Left You Dead

by James, Peter

  There was little doubt in anyone’s mind it was the same person as the one in the photographs that had just been sent through to Grace’s phone.

  A moment later, Polly confirmed it.

  82

  Friday 6 September

  It had happened more than once before in Roy Grace’s career, when a fresh piece of evidence out of left field had turned an investigation on its head – or at least threw into question all their lines of enquiry, he well knew.

  ‘This information, combined with the discovery of the tracker, is making me think there are two other dimensions to this case that we need to investigate,’ Grace said.

  He had everyone’s complete attention.

  ‘So far we’ve been focusing on Niall Paternoster as our prime suspect, with all the evidence pointing to him having murdered Eden. Now we have evidence that he’s having an affair – and with his wife’s boss – could we be looking at a conspiracy between Niall Paternoster and Rebecca Watkins to murder Eden? Or should we be looking at something completely different altogether?’ He stared around at his team quizzically.

  ‘A set-up?’ suggested Luke Stanstead.

  Grace nodded at him. ‘That’s my thinking. We have no body so far, despite all the evidence of murder and the deposition site. But is it possible that it could be there to mislead us? Along with the photograph at Parham House? All we have at that site are some items of clothing in and around a shallow grave, and a knife that in my view has maybe been put in the wrong place – a far too obvious one.’

  He paused to let that sink in. ‘It’s possible that having murdered Eden, dissected her and buried her remains, Niall dumped the knife in a red mist of panic or, just as likely, it was dragged from the grave by an animal. But we know he, or at least his car and his phone, then went to Shoreham Harbour. So if he was going to the harbour to drop his wife’s head into the sea, wouldn’t he also have disposed of the knife there?’

  He let that hang in the air for a moment, looking around at this team. No one contradicted him. ‘We always need to consider the alternatives in any case,’ he continued. ‘Let’s suppose for a moment that the kitchen knife was deliberately put in that sparse bush, instead of one of the much thicker bushes close by, so we would find it?’

  DC Soper raised a hand.

  ‘Yes, Louise?’

  The smartly dressed Detective Constable, her brown hair elegant as always, her discreet Hublot watch the only clue to her private wealth, held up a sheaf of papers. ‘It’s a good point, sir. I’ve been going through the forensic report on the Paternosters’ BMW, as I’m sure we all have, and something’s struck me – as I’m sure it must have you.’

  ‘Which is, Louise?’ Grace encouraged.

  ‘If Niall Paternoster had murdered his wife and transported her to the deposition site in Ashdown Forest in their BMW – which all the evidence from the car’s satnav and onboard computer points to – why is there no DNA evidence in the car? It’s a two-door convertible – so most likely he would have put her body in the boot, or at least on the back seat, although that would have been awkward. Yet there is no DNA evidence – so far at least – of her being in either.’

  Grace nodded. ‘A good point, Louise.’

  Norman Potting raised a hand. ‘But if Niall had wrapped up all the body parts carefully, say in bin liners or plastic sheeting, there wouldn’t necessarily have been any DNA in the car.’

  ‘Yes, Norman,’ he replied. ‘But if he’d had the presence of mind to wrap up the body parts carefully, in my thinking that doesn’t square with the seemingly careless way he’d disposed of the knife – if that is in fact what he did.’

  He saw the Financial Investigator trying to attract his attention.

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘Sir,’ Denyer said, ‘as we already know, the house in Nevill Road is owned by Eden Paternoster. We found out that a year ago she paid off the mortgage, but does he know that? It looks like she used the income she had built up from her rental properties. I’ve now discovered two things of interest late this afternoon. The first is, just ten weeks ago, she raised a seventy per cent mortgage on the house of £420,000, from the Lothian Bank of Commerce. And secondly, possibly even more significant, six weeks ago she transferred that entire amount to a nominee account in the Cayman Islands. I am awaiting more information from the Land Registry but I doubt Niall is aware of any of this.’

  Grace felt a beat of excitement at this new information. Am I being set up here? he began to wonder. Have I missed something? Niall Paternoster was having an affair with Eden’s boss. Had she suspected her husband and placed the tracker under their car? Or did she hire someone to do it? Did she suspect he might be about to divorce her, so she’d moved all the assets she could overseas? And, holding down a senior job in IT in a major international company, she was clearly tech savvy.

  He thought back to the chessboard, with the game in progress in the Paternosters’ living room. Roy Grace’s grandfather had taught him chess when he was about seven, and he’d played often with him, and also occasionally with his dad – until his father stopped playing with him because he always beat his old man too easily.

  Chess was about strategy. Thinking as many moves ahead as you could. The fact that both Niall and Eden played chess against each other indicated both were strategists. Was Eden Paternoster still alive? Who was out-thinking the other here in a game beyond the board?

  83

  Friday 6 September

  Addressing his team, Roy Grace said, ‘I want to run a parallel line of enquiry, looking at the possibility Eden Paternoster is not dead and has set this whole thing up – and if so, why?’

  ‘Could she have done this to get her husband locked up on a murder charge, boss?’ Glenn Branson said.

  ‘On the face of it, that would seem the most likely,’ Grace agreed. ‘Maybe she planted the blood-spotted T-shirt, hid her rings in a place they would be found, took items of clothing to the forest? Far-fetched? Maybe, but an angry, hurt partner in a relationship is capable of going to any lengths to hit back.’ He continued, ‘But we should consider this might only be a smokescreen and there’s another motive behind it. I want to stress these are only hypotheses and I don’t want to deflect our complete focus away from the current lines of enquiry. So I’m going to divide our resources.’

  ‘You mean like punting each way on a horse race, chief?’ Norman Potting interrupted. ‘Hedging your bet?’

  ‘That’s a rather crude way of putting it, Norman, and I’m not so much a betting man these days, I prefer to follow the evidence, but point taken. I’m giving you and Velvet the action of establishing whether Eden Paternoster is still alive.’ He looked at both officers.

  Velvet Wilde nodded. Potting pursed his lips. ‘Five to two on the husband being the killer, ten to one his wife’s still alive.’

  Frustrated now, Grace snapped, ‘This is not a game, Norman. These are people’s lives.’

  Immediately he realized his nerves were frayed and he was exhausted. And he felt guilty for snapping at Norman, who was going through his own particular hell right now. Maybe he should have stayed home and not come in.

  Looking suitably crestfallen, Potting said, ‘Sorry, chief.’

  Moving on, Grace continued, ‘What if when Eden left their BMW in the Tesco car park she went round the back of the store and got into another car? One of the actions you need to start with is to check all local car hire companies and see if her name pops up. Recheck the CCTV cameras around the outside of the store and see if you can spot anything that might support this theory. Perhaps she had a disguise planned. A wig, different clothing. Maybe she had an accomplice – a lover or friend waiting in the car park?’

  ‘What about checking all ANPR cameras around the roads out of the store, sir?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood asked.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, EJ. But that’s a big ask – the exit leads onto a main road going in two different directions, and we don’t even know what vehicle we’re l
ooking for. If any. If Niall Paternoster is telling the truth – and it’s still a big if – then Eden might well have left the Tesco car park in a vehicle. If we could identify that vehicle, then yes, definitely.’

  ‘What about a number-plate match to any vehicles on Nevill Road in the window of time before he could have got back there, boss?’ Jack Alexander suggested.

  Grace nodded thoughtfully. ‘OK, you’re suggesting, depending on where the cameras are located – if any are in either location – that we see what vehicles left Tesco and then drove along Nevill Road? It’s a big task, but something we should consider if there is a camera there.’

  DS Stratford interrupted them. ‘Sir, there is one ANPR camera a quarter mile to the east of the store. The other is just over a mile to the west. But there are none covering any part of Nevill Road.’

  ‘Shame,’ Grace said, and looked back at Alexander. ‘It was a good idea.’

  DS Stratford focused back on his screen. Grace turned to the Financial Investigator. ‘We need a thorough breakdown of Eden Paternoster’s finances, Emily. Drill into her background, look at her maiden name, Townsend, and any other family names she might possibly have used as an alias.’

  ‘Yes, sir, already on it. I should have an update tomorrow.’

  ‘Excellent. Glenn, any update from your press conference?’

  ‘Unfortunately no sightings of Eden or useful information from the public to date; it’s drawn a blank, boss. Two crank calls and that’s it.’

  Roy Grace looked again at his team. ‘One piece of evidence from Digital Forensics that’s been driving our investigation towards Niall Paternoster so far is the examination of his computer. It’s shown that he’d been searching for ways to commit murder and dispose of human bodies. Norman and Velvet, I need you to ask Aiden Gilbert at Digital Forensics for a log of all the times when Niall Paternoster was supposedly looking at murder and body-disposal methods. Then you need to speak to the taxi owner, Mark Tuckwell – he must have a record of the times that Paternoster was using his taxi.’

  ‘To see if it could have been Niall Paternoster online at those times, sir?’ Velvet Wilde asked in her rich Belfast accent. ‘If he was out driving the taxi that would indicate maybe his wife was accessing his computer, perhaps?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Grace said. He hesitated for a moment, before continuing. ‘I’m not saying this is what I believe happened but we need to eliminate that as a possibility – or not.’ He looked around. ‘What I am saying, at this moment, is that I don’t bloody know. Right now we have a woman who has disappeared and her husband having an affair with his wife’s boss. There is evidence her husband murdered her – but we have no body. I also have grounds for suspecting Eden could have set this up.’

  Chris Gee raised his arm. Grace nodded at him.

  ‘I’m wondering if I was Niall Paternoster and innocent, how would I be reacting right now, sir? Would I be taking this calmly or protesting my innocence loudly? Which has he been doing?’ the Crime Scene Manager asked.

  ‘Good question, Chris,’ Grace responded. ‘From all I’ve seen so far, Niall Paternoster is hard to read.’ He turned to Potting and Exton. ‘You’ve been conducting the interviews – what are your views?’

  Jon Exton replied, ‘When we arrested him, boss, his first concern was for their cat.’

  Several of the team giggled.

  ‘Bless!’ EJ Boutwood said. ‘He loves animals, he’s clearly innocent.’

  ‘Hitler loved animals, too,’ Potting mumbled.

  ‘For most of the interviews we conducted he alternated between being belligerent and going “no comment”,’ Exton said. ‘I found him hard to read.’ He looked at Potting.

  ‘Same here, chief.’

  ‘OK,’ Grace said. ‘We need to talk to this Rebecca Watkins urgently. Have we found any more about her?’ He looked at DS Stratford.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been doing a search on her family, sir.’ He leaned over his shoulder and pointed at the association chart on one of the whiteboards behind him. ‘Her husband, Ned, runs a successful advertising agency based in Brighton. They’ve been married five years, no children.’

  Grace thanked him, then looked at Polly. ‘I’m very curious about this lady, I’d like to meet her myself. I think we’ll pay her a visit straight after this briefing – then you and I can bring her in for a formal interview.’

  ‘Might that not risk potential issues with her marriage, sir?’ Polly asked.

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘Just saying, sir.’

  ‘Polly,’ Grace retorted, ‘Rebecca Watkins is Eden Paternoster’s boss. Eden has gone missing. That’s why we’re going to talk to her. I’m not about to tell her hubby that his wife is having an affair – are you?’

  ‘No – sir,’ Polly responded assertively.

  84

  Friday 6 September

  Half an hour after the seventh briefing of Operation Lagoon had ended, Roy Grace, accompanied by Polly Sweeney, turned the silver, unmarked Mondeo estate off Dyke Road Avenue into Barrowfield Drive, an exclusive residential enclave of smart, detached houses. The entrance road was narrow, more like a country lane than somewhere in the middle of a city. The only giveaway was the yellow lines down each side at the start of the drive.

  A wide mix of houses could be seen, Edwardian, mock Tudor, ultra-modern, colonial with columned porticos and a few old-fashioned, country-cottage style. Several had expensive motors in the driveways, adding to the air of moneyed exclusivity.

  ‘They ought to have a sign at the entrance to this estate,’ Polly observed. ‘No riff-raff here.’

  Grace, following the car’s satnav, smiled thinly as he made a left into Barrowfield Drive. ‘Nor anyone on a copper’s salary,’ he added.

  A man in his fifties, wearing orange earbuds, jogged past in the opposite direction.

  ‘Any of these fit your idea of a dream home, sir?’ Polly asked.

  Grace shook his head. ‘Houses too close together. They’re beautiful, but if I had the kind of money to buy one of these, I’d get something in the country. Rolling acres, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Fancy yourself as Lord Grace of Grace Towers, do you, sir?’

  Grace shook his head. ‘Nope. Never had any desire for that kind of money. Did you ever read the novel Catch-22?’

  ‘No – is it good?’

  ‘Brilliant, a classic. I read that its author, Joseph Heller, was at a party in New York thrown by some billionaire for a bunch of writers. Someone asked him how it made him feel that, no matter how successful he was as an author, he would never make the kind of money his host did. Know what Heller replied?’

  Polly shook her head.

  ‘He said, “I have something he will never have. And that’s the knowledge that I have enough.”’

  Polly, smiling, checked the numbers, then said, ‘Here, boss, number seventeen.’

  Grace pulled up outside a fancy, mock-Georgian mansion, with a Grecian-columned porch. A Range Rover Evoque and a matt-black McLaren were parked ostentatiously in the curved driveway out front.

  Grace, automatically clocking their licence plates, smiled too. It was good to be back properly on the job – it was helping him so much to escape, however fleetingly, from his grief over Bruno.

  They climbed out and walked up the path to the front door. Polly glanced enviously at the McLaren. ‘Wouldn’t mind one of those,’ she said.

  ‘What colour?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not fussed.’

  85

  Friday 6 September

  Entering the porch, Roy Grace pressed the doorbell – one of the modern ones, a Nest, with a built-in video. Even the chimes they could hear faintly sounded expensive. He half expected a butler to open the door.

  A dog yapped. Followed by a man’s voice calling out, ‘Kiko! Kiko!’

  Moments later the door opened a crack, then wider. A lean man in his mid-forties with an equine face, a dishevelled mop of thinning fair hair cover
ing the front of his head, stood there. He was dressed in a T-shirt, running shorts and trainers, and clutching one of the smallest dogs Grace had ever seen – it was barely larger than a rat – to his sweaty chest. Despite his clear recent exertions, the man smelled of cologne. Staring at them without an ounce of welcome in his expression, he said flatly, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Ned Watkins?’ Grace asked and held up his warrant card, as did his colleague. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Investigating Officer Sweeney of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘We would like to speak to your wife, Rebecca. Is she home?’ Grace said.

  The dog, its eyes like wet marbles, was sizing them up.

  ‘What about?’ he asked.

  ‘Is your wife home?’ Grace repeated politely.

  He hesitated then said, ‘She is, yes.’

  ‘We’d like to speak to her,’ Grace said.

  ‘Would you like to tell me what this is about?’ Ned Watkins said insistently.

  ‘It concerns a work colleague of hers, sir.’

  ‘The woman who’s gone missing?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  He opened the door wider and stepped aside, ushering them in, still clutching the dog. Then he called out, quite stiffly, Grace noted, with no affection in his voice, ‘Becky!’

  From somewhere in the house a voice, equally lacking in affection, called back, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s people from Sussex Police wanting to speak to you.’ Then he closed the door and set the dog down. It glared at Grace and Polly, yapped a couple of times, then scurried off, disappearing into a doorway.

  ‘OK!’ the voice called out. ‘Just on a call, be there in a sec.’

  Ned Watkins looked at them both. ‘I’m just back from a run. Going to take a shower – I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, we’re sorry to intrude.’

  Without replying, Watkins walked down the hall and disappeared up the ornate, curved staircase at the far end.