by James, Peter
‘Nur-Sultan?’
‘Yes. I know the capital of every country in the world. Mr Maitland doesn’t even know how many countries there are. I asked him, he said there were one hundred and eighty-seven.’
‘How many are there?’
‘One hundred and ninety-five.’
A sleek BMW i8, a car Grace had always quite fancied, travelled past in the opposite direction at what seemed to be over the speed limit. ‘There are one hundred and ninety-three that are member states of the United Nations and just two, the Holy See and the state of Palestine, which are not. Taiwan, the Cook Islands and Niue should also be on the list, really, in my opinion.’
They were approaching the school. ‘You know what I think, Bruno, you should go on Mastermind with your specialist subject as Geography,’ he said, trying to lighten his son’s intense seriousness.
‘Why would I want to waste my knowledge on a quiz show?’ Bruno retorted calmly, but with underlying anger in his voice.
It wasn’t the first time Roy Grace had thought it, as he shot a glance at him. The boy seemed so much older than his years. Were he and Cleo badly underestimating Bruno’s intelligence? Had they put him in the wrong school? Should he be in some hot-house academy?
‘So, you know more facts than your Geography teacher – do you have other teachers where you know more than they do?’
‘Of course, all of them.’
‘Would you prefer to be in a different school?’
Bruno wasn’t yet aware of the headmaster’s threat to expel him.
‘I don’t need to be in this school, it’s a waste of my time and talents. I need to be in a school that will challenge me.’ Bruno glanced disdainfully out of the window. St Christopher’s was coming up on their right. ‘Did you know that the ancient Egyptians, when they died and were mummified, had their favourite pets killed and mummified, to go in the tomb with them?’
Grace looked at him. ‘I wasn’t aware of that, no.’
‘Do you think they did that because they wanted company in their tombs or because they worried their pets would miss them too much – or that no one would take the same care of the animals they did?’
Frowning, Grace slowed, turned into the side street, drove up a short distance before making a U-turn, and pulled up some yards short of the school gate. ‘I honestly don’t know, Bruno. Their whole culture and views on death were very different to ours.’
‘Why don’t our teachers tell us important things like that?’
Grace thought for a moment before replying to his son’s question. ‘Perhaps they don’t believe things like that are important or relevant in our modern world, Bruno.’
‘Education’s a joke, don’t you think? I can learn more from Google than any teacher can tell me.’
It took Grace a few seconds to process this. He’d not particularly enjoyed his own school days, and his performance in class had been disappointing to his parents, only just scraping through essential exams at pretty much the lowest pass grade. The reality was, he knew, that with his academic record he wouldn’t have stood a cat-in-hell’s chance of getting into the police today.
And with similar cockiness to Bruno, he thought, with a grin, That would have been their big loss!
A boy also in a red jacket, about Bruno’s age, jumped down from a Defender that had pulled up in front of them. A young girl, similarly dressed, was disgorged from a Mini. Both entered the gates.
Turning to Bruno, who was unclipping his seat belt, Grace said, ‘Go for it, speak your mind. Tell them what you think they should be teaching you!’
The boy hesitated, frowning. ‘Really? You think so?’
‘Sure. Be brave. Remember, fear kills more dreams than failure ever can.’
Bruno looked puzzled. ‘Dreams? Is there any point in dreaming anything? Look at my mother.’ He shook his head. ‘The teachers aren’t worth it. But is anything in life worth it?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘My mother had so many dreams, but they were all shattered and there was no way to put the pieces back together. Life sucks. School sucks.’
Before Grace could respond, Bruno opened the door, climbed out and slammed it behind him. Without looking back, he strode towards the school gates, ignoring two other pupils who were also approaching them.
Grace sat still, watching him until he had disappeared. Life sucks. School sucks. He wondered again, as he had constantly ever since discovering that he had a ten-year-old son, what kind of bizarre upbringing Sandy had given him to jade him and make him so cynical.
He was clearly bright, bright as hell.
Dangerously bright.
Heartbreakingly bright.
But Bruno’s unpredictability worried him. The child psychiatrist, Dr Orlando Trujillo, who they’d taken him to see, told them he thought it was just a phase Bruno was going through. Still adjusting to the loss of his mother, to relocating to a new country, that it was his way of putting a defensive shield around himself.
Grace hoped Trujillo was right. He wasn’t sure what else he and Cleo could do, other than looking for a different school for advanced children. But would even that be the right thing? This school here had a terrific reputation.
It was ironic, he thought, as he drove off, rain starting to fall, his focus starting to return to Eden Paternoster and the briefing meeting in half an hour, that he’d always held the view that well over ninety per cent of crimes were committed by people who had suffered terrible childhoods – alcoholic or abusive parents, broken homes. That was exactly Bruno’s upbringing, too. A drug addict, single-parent mother.
They needed more advice, and quickly, if they were to avoid Bruno not being allowed back to the school again after the end of this term. He resolved to get home early from work and talk it through with Cleo. Maybe try to have a heart-to-heart with Bruno – if the boy would be willing to open up even a fraction.
33
Tuesday 3 September
At 8.45 a.m. Roy Grace sat with his assembled team in the conference room, for the second briefing of Operation Lagoon, having just completed a brief management team meeting.
‘I have some significant developments to report,’ Grace announced. ‘The first is that Niall Paternoster, Eden’s husband, was arrested yesterday evening on suspicion of her murder and detained overnight in custody. He will be formally interviewed again this morning by Jon Exton and Norman Potting in line with the interview strategy. DC Alec Butler, our tier five interview adviser, will update us later about what was said last night. This was only his first account and, to date, he has not been challenged on anything he has said.’
He glanced at his notes. ‘During the search of the Paternosters’ home in Nevill Road, last night, some substantial evidence came to light. The first of which was a mobile phone which we have established belonged to Eden Paternoster. Her husband claimed she had brought it with her on their Sunday outing to Parham House, but the battery was low. The Forensics Team, however, found the phone in a drawer in her bed, concealed beneath a pile of her lingerie.’
‘Totally pants!’ Potting said, grinning and looking around.
Grace looked at him a little more sympathetically than normal. ‘But we do have something else that may be significant, which was found wrapped in plastic concealed behind a wall-inspection plate. A torn ladies’ T-shirt, presumably belonging to Eden, on which there are some small blood spots. It has been sent for fast-track processing at the DNA lab.’
He looked at his team, letting that sink in before continuing. ‘They also found evidence of blood on the kitchen worktop and the floor tiling beneath, samples from which have been sent for testing, too. Further of note,’ he added, ‘there’s a wooden knife rack with a knife missing – and from the position and size of the slot, it would appear to be the largest of the knives.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Two perhaps even more significant items were discovered during the search. Both of these were secreted under a loose floorboard in
a spare bedroom. The first was Eden Paternoster’s passport, which her husband indicated to the officers who attended yesterday morning, PCs Alldridge and Little, was missing from its usual place.
‘The second was a white gold wedding ring and another diamond ring – possibly an engagement ring. The wedding ring was engraved on the inside with the initials EP–NP, 19.09.15. The initials of Eden and Niall Paternoster and the date of their wedding. When Niall was booked into custody last night, a wedding band was removed from his finger. It had the same initials, reversed, and the same date. This would indicate to me that either she had removed it – together with her engagement ring – before her disappearance, or perhaps more likely if he did murder her, that he removed both to hamper identification.’
There was a brief silence. Several of the team made notes.
Grace continued. ‘At this stage, I’m challenging anything that Niall Paternoster has told us and going solely with the facts we have.’ He turned to DS Alexander. ‘Jack, is there any update from your house-to-house enquiry team from the neighbours?’
‘Not yet, sir. It’s a priority action this morning.’
Sergeant Dennison-Wilkins turned to Grace. ‘Boss, as the missing knife may be important evidence, we have taken a photograph of the matching knives. I’ll have all the gardens bordering the Paternosters’ house searched and all bins in the neighbourhood by Barbara Onoufriou and her team.’
‘Do you know when rubbish collection day is?’ Grace asked.
‘Tomorrow, sir, so we’ll be getting it done today.’
‘If you need more resources to search the immediate area, let me know.’
‘I will need more,’ she said.
‘Fine, draft in some extra staff. Norman, Jon, you’d better leave for the custody centre to carry on with the interviews, keep me posted.’
He was interrupted by his phone. Raising an apologetic hand, he answered. It was Aiden Gilbert, from Digital Forensics.
‘Roy, I’ve got the data from the phone we were sent over last night – registered to Mrs Eden Paternoster.’
‘Hang on, Aiden, I’m in a team briefing – I’ll put you on speaker. Can you update the team?’
A moment later, everyone in the room could hear Gilbert’s voice. ‘Hi, everyone. I can confirm, on examining the phone we were sent last night, according to the phone records and plot from O2, that the last time this phone was active was Thursday of last week, August twenty-ninth, until 10.10 p.m. It had left its previous location in Croydon, Surrey, at 5.45 p.m. and travelled south to Brighton, to Nevill Road, Hove. We’ve identified the Croydon location as the premises of the Mutual Occidental Insurance Company, which I understand to be Mrs Paternoster’s workplace. No calls were made before it was switched off.’
‘Hi, Aiden, Glenn Branson here,’ Branson called out.
‘Yes, Glenn?’ Aiden responded.
‘Was the phone’s battery flat when you received it?’
‘No, it wasn’t, but it didn’t have much charge and was switched off.’
‘Thanks.’
Grace thought for a moment. ‘Aiden, your team has Eden Paternoster’s iPad as well as her laptop and phone. Have you had time to check out her social media activity again?’
‘There’s been no more activity, at the moment. So far we’ve identified she has Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, TikTok and Strava on these devices.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you can let me know, soonest, if there is any activity on any of these.’
‘We’ll be straight on it.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Also, Roy, we’ve been working through the night on her husband’s phone. We may have some potential information for you shortly.’
Grace thanked Gilbert, ended the call and turned to DS Alexander. ‘Jack, I need you to prioritize the action with Mutual Occidental and find out who last saw Eden at work.’
‘I’ll do that straight after this, sir.’
Grace thought briefly through the possibilities, trying to make some sense of the convoluted information. Niall Paternoster claimed the photograph of Eden in front of the lake at Parham House had been taken on Sunday, yet Aiden Gilbert said it was date stamped over a week previously. Did the husband really think they would believe him? One of his favourite quotes – from Einstein – suddenly sprang into his mind: Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the universe.
He turned to Stanstead. ‘Luke, have anything for us?’
He nodded. ‘I do, boss. The information we have received from the Intelligence Team and the victimology enquiries. Eden Paternoster’s maiden name is Townsend. If I have the correct family history, which I’m pretty certain I do, she has a previous record as a victim of DV. When she was sixteen, back in 2004, her mother stabbed her father fatally. For that, her mother got two years, suspended, for manslaughter. Eden was in the room when it happened.’
‘A suspended sentence, which means,’ Branson said, ‘the court and judge and jury trying her pretty much felt she was justified, right?’
‘Self-defence?’ Grace questioned rhetorically.
Grace made a note in his Policy Book, that when obtaining the medical records for Eden they would need detailed information on the likely impact on the victim through medical consultation, and how that might present and play out in later life. Next to it, he wrote, ‘Significant factor?’
Under the thirty-six-hour rule they had until around 9 a.m. tomorrow to make the decision whether to charge Niall Paternoster, release him or apply for a warrant of further detention, if necessary. For that, they would need sufficient grounds to convince a magistrate to grant it.
‘EJ,’ Grace said, ‘there’s a very bright child psychologist I know, Orlando Trujillo. Try to get hold of him and when we have Eden’s medical records run the history by him and ask for his views on how that might have shaped her personality. I’m particularly interested in how she might have subsequently reacted to domestic abuse or violence – I’m speculating here based on what I and DI Branson felt after talking to her husband, that he might be an angry and controlling man. I’ve got Trujillo’s contact details on file and I’ll give them to you straight after this meeting – and I’ll sanction his fee.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Addressing the civilian Financial Investigator, Emily Denyer, he asked, ‘Anything to report?’
‘I’m preparing the necessary paperwork and I’ve already made a number of requests to the financial institutions to gather the details for the background checks, sir,’ Denyer said.
‘Anything that comes to light, tell me immediately – don’t wait for this evening’s briefing.’
‘No, guv,’ Emily said.
Each team member then provided an update on their own investigations. Grace thanked them all and ended the meeting, remaining seated to write up notes in his Policy Book.
While he worked on it, he reflected with a tinge of sadness that when he’d first started as a Senior Investigating Officer, the main purpose of the Policy Book was to help inform other detectives who carried out regular reviews of a Major Crime investigation in progress, looking to advise on anything the SIO and his team might not have thought of. But these days its prime purpose was to protect the SIOs from any accusations of wrongdoing and also to justify his decision-making process. Just one more example of how he and his colleagues spent more time these days protecting their backs than doing the job they were paid to do. Which was to save lives, serve and protect.
But he did look forward to seeing Cassian Pewe’s face when he met with him later this morning and presented him with the latest evidence.
Although not as much as he looked forward to hearing what it looked like when Pewe was confronted with a photocopy of Guy Batchelor’s notebook.
His train of thought was disturbed by his job phone ringing.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered, and heard Gee’s voice at the other end.
‘We have an interesting development, boss,’ said the Crim
e Scene Manager. ‘You’ll never guess what we found in a cupboard in the utility room.’
‘I’m all ears, what did you find?’
34
Tuesday 3 September
Ducking his head against the cloying, misty drizzle, Larry Olson gently eased his tall frame into the passenger seat of the low, squat BMW. He winced twice from the shooting pains of his prolapsed disc as he did so, then pulled the gull-wing door shut with a reassuring clunk.
Turning to his customer, he said with a beam, ‘That sound, Mr Goodman, that’s the build quality of German cars. Other manufacturers around the world have strived for decades to achieve it, but the Germans still do it best.’
Christopher Goodman was chewing gum, barely listening. He was looking around the interior, sinking his head back against the rest. He opened his door and pulled it down, closing it again. Clunk. He nodded.
Olson knew that after a long spell of dry weather, what you needed was a prolonged heavy downpour to clear the road surface of rubber and oil residue. The worst thing you could have was this kind of drizzle, which would turn the road into a skating rink.
With an output of 368 brake horsepower when both petrol and electric motors kicked in, this car was a phenomenal machine, with experienced hands on the wheel. But on a slippery surface, with someone unused to the power it unleashed, even with its four-wheel drive it could very quickly turn into a pendulum attached to a rocket.
‘Be very gentle on the throttle in these conditions, Mr Goodman,’ he urged, trying to sound calm. ‘She can really bite back!’
Goodman kept his foot on the brake and tapped the start button, and the dash instantly came alive, but he looked momentarily puzzled by the lack of engine noise. He sat for some moments, holding the wheel.
‘In D the petrol engine will kick in when you press the accelerator.’
‘Got it!’ Goodman released the brake and put the car in Drive, and it glided slowly forward into the quiet street.
Gently does it, Olson thought. Prayed. He pointed out the wipers as the screen was fast blurring over, and Goodman compliantly switched them on. He pressed the accelerator and a split-second later there was a roar as the petrol engine fired, the back twitched and the car very nearly swapped ends.
