by James, Peter
Branson studied the photographs for a moment. ‘Nice-looking lady. I agree, but maybe we should have a chat with Mr Paternoster – don’t you think?’ He reached over and rummaged in the now almost empty packet. ‘No passport smacks to me of someone doing a runner – with a lover – possibly?’
Grace looked thoughtful. ‘Possibly. How about we drop in on him, unannounced, and have a friendly, sympathetic chat?’
Holding up half a biscuit, with a cartoon-like bite shape missing, Branson replied, ‘Good plan, boss.’ The rest of the biscuit disappeared.
‘I do have a hypothesis.’
‘Yes?’ Branson asked.
‘Maybe she got too close to your chomping jaws and you mistook her for a chocolate digestive.’
‘That’s not even slightly funny.’
As Glenn pulled out onto the main road a few minutes later and accelerated ferociously, Grace said, subtly trying to make him slow down, ‘Um, you know how you often see flowers attached to trees at the scene of a fatal?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Biggsy in Traffic told me it’s because people always drive at what they’re looking at. You lose control on a bend and you see you’re skidding straight towards a tree, so you stare at the tree – and whoomph! You drive straight at it and hit it. If you’d stared past it instead, you’d have missed it.’
‘That so?’
Grace nodded. ‘Another thing a trauma specialist once told me is that the worst thing you can hit is a tree.’
‘Why’s that?’ Branson said, taking a sharp bend at a speed that nearly defied the laws of physics, as Grace warily eyed a very large beech ahead.
‘He said, always hit a wall, because that’ll collapse. But hit a tree and what that does is absorb the impact and then give it all straight back to you.’
‘You’d rather I hit a wall than a tree?’
‘Mate, can you just slow down, for Christ’s sake? I’d prefer neither.’
Fifteen minutes later, at a quarter to four, Glenn Branson pulled up the silver, unmarked Ford in Nevill Road, in front of the Paternosters’ house. Nodding at the Greyhound Stadium opposite, he asked, ‘Ever been to the dogs?’
Grace nodded. ‘Yep, last year Cleo and I went – I was asked to present the prizes for an evening that was fundraising for the Sussex Police Charitable Trust.’
‘Did you have a punt?’
‘I thought it would be polite – and it was for a good cause.’
‘How did you do?’
‘We were put at a table with a CSI who breeds racing greyhounds as a hobby. He gave me a tip – always bet on one you see having a dump before the race.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yep,’ Grace said.
‘Yeah? And?’
‘Lost every sodding race.’
Branson laughed. ‘Shit happens.’
‘Or maybe it didn’t.’
21
Monday 2 September
Roy Grace and Glenn Branson got out of the car and walked up to the Paternosters’ front door. The top half was frosted glass. Grace pressed the bell and heard musical chimes. Followed by the miaow of a cat.
They waited.
After several seconds, Grace rang again. A shadow appeared behind the glass, then the door opened, just a few inches. A male voice commanded, ‘Back! Back, Reggie!’
The door opened wider and they saw an unshaven, tired-looking man in his thirties with muscular arms, wearing denim shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops. He was stooping, holding a grey Burmese cat. On one wrist, Grace noticed, he wore an Apple Watch and on the other a Fitbit.
Looking up at them, he said, ‘Sorry, can’t let him out the front – the last one got run over and I was to blame.’
‘Mr Niall Paternoster?’ Grace asked.
‘Yes.’
Grace held up his warrant card and introduced himself and Branson.
Niall gave a smile. ‘Detective Superintendent? Major Crime Team? So, you’ve not palmed some junior lackey off on this?’ Then he hesitated as a thought seemed to strike him, and his face fell. ‘Oh my God – have you found her? Is that what—?’
‘May we come in, sir?’ Grace asked politely, ignoring the comment.
They entered the small hallway as the man shut the door behind them. Grace glanced around; the interior was modern, fresh-feeling, minimalistic, but there was a faint smell of fried food and cigarette smoke. The smell seemed incongruous – the floral scents of expensive diffusers would have gone more appropriately with the decor, he thought.
‘Have you found my wife?’ Niall asked again with a nervous edge.
‘No, sir, I’m afraid not,’ Grace said. ‘We’d just like to have a chat with you.’
Niall expanded his arms. ‘Absolutely! And thank you for coming. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?’
‘We’re good, thank you,’ Grace said firmly.
They followed the man through into the modern-looking lounge and sat down on the white sofa he indicated. Niall Paternoster sat opposite. Grace noticed an ashtray on the coffee table that was crammed with butts.
‘Mr Paternoster, could you talk us through the circumstances of your wife’s disappearance? Starting with the last time you saw her?’ Grace asked.
‘What, again? Don’t you people talk to each other? This isn’t the first time I’ve gone over this.’
Grace didn’t tell him that one reason they liked people to recount events multiple times was that if they were lying, they would often start making mistakes or inconsistencies. All he said was an apologetic, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it is important we understand exactly what happened and the timeline.’
Paternoster sighed. Then, as if suddenly realizing he was behaving strangely, his demeanour changed completely, all eager to help now. ‘The last time I saw Eden was yesterday afternoon. We were heading home after a nice day out. We’re members of the National Trust and we like visiting their houses – a regular thing we do on Sundays. But yesterday, actually, we went to Parham House.’
‘And everything was fine between you?’ Branson interjected.
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Well, we’d had a bit of a stupid argument – over cat litter.’ He recounted the circumstances, leading to Eden jumping out of the car in the store’s car park to go and grab a bag of the stuff.
‘That was the last time you saw her?’ Grace asked.
‘Correct.’
So much of this was resonating with Roy Grace. That nightmare, twelve years ago, on the evening of his thirtieth birthday.
‘Do you have any way of knowing if she actually went into the store?’ Branson quizzed.
Paternoster glared for a moment as a flash fire of irritation ignited, but he kept his calm. ‘No, I wasn’t following her, but that was my assumption – it’s the only reason she got out of the car.’
Paternoster went on to tell the officers what had happened subsequently, after she had failed to reappear. That he’d gone into the Tesco store shortly before closing time, and the staff had searched the place but not found her. How he had called her phone repeatedly, even though he knew it had very little battery left, then her friends and family, as well as checking with all the local hospitals. When he had arrived back home, he’d searched the house for her but there had been no sign. Everything he said, so far, tallied with the briefing Grace had been given from Detective Inspector Bryce Robinson.
Niall told them he had called her again today, checked online again for any activity on her credit cards and bank statement, as well as her social media – she was always active on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, but there had been no posts. And that he had already relayed all this to the two police officers who’d attended earlier.
When he had finished, Grace, watching him intently, asked him a question which momentarily threw him. ‘What did you have for breakfast today, Mr Paternoster?’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘Could you tell me?’ he coaxed gently, watching the
man’s body language intently.
He looked nervous. ‘If you must know, I had brunch – two fried eggs, bacon, pork sausage and baked beans – oh, and fried bread.’ Then he gave a sly grin. ‘But don’t tell Eden because she’s been trying to wean me on to birdseed and fruit.’
Still watching him intently, Grace asked, ‘She’s concerned about your health? What else has she tried to get you to do?’
Paternoster brushed his brow. ‘Oh God, she’s always trying to push me on to some new fad or something. Recently it’s been to exercise more, although I’m always out on my bike anyway, stuff like that, to get through my depression after losing my business.’
Grace processed this. ‘Was the car park at Tesco Holmbush busy when you arrived there yesterday?’
To Grace’s disappointment, the man seemed confident in his reply, which indicated he was telling the truth. ‘Yes, it was – that’s why she got out, to avoid us being stuck in the traffic there.’ He paused. ‘Why did you ask me about breakfast – what does that have to do with anything?’
‘The house smells of something being fried.’
‘So?’
Grace raised his hand appeasingly. ‘Just a copper’s curiosity.’
Niall frowned, then challenged, a little aggressively, ‘How does this have anything to do with my wife disappearing, exactly?’
Grace was glad to have the man rattled. He caught Branson’s eye. The DI knew exactly what he was doing. People made mistakes when they were angry. Niall Paternoster had now given him one reason for getting rid of his wife, albeit a small one – their constant arguments. But was there more to it? Did he actually despise her? Did he hate her enough to kill her?
People had murdered their partners for smaller reasons than this. Again, watching his reaction carefully, Grace said, ‘Mr Paternoster, we have watched the Tesco Holmbush CCTV covering the period you were there yesterday. We’ve studied footage of the car park, the entrances to the store, and footage covering all the aisles. We’ve also talked to staff members present yesterday. There is no sign of your wife in any of the footage, and no staff member can recall seeing anyone resembling your wife. Are you sure you’re telling us the truth?’
To Grace’s disappointment, Niall again answered confidently.
‘I’m absolutely sure. And why wouldn’t I be telling you the truth?’
Grace stared at him, levelly. ‘You really are certain you’re telling the truth?’
Niall Paternoster stood up suddenly, his eyes blazing now. ‘This is outrageous,’ he said with real fury. ‘You come into my house and accuse me of lying? I took my wife to the store to get cat litter. She got out of the car, headed off and then just literally vanished. I’m sick with worry, I don’t know what’s happened. You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m lying, don’t you?’
‘We’re not saying that, sir,’ Grace replied calmly. ‘I asked you a question. You’re telling us your wife has disappeared, but there is no evidence she was ever at the place you said.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Meaning that we, as the police, have a duty of care.’
Niall Paternoster glared at him in silence for some moments. ‘I don’t think I should say anything more without my solicitor present.’ He twisted his hands together; a sign of anxiety, Grace recognized.
‘You are not under caution or arrest, Mr Paternoster,’ he said. ‘We are simply here to have a chat with you to see if we can help find your wife.’
‘Do I look stupid or something?’ Paternoster replied. ‘I phoned the police because I’m concerned about my wife going missing, and I get a Detective Superintendent and Detective Inspector from Major Crime arriving at my front door. I didn’t ride into town on the back of a truck – I can tell I’m under suspicion. I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m not saying anything more without a solicitor.’
Grace stood up and, unprompted, Branson did the same. He pulled out his card and put it down on the table. ‘My numbers are on that – I’d be grateful if you would either call the landline or my mobile if you hear anything from your wife.’
Niall Paternoster glared at him again.
Nodding at the man’s phone on the sofa, beside him, Grace asked, ‘Do you like your iPhone?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m thinking of upgrading to one, as my private phone. I’m told the camera is great. But I’ve heard that some phone providers work better on it than others.’
‘Eden has one too,’ he responded warily.
‘And you have no reception issues?’ Grace asked, all friendly now.
He shook his head. ‘Not on O2, no.’
‘Could you let me have your wife’s number, please?’
‘I thought you coppers would already have all that important stuff.’ He looked momentarily flustered. ‘It’s – erm – 07771 . . .’ He hesitated and grinned inanely. ‘You know, I can’t bloody remember it – I have her in my contacts and never actually dial the number itself.’
Grace nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m the same – not sure I know my wife’s number either.’
The man studied his phone for some moments, pressing keys, then, looking at the display, read out the number, which Grace noted on his tablet.
They walked to the front door. As they reached it, Grace turned to him. ‘If you could also let me have your number, I’ll call you if we have any information about your wife.’
Niall Paternoster gave it to him.
‘Please let me know if you hear from Eden,’ Grace asked. ‘We may need you to come to Brighton police station to give a statement – and, of course, you’d be welcome to bring your solicitor. But I can assure you our priority at this stage is to find your wife safe and well.’
‘At this stage?’ Niall Paternoster said with a frown.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Paternoster.’
22
Monday 2 September
‘Nice try,’ said Glenn Branson, as they drove away.
Roy Grace, head down, had the Photos app on his phone open. He tapped out a message and Branson heard the woosh of an email going.
Without responding, his radio on loudspeaker, Grace called Aiden Gilbert in the Sussex Police Digital Forensics Unit.
After a brief while, he heard Gilbert’s ever-enthusiastic voice. ‘Hello, boss, how can I help you?’
‘We have a potentially urgent situation, Aiden, regarding a misper. I’ve just emailed you a photograph of a woman taken early afternoon yesterday. Could you have someone take a look at it and verify the time and date, please?’
‘Sure, boss, we’re pretty inundated but I’ll get someone on it as quickly as I can.’
Grace then rang DC Velvet Wilde, who he’d asked to join his newly formed Outside Enquiry Team.
‘I’ve got two O2 phone numbers – I need a plot of both their movements yesterday, between the hours of 9 a.m. and 6 p.m. How quickly do you think you could get that?’
‘O2 are pretty good – should be able to let you have that within a couple of hours if I let them know it’s an urgent authority.’
‘They’ll need it confirmed in writing.’
‘I’ll sort that, boss.’
Grace thanked her and ended the call.
Glenn Branson turned to him. ‘My, are you the sly one!’
‘Sly?’
‘The way you teased the information about his phone out of Paternoster.’
Grace gave him a knowing glance. ‘I’m a detective, and your tutor. How many chocolate digestives does it take to activate your brain cells – or have they put it into a digesting slumber?’
‘Yeah, yeah, funny! So what else did you pick up from him, Sherlock?’
‘Possible tension between him and his wife. His comment about the fried breakfast?’
‘I got that, too.’
‘Could he be playing away? Or she?’ Grace posited.
‘Possible.’
‘Let’s get the Outside Enquiry Team speaking to the neighbou
rs and friends and see what we can find out about their relationship.’
Branson nodded. ‘Sounded like money could be an issue.’
‘And the cat.’
‘Blaming him for their last one being run over?’
‘So you were awake.’
23
Monday 2 September
Twenty-five minutes later, having picked up a wrap and a banana and a couple of chocolate bars, Glenn Branson manoeuvred the car into Roy Grace’s parking slot on the Sussex Police HQ campus. It was a privilege reserved for SIOs; most detectives and other staff who drove to work had to take their chances on the streets beyond. Climbing out, he and Grace headed towards the bland, low-rise building that now housed the Major Crime Team after its second move in the short while they had been here.
Back in Grace’s office, Branson devoured his food, sharing one of the chocolate bars with Grace, then went to pick up a couple of coffees, leaving Roy thinking back to his earlier meeting with Norman.
He had been keeping positive in front of Norman, but he was concerned about what he’d heard. Despite his bravado about being a tough bugger, Roy knew that, underneath, Norman was a vulnerable man who still hadn’t got over the death of his fiancée – if indeed he ever would. To cope with this new ordeal, he was going to need all the support he could get, particularly from himself, Cleo and all the team. He’d already spoken to Cleo on the phone and she was researching the condition and treatment so they could talk about it later. She was going to speak to her sister, who had experienced the same type of cancer and had been clear of it for over five years.
Glenn Branson came back in with two steaming coffees and dug his hand into the digestive packet, still there from earlier. He pulled out the last biscuit, proffering half to Roy, who shook his head, and polished that one off, too, in a shower of crumbs. Seeing his boss’s look of disapproval, he swept those onto the floor, as before. ‘So?’ he said.
Grace was pensive for a moment. ‘I’m even less happy having met him,’ he said. ‘The more I think about it, the less I like it.’
