Left You Dead

by James, Peter

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘it can happen in woodland situations like this, where there’s a lot of wildlife.’

  ‘Fair point,’ he said, swallowing back those memories of past bodies he’d seen, picked clean. He didn’t want these memories right now. He looked down at the row of evidence bags. In one was a popsock; another contained a headband; another, a substantial kitchen knife.

  He picked up the bag with the knife in his gloved hand and held it out in the daylight. There was dried blood on the blade and handle. ‘This is the knife that was found in a bush nearby, Lorna?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’ve sent a picture of it back to the incident room to see if they can get a match with the set of knives in the kitchen of the house.’

  ‘Can I see the bush?’

  She led Grace and Branson a short distance from the metal track and stopped at a yellow triangle on the ground. It was marked ‘7’ and was right in front of a tangle of brambles, with ripe blackberries on the branches.

  ‘It was in there.’

  Grace studied the bush and then looked around. There were several more similar bushes nearby, but each of these much bigger and far denser. He frowned, looked at Branson for a moment, then back at the surrounding bushes.

  ‘Seeing something I’m not, boss?’ the DI asked.

  ‘Something that’s not making total sense,’ Grace said. ‘Why this bush?’

  ‘Because it’s close to the grave,’ Branson suggested.

  Grace fixed his gaze on him. ‘OK, think about it for a moment. I always try to put myself in the killer’s shoes. Let’s hypothesize that Niall Paternoster murdered Eden, dismembered her body, drove the remains out here to a grave, along with the clothes she had been wearing when he killed her, and interred her in this grave. Why didn’t he put the knife in with her?’

  Glenn Branson frowned in thought. ‘Animals? Or maybe he was in a red mist. Like all crims in the aftermath? Right? So he brings her out here in the early hours of Friday, he’s all ramped up. Buries her and all the clothing, covers the grave over and then – shit! He realizes he’s forgotten to bury the knife. So he discards it in the first bush he sees?’

  ‘A simple, stupid error,’ Lorna Dennison-Wilkins said. ‘Seen it before many times. The killer in a panic.’

  Grace shook his head. ‘This doesn’t fit. He wasn’t in a panic. So, let’s suppose he was planning to murder Eden. The trigger was the row they had last Thursday night. Maybe he deliberately created the row.’

  ‘But isn’t that a bit daft?’ Branson asked. ‘Wouldn’t he have known the neighbours would hear?’

  ‘Not necessarily. If he’s a narcissist, bigger on ego than he is on brains as you and I both thought after talking to him, perhaps he thought that the neighbours hearing a row would lend credence to the story he’s giving that she’s left him – done a runner on their marriage. But without thinking through how all his movements would be picked up on ANPR cameras and GPS tracking of his phone.’ Grace shrugged. ‘That wouldn’t be the first time a killer’s been trapped that way.’

  ‘Good point,’ Branson agreed.

  ‘So let’s go down this route for now. When he brought her body – or body parts – here, it was nearly 3 a.m. Pitch dark. No one around. He had all the time in the world. He had the choice of at least six far thicker bushes within flashlight range, as we can see. So why did he choose the one so near and so sparse? And I’m not buying red mist or panic. He was clear-headed enough after killing her to remove her wedding and engagement rings and conceal them, and to hide her passport. But two things here are really bothering me.’

  ‘Which are, boss?’ Branson asked.

  ‘We know there were a number of true crime DVDs in the house. Let’s hypothesize that he learned through those that one of the best ways to dispose of a body is to dismember it and bury it in a shallow – rather than deep – grave, in woodlands. Because that gives you the best chance of predation, which we believe has happened here. The body parts conveniently carried off. So why was he dumb enough to leave items of her clothing in the grave also? Do either of you think that’s consistent with his planning?’

  Grace looked at them all in turn before continuing. ‘Then, after all his planning, Niall Paternoster clumsily chucks the knife into the nearest bush? When there are several so dense and prickly it’s much less likely a member of the public would find it. Why would he do that? I think it was more likely that the deposition site was his way to get rid of the clothing and I think animal disturbance has caused the knife to be moved, especially as it has soil on it. But I don’t completely reject the possibility it could have just been chucked away by him.’

  ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying, boss? That he wanted to be caught?’ Branson asked.

  Grace shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m confused.’

  Lorna Dennison-Wilkins looked equally bemused.

  ‘Join the club,’ Grace said. ‘None of this is making sense. Was it buried or was it thrown away?’

  The DI looked at his watch. ‘Boss, I’ve got to get back to HQ to meet Mark Taylor for the surveillance briefing. If we leave now, I’ve just got time to drop you back home.’

  ‘I’ll come to the briefing with you. We can spend some more time here. I want to take a further look round.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘No, come with me.’

  Grace, followed by Branson, walked further into the woods. They became increasingly dense, all paths a tangle of nettles and brambles, with dubious-looking mushrooms and toadstools free-standing or attached to tree trunks.

  Finally, Branson, looking at his watch, said, ‘We really need to head back, boss, for Mark Taylor. It’s after 3 p.m.’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘Any conclusions?’

  ‘No. You?’

  Branson shook his head. ‘Right now I’m all out of conclusions.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  72

  Friday 6 September

  Kosmos Papadopoulos sat in the glassed-in dock of Court 3 at Lewes Crown Court. A tall, confident-looking man, with slicked-back hair, he wore an expensive suit, stylish cream shirt and blue silk tie, accessorized with bling rings and an even blinger watch. He could have done without the unwanted accessories on either side of him, a male and female security guard, in their shabby outfits. But at least his brief, Kiaran Murray-Smith, a sharp-eyed QC in his early fifties, and his junior, Madeleine Wade, had been doing a pretty good demolition job of the prosecution, so far.

  His legal team had been doing so well that Papadopoulos could scent victory in the expressions of the jurors.

  And now, the neatly dressed woman in her mid-thirties, with long hair the colour of straw, who was taking the oath in the witness box, didn’t look like she would say boo to a goose. Yet another in a string of so-called ‘expert’ witnesses called by the prosecution.

  She swore on the Holy Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Yadda, yadda, yadda. The poor deluded woman actually sounded like she meant it. Yeah, good luck with that one, lady. When you arrive at the Pearly Gates, if you’re expecting St Peter to unclip the crimson rope and let you turn left, you could be in for a spot of disappointment. But hey, that’s for later.

  The witness over the next hour relayed to the court her evidence. She gave this in a quiet and assured manner, concentrating on conversations of the defendant that she had witnessed. Once the prosecution counsel had finished with the witness, the defence counsel got to his feet.

  Murray-Smith was straight on it, going for the jugular.

  ‘Sharon Orman, could you please tell the court your academic and professional qualifications?’

  ‘I left secondary school with nine GCSEs and three A levels in mathematics, computer science and biology,’ she replied.

  There was a short silence while he let the jury absorb this.

  ‘And, subsequently, what further qualifications did you achieve?’ />
  ‘None,’ she said falteringly. ‘I saw an advert for Sussex Police, looking for people to join under their diversity programme. I joined the Digital Forensics Team before moving to the Surveillance Unit.’

  Murray-Smith gave her a big, confidence-boosting beam and a sarcastic tone. ‘Would this have been because you fancied a career change?’

  There was a brief interruption as the prosecution counsel objected. The judge allowed the defence counsel to continue.

  ‘In your evidence, as an expert witness, Ms Orman, which was pretty damning, you claimed that you had watched, via binoculars, the defendant in conversation with another person. You read out from your notes your recording of what Mr Papadopoulos had purportedly said. I will repeat it, just for the avoidance of any misunderstanding.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and read aloud from it, directing his words at the jury box.

  ‘You told this court that, according to your interpretation, my client said, “There’s a drop in the Channel, one mile north of the Palace Pier. Eight million quid’s worth of crack cocaine at street value. I have two other bidders for this – do you want in? If so, give me your price by midday tomorrow.”’

  Murray-Smith looked up from his notes, straight at the woman. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘It is,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Word perfect?’

  No hesitation. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, Ms Orman, as we have heard, you’ve had no formal qualifications or training in the art of lip-reading. Yet you claim to have observed my client in discussions over what might or might not have been a business deal. Pretty damning evidence if true, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I would,’ she said.

  Murray-Smith went in for the kill. ‘So, as I understand it, Sharon Orman, you have no qualifications and no formal training to be a member of the Surrey and Sussex Police Surveillance Unit. Is that also correct?’

  ‘No, I have had surveillance training,’ she replied.

  ‘So, it is agreed,’ the defence counsel pounced, the bit between his teeth now. ‘We’ve asked what training you’ve had and you have told us. We have asked what qualifications you have to give this evidence and you’ve replied that you have no qualifications. So, you have come to court as a so-called “expert” witness, telling this court very damning evidence about what my client is alleged to have said. You’re not qualified to give this evidence. What gives you the authority to come here and tell this court what you have? Why should any of us here in this court believe what you have said?’

  Calmly, her voice more assured now, Sharon Orman said, ‘Well, in childhood I lost my full hearing. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years of my life reading people’s lips, watching their movements – just like I’ve been reading yours. That’s the way I survive in the modern world. I think that’s all the qualification I need, wouldn’t you say?’

  For a fleeting instant, Murray-Smith’s suave features took on an appearance of a bone-china cup that had been dropped from ten storeys onto a concrete block. Instantly regaining his composure, although not his confidence, he turned to the judge. ‘No further questions.’

  73

  Friday 6 September

  At 3.45 p.m., Roy Grace and Glenn Branson met Mark Taylor, their Surveillance Team leader, as well as DC Keri Brogan, the Intelligence Development Officer, who was to be the liaison between the Major Crime Team and the Surveillance Team on Operation Lagoon.

  Brogan, late thirties, had the stocky build of a hockey goalkeeper, which Grace, having met her some while back, remembered was her passion. Shoulder-length hair, set in tight curls like a judge’s wig, but brown not grey, framed her face. She was dressed in casual clothes and new-looking trainers.

  Detective Sergeant Taylor, who was in his mid-forties, had shaggy, collar-length hair and chiselled good looks that reminded Grace of the actor he’d last seen in Game of Thrones, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau. He wore a thin leather jacket over a grey T-shirt, jeans and basketball boots. Not a man to be messed with, Grace knew from his background. He had joined the police at the age of twenty-five after six years’ distinguished service in the Royal Marines. On finishing his two-year probation, he’d immediately, at his request, been posted to CID, then Surveillance. Subsequently, the quietly spoken man, who did not suffer fools, had worked at all levels of Surveillance, including a three-year stint with Scotland Yard, before transferring back to Sussex Police after the birth of his first child.

  Cradling a cup of coffee, looking at the two detectives opposite him across the small table, Taylor asked in a warm, slightly gravelly voice, ‘So what are your objectives? I have a briefing with my team at 4.30 p.m. and will inform them.’

  Grace, out of courtesy, glanced at Branson, who nodded for him to go ahead.

  ‘OK, Mark, this is what we’ve got. A husband, Niall Paternoster, aged thirty-five, we think has killed his wife, Eden, aged thirty-one.’ Grace filled him in on all the details of his suspicions, before continuing. ‘We know that, in his past, Niall Paternoster worked as a butcher’s apprentice. This may, as we suspect, have enabled him with sufficient knowledge to have dissected his wife’s body. We believe in the early hours of last Friday he may have driven to Ashdown Forest and deposited some or all of her body parts, except for her head, in a grave.’

  Taylor made some notes.

  Grace continued. ‘He currently works as a journeyman taxi driver, mostly on lates. We suspect that he may subsequently have disposed of his wife’s head off the end of the east mole of Shoreham Harbour. At this stage, other than a single bone that may be human, but more likely not, found at the deposition site, we have no hard evidence against Paternoster. Catching him returning to the deposition site would be very helpful, for starters.’

  Taylor tapped some further notes into the tablet in front of him.

  ‘In terms of a motive, we have reason to suppose that Niall Paternoster may be having an affair,’ Branson added. ‘Last Sunday afternoon, some while after he claimed that his wife went into Tesco Holmbush and vanished, he had a meet-up with a person unknown at this point, at Devil’s Dyke. All we have is an unregistered – presumably burner – phone, which has been traced to one of a number of houses in Barrowfield Drive, Hove. We’re checking who lives there.’

  ‘Posh address,’ Taylor said. ‘I’d love to live in that area if I could ever afford it. So you don’t know whether the owner of the phone is male or female?’

  Grace and Branson both shook their heads.

  ‘But there were four kisses,’ Branson added.

  Taylor pursed his lips. ‘So it’s likely to be a shag.’

  Grace nodded affirmation. ‘Intel from his phone and from the car’s satnav and onboard computer show he’s had regular meet-ups at this same location over the past six months – as does the triangulation plot from the burner. I’m hoping we get lucky with your surveillance and he goes there again.’

  Taylor nodded. ‘What actual evidence do you currently have that Niall Paternoster has murdered his wife, Eden, sir?’

  ‘At this stage, we have no actual body to prove murder,’ Grace replied. ‘Our evidence is entirely circumstantial. I would like your team to put twenty-four-seven surveillance on him. I’d particularly like to see if he goes back to the deposition site, for any reason – perhaps to check if it has been disturbed. And we’d like to see if he has any further liaisons with his contact – and to monitor, if possible, any conversations between them. His financial situation may be significant – we are led to believe that he has much to gain from his wife’s death. So the principal objective of this surveillance is to monitor his movements and secure evidence.’

  Mark Taylor nodded. ‘OK, sir, what I suggest is I put two teams of officers on it, both on twelve-hour shifts – they’ll stay longer if a changeover would compromise a particular situation. All our comms will be on our secure radio channel on our phones. I’ll be running five vehicles, a motorbike, a mix of sexes, some solo, some dual. A mix of cars, white and grey vans, some with fa
ke company names. When it’s dark we can also put a tracker on his car, after getting the necessary authorization. We’ll also figure out a way of bugging his house.’

  ‘That could be very helpful.’

  ‘We also have drone operators available, with infrared cameras, if that should be necessary, sir,’ Taylor said.

  ‘And you’ll start straight after your briefing?’ Grace asked.

  Taylor shook his head. ‘We’ve already started, sir. I have, thanks to the cooperation of the Greyhound Stadium opposite the Paternosters’ house, an observation point, with an officer already in position with a long-lens video camera. He’s taken over from your guys. I’ve also got a vehicle at each end of Nevill Road in case he goes anywhere before the whole team’s ready. I will also have one of our brightest members, Sharon Orman, who is hard of hearing – you would never know it – joining the team after giving evidence in court on a current trial – hopefully she’ll be done there today and able to join the team. Her particular expertise is lip-reading from long range. She’s remarkably effective, even through night-vision lenses.’

  Grace thanked him.

  As soon as Taylor and Brogan had left his office, Branson asked Grace if he’d like a lift back home.

  He shook his head. ‘Thanks, mate, but I’d like to come to the evening briefing meeting. I’d prefer to keep occupied than go home and just let it all—’ He stopped, his voice choked up. Thinking about Bruno lying in the hospital bed in his Bayern Munich strip, surrounded surreally by all the technical apparatus. He gave Branson a soulful look. ‘If you understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t want to steal your thunder as Acting SIO – you can lead the meeting if you’d like?’

  ‘No way,’ Branson said in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘If you’re going to be there, you’re the boss!’