation. You’re going to get a job done,’ Grace chided.
Nick Nicholl nodded.
‘Following a dead woman’s footsteps,’ Norman Potting said.
And, Grace had a hunch, maybe following a dead man’s too.
79
OCTOBER 2007
Roy Grace went straight from the briefing meeting to his office and phoned Cleo, telling her he would be later than planned as he needed to finish off here, then go home and pack a bag.
He had been to New York on several previous occasions. A couple of them were with Sandy – once for Christmas shopping and once for their fifth wedding anniversary – but the rest of the times were for work, and he always enjoyed visiting the city. He was particularly looking forward to seeing his two police friends there, Dennis Baker and Pat Lynch.
He’d met them seven years ago when, as a Detective Inspector, he’d gone to New York on a murder inquiry. That had been the year before 9/11. Dennis and Pat were then officers in the NYPD, working in Brooklyn, and had been among the first police officers on the scene at 9/11. He doubted there were two men better qualified in the whole of New York City to help him find the truth about whether or not Ronnie Wilson had perished on that dreadful day.
Cleo was fine, all sweetness and light, just get here when you can. And, she assured him, she had a very, very, very sexy treat awaiting him. Knowing from past experience just how good her sexy treats were, he decided it would be well worth the dry-cleaning bill from little Humphrey’s dog training and projectile-vomitingsession.
He turned his attention first to his emails. He replied to a couple of urgent ones and decided to leave the rest for his plane journey in the morning.
Then, just as he was making a start on his paperwork, there was a rap on the door and, without waiting for an answer, Cassian Pewe came in with a pained expression on his face. He stood in front of Grace’s desk, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, top button of his shirt open, expensive-looking tie at half mast.
‘Roy, excuse me, sorry to bounce in on you, but I’m rather hurt.’
Grace raised a finger, finished reading through a memo, then looked up at him. ‘Hurt? I’m sorry. Why?’
‘I just heard you are sending DS Potting and DC Nicholl to Melbourne tomorrow. Is that right?’
‘Yes, absolutely right.’
Pewe tapped his own chest. ‘What about me? I started this. Surely I should be one of those going?’
‘I’m sorry – what do you mean, you started it? I thought all you did was take a call from Interpol?’
‘Roy,’ he said, in an imploring tone that suggested Grace was his very, very best friend ever, ‘it was my initiative that got everything moving so fast.’
Grace nodded, irritated by the man’s attitude and the interruption. ‘Yes, and I appreciate that. But you have to understand we operate on teamwork here in Sussex, Cassian. You’re in charge of cold cases – I’m running a live inquiry. The information you’ve given me may be very helpful and your swift action has been noted.’
Now fuck off and let me get on with my work, he wanted to say, but didn’t.
‘I appreciate that. I just think that I should be one of the team going to Australia.’
‘You are better off being deployed here,’ Grace said. ‘That’s my call.’
Pewe glared at him and, in a fit of sudden pique, snapped back, ‘I think you might regret that, Roy.’
Then he stormed out of Grace’s office.
80
OCTOBER 2007
Tuesday evening, 8 o’clock. Ricky sat in his van in darkness, back at the same cross-street vantage point opposite Abby’s mother’s flat where he had waited earlier. From here he could see both the front entrance and the street she would have to use if she tried sneaking out of the rear fire-escape door.
The chill was really seeping into his bones. He just wanted to get everything back, get Abby out of his face and get the fuck out of this godforsaken damp, freezing country and into some sunshine.
He’d hardly seen a soul in the past three hours. He seemed to remember Eastbourne had a reputation as a retirement town where the average age was either dead or nearly dead. Tonight it felt as if everyone was dead. Street-lighting fell on empty pavements. Fucking waste, he thought. Someone should talk to this place about its carbon footprint.
Abby was inside, in the warm with her mother. He had a feeling she would be staying there tonight, but he did not dare leave his post and go to find a pub and have a drink or three until he was sure.
About two hours ago he’d picked up the signal from her new mobile phone when she’d made a call to her mother’s new phone to test its ring tone and volume, and to give it her number. Now, thanks to that call, he had both of their numbers logged.
When they were testing the phones he heard the television in the background. It sounded like some soap opera, with a man and a woman bickering in a car. So the bitch and her mother were settled in for a cosy evening in front of the telly, in a warm flat, charging two new mobile phones that had been bought with his money.
The Intercept beeped busily. Abby was phoning rest homes, looking for somewhere that would take her mother in immediately for four weeks, until a room in the place she had chosen came available.
She was interrogating them about nursing care, doctors, mealtimes, ingredients of the food, exercise, about whether there was a pool, a sauna, whether they were near a main road or somewhere quiet, gardens with wheelchair access, were there private bathrooms? Her list went on and on. Thorough. As he had learned to his bitter cost. She was a thorough bitch.
And whose money would be paying for it?
He listened to Abby making appointments to go and see three places in the morning. He presumed she would leave her mother behind. That she had not forgotten the locksmith was coming.
By the time he had finished with her, it wouldn’t be a rest home she was needing. It would be a chapel of rest.
81
OCTOBER 2007
At 8.20 the next morning, Inspector Stephen Curry, accompanied by Sergeant Ian Brown, entered the small conference room in the custody block behind Sussex House. He was clutching today’s morning briefing notes, which comprised a comprehensive review of all priority crimes that had occurred in the district over the last twenty-four hours.
They were joined by Sergeant Morley and the second early-shift sergeant, a short, stocky officer with a fierce crew cut and even fiercer enthusiasm for her work called Mary Gregson.
They immediately got down to the job in hand. Curry started to go through all the critical serials. There had had been an ugly racist incident, with a young Muslim student badly beaten up outside a late-night takeaway in Park Road, Coldean, on his way back to the university; a traffic fatality involving a motorcyclist and a pedestrian on Lewes Road; a violent mugging on the Broadway in Whitehawk; and a young man beaten up in Preston Park in a homophobic incident.
He went through all of them with a toot
hcomb, working out areas of threat, making sure, in his terminology, that he didn’t drop a bollock which could be kicked into touch by the Superintendent at the 9.30 review.
Then they moved on to the current district mis-pers and agreed lines of enquiry. Mary brought up the details of a bail returning to be charged later that day, and reminded Curry that he had an 11 a.m. with a Crown Prosecution Service solicitor, about a suspect they had arrested after a spate of handbag thefts the previous set of shifts.
Then the Inspector suddenly remembered something else. ‘John – I spoke to you yesterday about visiting a lady down in Kemp Town. I didn’t see that on the list – what was her name? – Katherine Jennings. Any follow-up?’
Morley suddenly blushed. ‘Oh, God, sorry, boss. I haven’t done anything about it. That Gemma Buxton incident came in and – I’m sorry – I gave that priority over everything. I’ll put it on the serial and get someone down there this morning.’
‘Good man,’ Curry said, then looked at his watch again. Shit. Nearly 9.05. He jumped up. ‘See you later.’
‘Have a nice time with the headmaster,’ Mary said with a cheeky grin.
‘Yeah, you might be teacher’s pet today!’ Morley said.
‘With someone whose memory’s as crap as yours on the team?’ he retorted. ‘I don’t think so.’
82
OCTOBER 2007
Ricky slept fitfully, dozing off after the several pints of beer he had treated himself to in a busy seafront pub and waking with a start every time he saw headlights or heard a vehicle, or footsteps, or a door close. He sat in the passenger seat just so he didn’t look like a drunk driver, should an inquisitive policeman come by, only leaving the van a couple of times to urinate in an alley.
He drove off again in the darkness, at 6 a.m., in search of a workmen’s café, where he had some breakfast, and was back at his observation post again within the hour.
