by James, Peter
‘Whoahhhhh!’ Goodman said, swinging the leather-rimmed wheel wildly, just catching the twitching car one way, then the next. Getting it under control, more by luck than talent, he said, ‘Bit of a tank slapper, eh?’
With his voice trapped somewhere down the bottom of his gullet, all Olson could do was nod.
They stopped at the T-junction with the wide, smart residential street of Westbourne Villas, then, very gingerly on the pedal now, Goodman turned right and drove slowly (Thank you, God! Olson thought) up to the next junction, with the wide and relatively busy New Church Road.
‘OK if we head out into some open countryside to exercise her legs?’ Goodman asked.
No, not OK, not at all OK, a voice cautioned inside Larry Olson’s head. But you need the sodding money badly, very badly! another voice in there shouted more loudly.
35
Tuesday 3 September
Alec Butler sat in the tiny, sound-proofed observation room adjoining the interview room in the Brighton custody centre. The DC was watching the proceedings on the monitor, relayed from the single overhead CCTV camera next door.
Having agreed their interview strategy with Grace, Norman Potting and Jon Exton sat on one side of the modern rectangular table, opposite Niall Paternoster, who looked haggard and unshaven, his hair dishevelled, and his solicitor, who had a notebook in a tired leather folder in front of him.
The first interview, last night, had been to establish Niall’s accounts that he had already given to the police. This second interview would continue obtaining Niall’s account, and covering points that had been raised during the investigation to date. A mixture of garnering information and gently probing aspects of the suspect’s story.
Niall was dressed in the regulation police tracksuit which appeared at least one size too big for him. His solicitor looked like he’d slept in his clothes, as he always did.
Alec Butler’s personal opinion of Legal Aid on-call solicitors, already starting from a low base, had descended to even lower depths after the recent discovery that one of Brighton’s most prominent ones had secretly been a major county lines drug dealer.
Touching the screen in front of him to start the interview, Potting glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘It is 9.43 a.m. Detective Sergeant Norman Potting and Detective Sergeant Jon Exton interviewing Niall Paternoster, under caution, in the presence of his solicitor, Joseph Rattigan.’
They each introduced themselves for the benefit of the recording.
‘Niall,’ Exton began, ‘last night we went through in some detail your account of the movements of you and your wife over the last weekend, leading up to her disappearance at Tesco on Sunday afternoon. This interview will continue dealing with those details and we also need to ask you some additional questions. Can you tell us about where you and Eden were on the weekend of Saturday the twenty-fourth of August?’
Paternoster cleared his throat to compose himself. ‘I’d had an overnight taxi fare from Manchester and didn’t get home until about 10.30 a.m. so I showered and went to bed. I stayed in bed until about 4.30 p.m. Eden had been out to lunch with a work colleague. We stayed in for the rest of the day. On Sunday we spent the day in the garden, I moved some plants, Eden mowed the lawn. I think I washed the car in the afternoon.’ He hesitated. ‘In the evening I listened to some music and Eden was watching episodes of Criminal Minds, some FBI profiler thing she liked.’
After a brief silence, Potting asked, ‘Niall, during the search of your house following your arrest last night, blood was discovered on your kitchen worktop and on the floor area beneath. How do you account for that?’
‘I already explained that to the two officers who came to see me yesterday morning, after I called the police to report my wife missing,’ he replied. ‘I told them I’d cut my hand on a potato peeler when I was rummaging in a kitchen drawer for the bottle opener. I was frustrated because my wife never puts anything back in the right place.’
Potting continued. ‘Was your wife with you when you cut your finger – as you mentioned – on the potato peeler?’
Ignoring a cautionary look from his solicitor, he responded, ‘No, she wasn’t with me. How clear do you need me to make it? Eden got out of my car in the Tesco car park at around 3.15 p.m. on Sunday and vanished off the face of the earth. I tried to open a bottle when I got home, you know, to calm my nerves – I was sort of angry and worried about her at the same time – and I cut my finger. I did not squirt blood over my wife as she wasn’t there.’
Potting waited patiently for him to calm down. Then he asked, ‘Can you run through the account that you gave to the police regarding Eden’s passport?’
Paternoster recounted his explanation about the passport to the officers. He also confirmed that he did not know the whereabouts of her mobile phone.
The two detectives then asked him a number of questions about his and his wife’s friends and relatives and their community ties. He told the officers about Eden’s work and office colleagues. Once that part of the interview had concluded, Potting turned to him. ‘Niall, during the initial search last night at the house, forensic officers found a T-shirt hidden behind a bathroom inspection plate in your en-suite. Early examination of the T-shirt revealed what appeared to be some blood spots and a tear.’
Paternoster gave a convincing performance of looking mystified. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve absolutely no idea what you are talking about.’
‘You weren’t wearing one of your wife’s T-shirts when you cut your finger, by any chance, or used it to wipe the blood away?’ Exton asked.
Niall looked at him quizzically. ‘Why would I have done? She’s about four sizes smaller than me. No, no way. Maybe she fell over running and cut herself.’ He frowned. ‘Look, if you think I killed her you’re completely mistaken. I loved her, for God’s sake. I’ve been in financial shit since my business went bust – she’s kept us afloat. Do you people seriously think I would have killed the gravy train when I was down on my luck?’
Both detectives stared at him levelly. Then Exton said, ‘Is it correct that when the two officers attended yesterday morning, they asked you about your wife’s passport? You went to get it, then told them it had gone from its usual place?’
Ignoring another warning glance from his solicitor, he said, ‘Yes, correct.’
‘Giving the officers the impression that she had taken it with her, wherever she had gone?’ Exton continued.
‘Yes – well – that was my conclusion. Why else would she have taken it?’ Paternoster replied.
‘We’re not here to speculate,’ Exton said, giving Rattigan an exaggerated smile. ‘We are trying to establish facts. You have repeatedly maintained that your wife has disappeared. Certainly, it would be logical if she had disappeared that she would take her passport with her. Would you agree?’
Rattigan looked like he was going to object to that, but then leaned back in his chair and let it go.
Exton went on. ‘Niall, do you have any explanation for why your wife’s wedding ring, engagement ring and passport were discovered by our Forensics Team last night? They were concealed underneath a bedroom floorboard.’
He shook his head, looking numb. Neither Potting nor Exton could read his expression. Then, anger rising, he said, ‘I – you – you found – you found WHAT? Her wedding ring and passport?’
Rattigan leaned across to his client and spoke quietly. There was an exchange of nods.
‘Can you explain these items, Niall, and the hidden T-shirt?’ Exton pressed.
Niall looked at both detectives. ‘No comment.’
Rattigan made some notes, looking relieved. ‘I have advised my client not to answer any more of your questions until I have spoken to him again. I suggest we reconvene this afternoon,’ he said.
Norman Potting leaned forward and placed a finger on the control panel to terminate the second interview.
36
Tuesday 3 September
Despite the bad start to the test drive, La
rry Olson had to admit his customer knew what he was doing. Goodman had done a lot of track days, he’d reassured Olson, as well as an ice-racing course in Sweden a couple of winters ago. Once he’d got the feel of the BMW, he’d handled it well through the fast, wet, twisty two-lane road over Devil’s Dyke and onto the A23.
On the return journey there had been a couple of moments when he’d overtaken a little sharply, but they’d made it without Olson needing to reach into his pocket for the vial of white pills.
Now they were inside the city limits, heading downhill in the relative calm of a 40 mph limit. Goodman duly braked as they approached the 30 mph roundel, muttering that he’d been caught in a sneaky radar trap just past this sign a couple of years ago.
Olson could relax again now and resumed his sales patter, not that he really needed to. He was pushing at an open door. He could see from the broad smile of his customer’s face that he was all but ready to sign any piece of paper he shoved under his nose, once they were back in his showroom.
They turned left at traffic lights onto the Old Shoreham Road, in electric mode now.
‘She’s so incredibly smooth!’ he said, beaming. ‘And silent – a different experience. And does she go, wow!’
‘She does. And economical, too! Around town you’ll get up to ninety-one miles per gallon!’
‘Awesome!’
Olson directed him to make a right shortly after the next set of lights. A left, then another right down a short, winding road until they reached a T-junction back at the wide New Church Road, lined on both side with large, detached houses and some blocks of flats. He kept the spiel going as Goodman, clearly concerned about his licence, kept the speed to a rigid 31 mph. They were approaching, to their left, a school for posh kids which had a good reputation. Olson had educated all three of his own there up to public school level. Back in the days, he rued, when he was earning proper money.
But were his kids, all grown up now, grateful? Hell no, they’d sided with their mother after he’d traded her in for a younger model. Embarrassingly young, his daughter had said, the last time they’d spoken, more years ago than he could recall.
The rain, which had eased earlier, was now coming down heavily again and the windscreen was misting. Just as he leaned forward to switch the demister on, Goodman shouted out a petrified, ‘NO!’
Olson was thrown forward against his shoulder strap as the car braked hard. He just saw a flash of red, then heard a sickening thump. Someone small, arms splayed wide out, eyes frozen, hurtled over the front of the car, thudded against the windscreen, then vanished. There was a heavy bang on the roof.
The car slewed to a halt.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
Then Goodman shrieked, ‘OH SHIT, OH GOD, OH SHIT.’
37
Tuesday 3 September
The navy, white and turquoise helicopter of the Kent, Surrey and Sussex Air Ambulance was flying eastwards just below the 500-foot cloud ceiling. A few minutes earlier the AgustaWestland AW169 had lifted from Worthing Hospital in West Sussex and was now on a heading back to the Rochester City Airport base to refuel. And also to give the crew, who had been up early, a much-needed comfort break and a caffeine hit.
They had just dropped off a seriously injured farmworker. The unfortunate thirty-three-year-old had fallen into a threshing machine, which had severed his right leg below the knee and ripped off his right arm below the shoulder. He’d said to them apologetically, before they’d put him into an induced coma, that it had been his own damned stupid fault – he’d removed the safety mechanism, which was there to prevent just such an accident from happening. He’d done that, he said, because the machine had kept jamming and it gave him quicker access.
Luckily for the man, they’d reached him less than four minutes after receiving the call – the accident scene was almost directly in their flight path after returning from attending a motor scooter accident near Arundel. The rider there had suffered nothing worse than a broken leg and she’d been taken by road to hospital. If they’d been much longer before reaching the farmworker, he would have bled out and died, for certain.
The pilot, Andrew Delaney, and the paramedic, Kirsten Dunwoody, sat up front, and the trauma doctor, Julian Turner, sat behind them, writing up his notes. All three had their helmets on. It was 10.15 a.m. and they were just over two hours into their eight-hour shift.
Turner looked up from his tablet and peered out of the window to his right, which was beaded with tiny drops of rainwater. He took in the familiar lush landscape below. The views from the helicopter still excited him after four years of doing this job, and he joked to friends that he had the best office in the world. Swathes of green Downland slid past, patchworks of fields, isolated houses, occasional swimming pools and tennis courts, lakes, reservoirs, the dark, straight stretches and winding ribbons of road, and, far over to the right, the English Channel, the sea a flat grey today. The only thing he struggled with was the topography. From up in the air, the hills below were flattened out and although he knew the key landmarks, he got confused at times, trying to figure out exactly where they were.
Delaney, a highly experienced pilot, ex-Fleet Air Arm and then ten years ferrying workers to and from North Sea oil rigs, had an ability Turner really admired. He was able to land the machine in often seemingly impossible places and pretty much regardless of the weather, inspiring confidence in everyone who flew with him. One advantage this helicopter had over many other makes was its lack of a tail rotor blade, making landing in confined spaces with people around much safer.
‘Tell me, guys,’ the pilot’s posh voice came through their speakers, above the roar of the twin engines. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Get what, Andrew?’ Turner queried. ‘You’re still the best-looking man in this chopper, in case you’re worried?’
‘Never forget it! I’m talking about that last shout. I mean, bloody hell? The manufacturers of that threshing machine do all they can to make it safe and the guy takes it upon himself to undo all that. I mean, hello?’
‘I agree, incredibly stupid?’ Kirsten Dunwoody said in her Aussie accent which always, Turner thought, made everything she said sound like a question, as it did now. ‘Poor man. Let’s hope he makes it?’
‘Andrew, you know the problem with making anything idiot-proof?’ Turner said. He provided the answer without waiting for a reply. ‘It’s that idiots have a great deal of ingenuity!’
At that moment the alert on the comms panel in front of the doctor flashed, signalling a new incident. He leaned forward and answered. The despatcher’s voice, sounding crystal clear, said, ‘Helimed Six Zero?’
‘Helimed Six Zero,’ Turner answered.
‘I have you approaching Brighton, correct?’
‘Correct,’ the doctor confirmed.
‘RTC in New Church Road, Hove,’ the despatcher said. ‘Car versus a schoolboy. We’ve had lots of 999s coming in. It sounds bad. It’s a wide road, Andrew, do you think you can land there? Alternatively there’s a park nearby.’
‘I know it,’ the pilot replied. ‘I can get us down there fine.’
‘RPU will clear an area for you. What is your ETA?’
‘I have visual on Shoreham Power Station chimney. I’m two minutes west of it.’
‘Two minutes, A-Firm.’
Instantly Julian Turner focused his mind. A car versus any human being was never going to be good news, let alone a child. It was sheer luck for the boy that they were so close – if anything could be done for him, this Air Ambulance, which was to all intents and purposes a fully equipped mobile Emergency Department, would give him the best chance.
It was against the regulations to unclip his harness before landing but, as they flew over the city limits and started to descend, Turner placed his hand on the buckle, at the ready, so as not to waste a split-second when they were down. Immediately following a major trauma, there were two critical time frames for the victim: the Platinum Ten Minutes and the Gold
en Hour.
The Golden Hour was that crucial first hour during which a severe trauma patient arrived in a hospital, when the team threw every resource they had at them to understand the extent of their injuries and do all they could to keep them alive. Because if they could get them through that hour then they had an increased chance of saving them.
The Platinum Ten Minutes was all down to him and the paramedic – so long as the victim wasn’t trapped. If he assessed they needed urgent hospitalization, their task would be to stabilize them and to ensure they moved them safely, then get them off the scene and into the helicopter within ten minutes – to give the victim as much of the Golden Hour as possible in hospital.
Boy versus car.
Blunt force versus a robust but fragile human.
Turner had done a PhD on the subject of trauma as well as having written a series of articles for The Lancet, the widely respected medical journal, on the subject of blunt trauma. He was now writing a medical textbook on the treatment of trauma victims.
The subject that interested him greatly was the amount of impact a human being could sustain and live. He had an opportunity to study it through the victims of accidents he came across in his current work with the Air Ambulance, as well as through forums of trauma doctors and collision investigators around the world.
A straight fall of fifty feet onto a hard surface was the maximum the majority of normal, healthy adults could survive, and that was if they landed feet first with bent legs. Falling from significantly higher than that, the odds reduced to ten per cent. Beyond seven storeys, any fall onto hard ground would be fatal. Lighter, more supple children had a slightly better chance.
He had a particular interest in road traffic accident injuries. Wearing a tightly fitting seat belt, without allowances for crumple zones, the maximum sudden stop an adult human could survive, in theory, was a 60 mph impact – two cars head-on at 30 mph each. Any higher speed and there would be massive rupture damage to the internal organs. The spleen, kidneys, liver and heart would all tear their restraining tendons, and the brain would ricochet around inside the skull, causing severe internal damage.
