Left You Dead

by James, Peter

  ‘Nothing’s as urgent as this. I’m thinking I’ll go in once we’ve had some breakfast, to see the team, if you’re OK with that. I’ll make sure I’m back at the hospital with you straight afterwards,’ he replied.

  ‘Makes sense. I’ll go back and stay with Bruno.’

  They left the front entrance of the hospital and walked out into the early morning light. ‘There’s a decent place, I seem to remember, if we go down to St James’s Street,’ she said. ‘Not far away.’

  They walked in silence. All he wanted to focus on was the dilemma facing them over Bruno and what decision to make.

  A few minutes later they entered a large modern-feeling cafe. Johnny Nash’s ‘I Can See Clearly Now’ was playing quietly. Grace wished he could see clearly himself. Several people were seated having breakfast, but they spotted an empty sofa with a coffee table in a far corner, which looked out of earshot to anyone else. They ordered a double espresso for him and a peppermint tea for Cleo, then sat down next to each other on the squishy leather.

  Cleo looked pale and very distressed. ‘God, my darling,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t believe we are in this situation.’

  ‘Yep.’ He looked down at the oak table and said nothing more for some moments.

  ‘What are your thoughts?’ she asked.

  ‘I – I guess I’m still trying to take it all in. This time yesterday I was dropping him at school. Now I—’ He stopped and closed his eyes tightly, trying to hold it together.

  ‘One double espresso and one mint tea,’ a voice said brightly.

  Grace heard Cleo thank the server. He opened his eyes again. ‘Shit, there’s a lot of stuff in life you don’t have a clue about until it hits you, isn’t there?’

  She smiled back.

  They sat for some while without speaking. Grace sipped his coffee, grateful for its strength.

  ‘What I think,’ Cleo said, ‘is that you shouldn’t rush a decision.’

  ‘What about the organs deteriorating, or is that just their sales spiel?’

  ‘I don’t think a few hours will make any difference.’

  ‘Is there anything we’re missing? Is there something we could do? Some surgeon, somewhere in the world, who could save Bruno?’ he asked.

  ‘You know, darling, we’re hoping for a miracle that isn’t going to happen. If we lose the transplant window, no one gets helped by his death.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He sipped some more coffee in silence.

  ‘What I’m going to suggest, my love, is that because you’ve been thinking of nothing else throughout the night, you need some time away to think clearly. I’ve found so often in life that when we’re in a difficult place, the right decision finds us. Make time to go for a walk on your own, and I’ll do the same. Then let’s speak around lunchtime and see where we’re at.’

  They hugged, with tears rolling down their cheeks.

  As they left the cafe, Roy noticed a text had come in from Glenn Branson.

  Bell me urgently, if you can, boss.

  He hit the DI’s speed-dial button.

  ‘What’s up, Glenn, what’s urgent?’

  ‘I thought you would want to know right away. There’s been a credible sighting of Eden Paternoster.’

  60

  Wednesday 4 September

  Roy Grace, curious about the reported sighting of Eden Paternoster, and highly dubious, was tempted to call back Glenn Branson as he drove to the Sussex Police HQ. But he wanted to use the twenty minutes or so the journey would take to keep his focus on Bruno.

  His mind kept admonishing him shoutily. Miracles happen – wait for one. Bruno will suddenly start speaking. He’ll defy those bloody doctors. Another voice in his head was telling him not to be stupid, that he needed to start grieving.

  Somehow, when he arrived back at work, he managed to avoid bumping into anyone, entered the sanctuary of his office and shut the door. As soon as he sat at his desk, he called Glenn Branson.

  A couple of minutes later, the DI was seated opposite him, in his favoured position with the chair the wrong way round. ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll come to it, but I want to hear first about this credible sighting of Eden Paternoster.’

  ‘You don’t need to be here, Roy – you look terrible – I mean it in the nicest way.’

  Grace nodded. ‘I need to be, my mind is all over the place, I need something else to focus on, to keep sane, OK?’

  Branson smiled. ‘Understood,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve actually got quite a bit more to report. But yeah, this sighting: a prison officer, who works at Parkhurst in the Isle of Wight, saw the article and Eden Paternoster’s photo in the West Sussex Gazette. She is positive she saw Eden Paternoster on the Isle of Wight Hovercraft ferry on the evening of Sunday September the first.’

  Grace frowned. ‘The same day Eden’s husband claimed he’d dropped her at the Tesco store and she’d vanished? Which Aiden Gilbert has discredited?’

  ‘The same day, boss, yes. But what makes this sighting particularly interesting is that Eden Paternoster has Isle of Wight family connections – her grandfather worked in a hotel in Seaview and she has a number of cousins there.’

  Grace had spent several childhood holidays on the Isle of Wight. A few miles south of the coast of Hampshire, it was the second smallest county in England, with a population of around 140,000. One of its claims to fame was that it housed Parkhurst prison, once one of the country’s highest-security jails, which had hosted, at various times, the Yorkshire Ripper Peter Sutcliffe, the Kray Twins and Moors Murderer Ian Brady among many of the nation’s most notorious and repellent criminals. But in recent years, he recalled, following a number of high-profile escapes, it had been downgraded from a Category A to a B.

  ‘OK,’ Grace said. ‘What information can you get from the Isle of Wight Hovertravel company? Do we have a name the ticket was booked under?’

  Branson shook his head. ‘They don’t take names – it’s only an eight-minute ride. I’ve spoken to the boss, Neil Chapman, a very helpful man. You can buy tickets for cash at the terminal or online or by card. I’ve sent DC Hall down there to have a trawl through the online name and credit-card bookings for Sunday afternoon and evening, then he’s going over to the island to talk to the prison officer.’

  ‘Tell him to bring back a tube of Alum Bay sand,’ Grace said.

  Branson frowned. ‘Alan Bay?’

  ‘Alum Bay. Used to love it as a kid – it’s famous for its cliffs of multicoloured sand. You can buy tubes of it, all different colours.’

  Branson gave Grace a strange look. ‘How many tubes do you want, boss?’

  ‘Just reminiscing, I always wanted to take Bruno there—’ He tailed off.

  ‘Ah, right. OK.’

  ‘Get all the names of Eden Paternoster’s relatives on the Isle of Wight. And there must be CCTV?’ Grace said, snapping back into professional mode.

  ‘There is, yes. They have it at the hovercraft terminal in Southsea and at Ryde on the Isle of Wight. There are also onboard cameras.’

  ‘Have you got the footage?’

  Branson shook his head. ‘Not yet, thanks to GDPR.’

  General Data Protection Regulation was one of the banes of modern life that even the police, regardless of the urgency of an enquiry, had to abide by.

  ‘I’ve done the application for the DP2 form to the Hovertravel GDPR officer. I’m hoping to hear back from them shortly. The good news is that they keep all CCTV for thirty days. So long as we don’t get a jobsworth, they’ll burn off a copy to a USB stick, which Kevin Hall can bring back.’

  Grace thought for some moments, absorbing this. ‘As soon as you get it, I’d like to see it.’

  ‘And maybe Haydn Kelly?’ Branson said.

  Kelly was the pioneer of Forensic Gait Analysis, who Grace used regularly when he was available to help confirm or deny a suspect from the way they walked.

  ‘Yes, if the facial images aren’t clear enough and if there’s
any footage of her walking,’ Grace said. ‘Before then, are we going to review the footage of Niall Paternoster’s interviews with Jon and Norman?’

  ‘Yes.’ Branson glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve another starting shortly, we can see that first.’

  ‘What are the other developments? You said you had quite a bit more to report?’

  ‘I do, and this is where it gets more complex. The Dive Team have only started this morning. But the Search Team have been in Ashdown Forest since yesterday evening. They’ve found a number of items of bloodstained clothing in what looks like a hastily dug grave close to where the trainer and the kitchen knife – a match to the set in the Paternosters’ kitchen – were found. But no body parts.’

  ‘You’ve sent all the items for DNA analysis?’

  ‘They’re at the lab now.’

  Grace considered this. ‘Just clothing. No body parts?’

  ‘No, but there’s something else I don’t think I’ve updated you on, boss, from last night’s briefing, which might be very significant. Especially regarding the knife. Niall Paternoster started out in life, after school, as a butcher’s assistant.’

  Grace stared at him, thinking hard. ‘That might be very significant.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘In woodlands, in particular, dismembered body parts can be carried off by predators within a very short time. Foxes, badgers, birds of prey – and all the rodents. That could explain why the team hasn’t found anything yet, potentially five days after it was left there.’

  ‘But what about the head, boss?’

  ‘I’ll put good money on that being in the harbour,’ Grace said. ‘Unless it’s in the Isle of Wight and walking around, still attached to her body. We need to get that footage from the hovercraft.’

  ‘Sometime today, hopefully.’

  ‘Good.’

  Branson glanced at his watch. ‘We should go over to the custody centre and watch this morning’s interview with Paternoster. Are you OK to meet up?’

  ‘Sure.’

  61

  Wednesday 4 September

  As they walked along the corridor, Branson asked, ‘So, what news on Bruno? How’s he doing?’

  Grace was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Not great, Glenn, not great at all.’

  A young DC walking past the other way greeted them with a ‘Good morning, sir, good morning, boss’.

  They both acknowledged her politely. Then Grace said, still quietly, ‘He’s brain dead, there’s nothing they can do. It absolutely breaks me.’

  Branson stopped. Grace stopped too. ‘What?’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘That’s terrible.’ Branson shook his head and looked at him balefully. ‘What – what’s the prognosis – what do the medics say?’

  ‘They’re asking Cleo and me if we would consider organ donation.’

  Branson’s eyes widened. ‘Isn’t there a chance he could recover?’

  ‘No. I mean – from what they say – there’s no way he will.’

  ‘You don’t have to make any decisions immediately, do you, boss? People can stay in that state for a long time. Wasn’t there a case in the papers recently of a teenage girl who’d been in a coma for three years after a car accident and then recovered completely?’

  ‘It’s different with Bruno. We’ve had it all explained to us – about how his brain is swelling – coning, they call it – and crushing his brainstem. His chances of recovery are zero, and if we don’t make a decision quickly, his most valuable organs for transplant will atrophy.’

  Glenn put his huge hand around Roy’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Just know I’m here for you any time you want to talk. If you’d rather go back to the hospital now, to be with him, please do that.’

  ‘I appreciate it, thanks, but I’m coming with you to see this interview. It’s helpful for me to be away from the hospital at the moment . . . we all cope differently.’

  As they walked on, around a corner, they saw Norman Potting and Jon Exton standing, conferring, outside the interview room. The door was closed.

  ‘Sir, chief,’ Potting said, acknowledging them. Exton turned and saw them, too.

  ‘All set?’ Grace asked quietly.

  Exton jerked his head towards the door. ‘Paternoster’s in there with his brief, boss,’ he replied, equally quietly.

  Somehow mustering a smile, Grace said, ‘Remember, confirm the lie then hit with the truth.’

  ‘Absolutely, chief,’ Potting said. He gave a thin smile back.

  Two minutes later, Grace and Branson sat next to each other in the windowless cubicle adjoining the interview room, watching the CCTV monitor on the wall.

  Inside the room they saw Niall Paternoster and his solicitor on one side of the table, and Exton and Potting on the opposite side. Paternoster, with two days’ growth of stubble, looked pallid from lack of sleep.

  ‘The time is 8.17, Wednesday, September the fourth,’ Exton announced. ‘DS Exton and DS Potting interviewing Niall Paternoster in the presence of his solicitor, Joseph Rattigan. This interview is being recorded onto a secure digital network.’

  They all introduced themselves. Exton recapped on the interview from the previous evening and then he sat back. The two detectives looked at Niall for a few seconds. ‘Is there anything you’d like to add to last night?’ Potting asked.

  ‘I’ve got no comment to make.’

  ‘According to your phone, on Sunday the first at 5.30 p.m. you met up with someone. Who was that person? Your girlfriend?’ Potting asked.

  Niall: ‘No comment.’

  ‘Your phone and recent phone records have been examined by our investigation team,’ Potting continued. ‘At 3.23 p.m. on Sunday afternoon a text was sent from your phone, the hard copy of which I have here.’

  Joseph Rattigan indicated he wanted to see it, and Potting passed it across to him. Immediately an increasingly agitated Niall, his face flushed, leaned over to look at it. Then he whispered to his solicitor, who nodded back.

  ‘On the advice of my solicitor I have no comment to make.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his seat; his face was pale and he was looking extremely anxious.

  ‘Niall, could the reason you did not see your wife perhaps be because you were preoccupied with your mobile phone, sending a text?’ Potting quizzed.

  Paternoster jerked as if he’d had a small electric shock.

  The solicitor frowned. This was clearly news to him. ‘Does this have anything to do with Mrs Paternoster’s disappearance?’ He looked at each detective in turn.

  Potting replied, ‘Of course it does, we are trying to establish what your client was doing on Sunday afternoon when he alleges his wife went missing.’ He turned to address Niall. ‘It appears to me that you were communicating by text on at least two occasions on Sunday afternoon and chose, when you gave your account, not to tell us. Who is that person you were communicating with?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Exton continued to press Paternoster. ‘Niall, the sent text message at 3.23 p.m. that you have a copy of reads, “See you 5.30 XXXX”. It was sent to an unregistered pay-as-you-go phone, approximately five minutes after you claim your wife left the car to go into the Tesco store. Can you tell us who the intended recipient was?’

  Niall Paternoster turned to his solicitor, who shook his head.

  ‘No comment,’ Paternoster said.

  Exton held up another sheet of printout, which he passed across the table. ‘This contains triangulation plots obtained from the two phone companies to which your phone and the anonymous phone were registered. When you sent that text, the location of the anonymous phone was in one of a number of houses in Barrowfield Drive, Hove. At 5.30 p.m. your phone and the anonymous phone had both moved to a point where they came together at a location three miles to the west of Brighton. This location has been identified as the vicinity of the car park of the Devil’s Dyke beauty spot. It indicates you had a rendezvous with the owner of the anonymous phone at this location.
Can you tell us anything about this?’

  Paternoster, looking very concerned now, again turned to his solicitor, who shook his head once more.

  ‘No, look, I’ve told you I loved Eden. That’s all I’m saying.’

  Potting interjected. ‘Niall, I’d like to remind you that you are under caution. That means, as I’m sure your solicitor has explained to you, that anything you say may be admissible in court. “No comment” does not go down well with juries and we are inviting you to provide information to confirm what you are telling us about your wife’s disappearance.’

  In the observation cubicle, Grace glanced at Branson. Clearly, the surprise phone evidence had rattled the solicitor.

  Whispering, although he didn’t need to, Branson said, ‘Did you pick up on that, boss? I loved Eden.’

  Grace nodded tersely. ‘Freudian slip?’

  ‘Quite a slip, wouldn’t you say?’ Branson added, then was silent for a moment. ‘But people get het up in interviews – they can be pretty intimidating. Can’t always take everything at face value. Yet there’s something else he said in a previous interview that’s significant and which maybe backs up this slip. He said, Do you people seriously think I would have killed the gravy train when I was down on my luck? Gravy train. That’s a pretty strange remark, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very,’ said Grace. ‘Like implying, I love my wife because she brings in the money. Not because she’s anything else. Not because he loves her to bits. She’s just his cash cow – for want of a better expression. And now we see he had a get-together up on Devil’s Dyke later that Sunday. What kind of person are you going to meet at a local beauty spot late afternoon? Your accountant?’

  Branson grinned.

  ‘There’s definitely something going on here. Speak to Chris Gee and get his team to search through all the paperwork in the house and see if he can find Eden Paternoster’s will – Niall said they’d both made one. That might be revealing. I’ve already given Emily Denyer the action of getting us a full report on their finances. I’d like to know what he might have to gain by Eden’s death.’

  In the interview room, Exton said, ‘Last night we told you about the evidence we have discovered that suggests you may have harmed your wife. A central part of your explanation was your visit to Tesco for cat litter, but we now know you didn’t need any cat litter. Further, and perhaps more significantly, nobody in Tesco saw your wife there to corroborate your story. We have now made you aware that we know about your contact that same afternoon with an unknown person. Why don’t you tell us the truth?’