by James, Peter
‘You’re not seriously suggesting I murdered Eden?’
‘No, of course not, but where is she?’
‘Jesus! Are you my friend or what? Are you hearing me? I don’t bloody know.’
‘So how do you think it looks to the police, Niall? You’re having an affair. They can’t find any evidence to back up your story that she went into the store – what do you expect them to think?’
‘Some friend you are, thanks a million.’
‘People don’t just disappear.’
‘No? Well, she has – into thin air. What game is she playing with me?’
‘You had another row.’
‘It wasn’t a row – it was just – we were just bickering.’
‘About what?’
‘Cat litter.’
Mark Tuckwell grinned. ‘So she’d done a runner on you because you’d argued about cat litter? If you need any, we can give you some.’
‘According to the police, we have plenty. I never saw it. How could she have forgotten she’d got two sacks of the stuff?’
‘Cheryl often makes me pick up stuff she’s forgotten she already has. That’s hardly grounds to arrest you on suspicion of murder.’
‘Oh, great, finally you’re actually taking my side?’
‘Sure I am, I don’t think you’ve murdered her.’
‘Hallelujah!’
Tuckwell shook his head. ‘No, you wouldn’t murder her because you know you’re too dumb to ever get away with it. You’ve probably got her chained up underground somewhere.’
Paternoster glared at his friend indignantly. ‘I don’t know why I like you.’
‘Because I tell you the truth that you don’t want to hear.’
They were approaching his house. As he’d been told upon his release, Niall Paternoster saw a line of crime scene tape fluttering above the pavement in front of it and a white van, signed CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION UNIT, parked a short way down the road. A bored-looking uniformed police officer stood on the pavement.
Tuckwell said frivolously, ‘They’ve laid on a welcome home party for you.’
‘Pull up outside,’ Paternoster said. ‘I’m going to find out when they’ll be finished.’
Obediently, but with a cynical expression, Mark Tuckwell halted right in front of the house. Paternoster jumped out and approached the officer.
‘Hi, this is my home.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t go in, sir,’ she said.
‘I know that – when are you going to be finished?’
She shook her head. ‘This is a crime scene.’
A bright flash caught his eye, and he noticed for the first time two photographers, standing near, snapping him.
‘Oi, get lost!’ he yelled at them, then turned back to the officer. ‘I know I can’t go in but I need a change of clothes.’
‘If you need anything from the house, sir, like wash things and clothes, give me a list and I’ll ask if someone can bring them to you.’
‘Yes, and where do I sleep? In a shop doorway?’
‘Perhaps with relatives or friends – or in a hotel, sir.’
‘Great, I’ll get a suite at the Grand and charge it to Sussex Police, shall I?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that.’
‘No, of course you can’t.’
‘What I can tell you, sir, is we should be finished by tomorrow.’
There were more flashes. He shielded his face, but well aware it was far too late. Turning, he hurried back to the taxi and jumped in.
‘Unbelievable!’ he said. ‘Go! Drive!’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘Just drive.’
‘No problem,’ Mark Tuckwell said. ‘Your shout – I’ve kept the meter running.’
‘You what?’ Paternoster looked at the dash and saw, to his astonishment, that it was.
£24.30 was clocked up.
‘Tell me you’re joking?’
As he drove away, Tuckwell said, ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to add one night’s board and lodging to your bill? Full English included? Egg, sausage, bacon, black pudding and fried bread?’
‘Eden doesn’t approve of full Englishes. She calls them heart attacks on a plate.’
‘You sure you’re going to need to worry about her approval any more?’ Tuckwell said with a strange expression, which Niall Paternoster did not like. His friend had always seen through him.
‘Funny,’ he said, but it came out flat.
‘In case you do, Cheryl does a vegetarian option – it’s very popular.’
Paternoster didn’t respond.
64
Wednesday 4 September
Roy and Cleo sat once more in the Relatives’ Room outside the ICU. An empty carrier bag was on the floor at Cleo’s feet. As suggested by Imelda Bray, they’d brought from home Bruno’s favourite clothes, which the counsellor had collected from them when they’d arrived.
Grace was reading through the consent forms, on the table in front of him. He paused to glance at his watch. Coming up to 1 p.m. Ordinarily, he might have been thinking about lunch, but he had no appetite. He sipped a plastic beaker of water someone had brought him, his mind churning, despite his decision. Questioning it. He held his personal phone in his hand, googling once again the words coma, and then brain death.
‘You’re torturing yourself, darling,’ Cleo said.
She was doing exactly the same on her phone. She had it in her hand now.
‘And you’re not?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want this to be something that comes back repeatedly to haunt us. I don’t want either of us to wake up tonight, or any other night, and say, What if? That’s all.’
‘I guess – I’m the same.’
‘So.’ She turned and looked at him. ‘Your entire working life revolves around evidence that ultimately has to be presented in a court of law. Would it help to role-play now?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Let’s say you are Bruno’s lawyer, fighting me, the Crown Prosecutor. You’re arguing the case against donating Bruno’s organs. You already know my opening argument.’
‘That there is no chance, not the slightest chance, of Bruno coming back from where he is?’
‘Yes.’
Grace stared at her for some moments. He tried hard to return with a cogent argument. ‘People say medicine is a very inexact science,’ he came up with lamely. ‘There is always the possibility of a misdiagnosis.’
‘From what you know, Detective Superintendent Grace, what percentage chance would you put on Bruno making a recovery? One hundred per cent? Fifty per cent? Twenty-five per cent? One per cent? Less than one per cent?’
He was silent for a long while. ‘Less than one per cent,’ he said finally.
‘During the course of your career so far, how many suspects have you let go on the balance of a less than one per cent probability that they were innocent?’
For the first time in several hours he smiled, albeit bleakly.
At that moment the door opened and Imelda Bray, accompanied by the transplant coordinator, Charlotte Elizabeth, came in.
‘How are you both feeling?’ Imelda Bray asked.
Grace looked up at her. ‘Pretty awful,’ he said, picking up the pen that had accompanied the forms, signing and dating them. He handed them to the coordinator. ‘I think I’ve signed everywhere you indicated.’
She checked them through briefly. ‘Yes, you have, thank you.’
The counsellor said gently, ‘Let’s try to focus now not on your loss, but on all the good your generous decision will give. You’ll need to grieve and we are here to provide you with all the help and support you will need. For now, would you like to come in and say goodbye to Bruno?’
Grace turned to Cleo for confirmation. She gave it with a single nod and a grim smile.
They both stood up.
65
Wednesday 4 September
A few minutes later, feeling like his sh
oes had lead soles, Roy walked with Cleo through into the Intensive Care Unit. They followed Bray and Elizabeth along past three occupied beds and stopped at the curtains surrounding Bruno. They were ushered in and heard the swish of fabric closing behind them.
Grace stared down at his son, who was looking tinier than ever amid all the apparatus, and felt a knot in his stomach at the sight of him now dressed in the red shirt and shorts of his beloved Bayern Munich football team strip. A large white T with four small white squares, and two smaller emblems, were on the shirt, and the emblems were repeated on the shorts.
Bruno’s eyes were closed and he looked, as before, pale and peaceful. His hair was a tousled mess. Roy Grace bent down and kissed him on the forehead and Cleo did the same.
‘Hey, chap,’ he said. ‘Cleo and I are here. Can you hear us?’
Bruno showed no reaction, and nor, from what Grace could see, did any of the digital displays. It was as if he was in a deep, peaceful sleep.
‘Hey, chap!’ he said again, louder. Desperate at this last minute for some sign to show that Bruno was reacting to them, that he still had brain activity, that he might yet, against all the odds, pull through.
But nothing changed.
Some minutes later Imelda Bray indicated for them to follow her back outside.
Along with Charlotte Elizabeth, they walked along the unit, past other patients in their beds, and stopped by the nursing station, well out of earshot of Bruno.
In a quiet voice, Bray said, ‘We’re going to leave you alone with him now. Let us know when you are ready.’
A few moments later, the two women departed.
Roy and Cleo returned to Bruno’s bedside. His grandparents had already been in to say their goodbyes and had now left. They had agreed, after an initial reluctance, with the decision to donate Bruno’s organs, having been persuaded they would get some small comfort knowing that their grandson would help others to live.
They sat on the two chairs beside the bed. Cleo took a jar of Bruno’s hair gel from her handbag, along with a brush and comb, and set to work on arranging his hair, as best she could after his surgery, in the meticulously neat way Bruno always wore it.
Grace smiled appreciatively at her, then stared at his son’s face, trying to put out of his mind, for a moment, all the technology around him and attached to him, to both monitor him and keep him – even if only technically – alive.
‘Want me to leave you two alone together for a while?’ Cleo whispered when she had finished.
‘No, thank you for offering,’ he whispered back. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ He turned back to Bruno. ‘Hey, fella! I don’t want to leave anything unsaid. I love you from the bottom of my heart and even though I didn’t know you until recently, it doesn’t change how strong my feelings for you are. You have taught your stepmum and me so much in such a short time. It’s OK to be a bit different, a bit quirky. But now, my son, you are going to do the most significant thing in your life and we will be forever proud. You are going to give your organs to someone who needs them more than you. You will live forever in them. You will live forever in our hearts and in our minds.’
He and Cleo were sobbing now. ‘Bruno, you have made us so proud and we love you. Now be at peace. Goodnight, sleep well, my love.’
There was no response. Just the constant beeps from around them, beyond the curtains.
Grace stared at Bruno for several minutes, willing his eyes to open, even though he knew it wouldn’t happen. He looked around at the machines again and again, looking for some change, some signal. But nothing.
With tears running down her cheeks, Cleo stood, indicated with her finger for him to stay put, and slipped out through the curtain.
Grace took his son’s motionless right hand. ‘Goodbye, little chap,’ he whispered, his chest heaving. ‘I’m sorry we never had the chance to get to know each other more. I’m sure you’re full of kindness – and life never gave you a chance to show it. But at least we can give you a different kind of chance to show it.’
He broke down crying, his head in his hands.
He was still crying when Cleo returned with Imelda Bray, Charlotte Elizabeth, a doctor and a nurse.
A male voice – the doctor – asked kindly, ‘Are you sure you are ready now, Mr and Mrs Grace?’
A disembodied voice that sounded like it might have been his, said, ‘I guess.’
He looked again at Bruno.
And for the very first time since he had seen his son, over in Munich, Bruno actually looked at peace.
‘We’ll leave you for a few more minutes,’ the doctor said.
A swish of curtains.
Now it was just him and Cleo again. He took Bruno’s tiny hand and entwined his fingers in his. ‘Oh God, why did this have to happen to you?’
Was it his imagination, Grace wondered, but had he felt the tiniest pressure back?
He pressed his face against Bruno’s and sobbed and sobbed.
66
Wednesday 4 September
It was shortly after 4 p.m. when Roy Grace drove the Alfa up the bumpy cart track. Approaching the property, he had a sinking feeling when he saw two members of the local press who were obviously waiting to doorstep him for a comment. He drove past them, ignoring them, and pulled up outside their cottage behind Cleo’s Audi TT. He and Cleo had barely spoken a word during the twenty-five-minute drive. Despite the knowledge that Noah and Kaitlynn were inside, their home looked empty to him.
A void.
He stared bleakly out through the windscreen at the bright afternoon and the sheep-like clouds spread across the soft round hill above them. Sights that Bruno would never see again.
As he switched off the engine, Cleo put an arm around his neck and pulled him to her. ‘We must take one positive from all of this, my love,’ she said.
He gave her a baleful look. ‘Yes?’
‘Remember what Bruno told his headmaster?’
‘That he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be a chemist or a dictator?’
‘Yes. Now, maybe, with the organs he donates, he has the chance to be both.’
For the first time in what felt like a long while, Grace cheered a fraction. ‘Yes, at least that’s something.’
‘I loved him as much as if he had been our child, you do know that, don’t you?’
‘I do. You were amazing with him.’
His job phone rang. Glancing at it, he could see it was Glenn Branson calling.
‘Take it,’ she urged.
He shook his head. ‘I need a seriously stiff brandy before I do anything.’
She patted her swollen belly. ‘Me too – I wish. It’s strange, isn’t it – as one life ends, another is just beginning.’
67
Wednesday 4 September
Roy Grace never normally felt like a drink before 6 p.m., but today was different. He never normally saw his son dying. He never normally sanctioned the donation of his child’s organs. For the first time in his life he found himself struggling to resist opening the bottle.
He returned Glenn Branson’s call, forty minutes later.
‘How did it all go, boss?’
‘Some other time. What’s your news?’
‘Well – significant. The prison officer has now backtracked on her original opinion.’
‘Meaning?’ Grace pressed.
‘Meaning the sighting of Eden Paternoster on the ferry is dubious, at best.’
‘So we can dismiss it?’
‘Pretty much, boss, yes. Doesn’t take us any further forward.’
‘But at least not backwards.’ Then Grace thought for a moment. ‘Still, we do know she has family connections on the Isle of Wight, so we need to find out who they are and have them interviewed. The fact that we are discounting this particular sighting doesn’t necessarily mean, should she still be alive, she hasn’t gone there by other means. There’s a car ferry and a catamaran, and there’s a small airport at Sandown – in the absence of a body, we need
to establish for certain she’s not there. Have one of the team speak to the local police there and see if they can help us out with that.’
‘I’ll put someone on it.’
‘Good – OK, so we now focus back on Niall Paternoster as the prime suspect in a “no body” murder investigation?’
‘I think that’s the right call,’ Branson said. ‘I’ve spoken to the ACC, who sends his thoughts and prayers for Bruno’s recovery.’
‘Yup, well you can tell him it’s a bit late for that now.’
There was a long silence. Branson finally broke it. ‘Oh God, Roy – shit – boss – are you saying what I think?’
‘Bruno didn’t make it. There was no miracle.’
After a long silence, Branson said, ‘I’m so sorry, Roy. Want to talk about it?’
‘Not now, OK – just let Pewe know, will you?’
‘Of course. Will you let us have the details – you know – of the funeral when you have it?’
‘I will. But let’s just focus back on the case, I need a distraction for now. Any luck with getting surveillance?’
‘No joy for today, but Mark Taylor’s team look like they’ll be finished on a job sometime tomorrow or possibly Friday.’
‘He’s brilliant,’ Grace said. ‘Top man – too bad we can’t get him today, but Mark’s lot will pick it all up fast.’
‘How about a request to the Home Secretary for phone taps on Paternoster?’ Branson suggested.
‘No chance – we’d only get that if we could establish there was a life at risk. I don’t think I have any evidence currently to warrant any such application. What about the pollen lady?’
‘Helen Middleton’s starting tomorrow. She’s going to look at the foot pedals in Niall Paternoster’s car, plus his shoes which we’ve taken, and see if we can link him to the clothes we found at the deposition site. And we’ve arranged for the forensic archaeologist Lucy Sibun to attend. Lucy’s in court tomorrow giving evidence at the big drugs trial, but she’ll be at the site as soon as she can. Meanwhile, her junior colleague, Simon Davy, has made a start and will be carrying on first thing in the morning.’
