Left You Dead

by James, Peter

  The hall had a crisp, modern and arty feel. A polished oak floor with a black-and-white patterned runner carpet; abstract art on the grey walls; a chaise longue that looked like a giant lobster with its back hollowed out. Weird, Grace thought. Not something he’d want greeting him when he arrived home.

  A woman appeared through the same doorway the dog had run into. She was barefoot, with razor-cut bleached blonde hair, dressed in stylish gym kit.

  No mistaking her, Grace thought, glancing at Polly out of the corner of his eye. He recognized her instantly from the photographs Mark Taylor had sent through. An attractive, slim woman in her mid-thirties, she looked more like a model or an actress than someone who worked in a rather more mundane IT position in the insurance world.

  She approached them, followed by the dog.

  ‘Good evening?’ she said, polite but unsmiling. Her voice had a faint accent. Normally good at regional accents, Roy Grace could not immediately place hers. A Midlands accent she was trying to suppress, perhaps.

  ‘Mrs Rebecca Watkins?’ Grace asked, again displaying his warrant card. He repeated his and Polly’s credentials. ‘We’d like to have a word with you – is there somewhere we can talk privately?’ Then, lowering his tone, he added, ‘Discreetly?’

  A shadow flitted across her face. ‘What do you mean by that?’ She looked for a moment at Polly, a tad too closely. ‘Didn’t I see you at my office earlier this week?’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly said. Then, lowering her voice, ‘We’d like to talk to you about your whereabouts this afternoon, Mrs Watkins.’

  She jumped. It was as if she’d just stuck a finger into an electrical socket.

  There was a faint hiss and whirr from upstairs – the sound of a shower running, Grace thought. ‘If it’s not convenient here, perhaps you could accompany us to Police HQ?’

  ‘Here’s fine,’ she said stiffly. She indicated a door on their left, opened it, led them through and closed it behind her.

  The detectives entered a lounge, bizarrely decorated in vivid colours. There was a life-size model tiger, a silver giraffe head on one wall and some very strange modern art on the others, as well as a white baby grand piano.

  Rebecca Watkins gestured them to one of two curved blue sofas facing a glass coffee table, inside which – and Grace didn’t care to look at them too much – was an assortment of preserved spiders and beetles. She then closed the door firmly, ensuring it clicked shut.

  Grace looked at the piano. ‘Do you play?’ he asked, trying to break the ice and to get a reading from her face.

  ‘My husband,’ she said dismissively, as if it were an affliction rather than a talent. She sat down opposite them, bolt upright, crossing her legs and then her arms.

  Defensive pose, Grace noted.

  ‘Who’s the entomologist?’ Polly asked.

  The woman threw a casual glance down at the table. ‘Oh, that’s my husband, too. Not my thing at all. Critters, yech!’ She shuddered.

  Grace wondered, curious, if she didn’t like the insects why she allowed it to be a centrepiece of their living room. She didn’t look like a pushover to him.

  ‘So, officers, I must ask, do you know Bill Warner – he’s a cousin of mine?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Yes, one of the best police officers I’ve ever had the privilege to work with.’

  ‘Lovely man.’

  ‘He is,’ Grace said. Then, lowering his voice a few octaves, he said, ‘Mrs Watkins, could you tell us your movements over the past four hours? As I said, if you would prefer to talk somewhere more discreetly we could go to Police HQ?’

  She locked eyes with him fleetingly. ‘Why would I need to talk somewhere discreet? I’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘OK,’ Grace said and glanced at his watch. It was 7.02 p.m. ‘If you could please tell us your movements since 3 p.m. today?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve been attending an IT seminar in Hastings for the past two days, which finished at lunchtime. There was no point going to the office – I work up at Croydon, as you know – so I took the afternoon off and went to Waitrose in Brighton to do my weekly shop. Then I came home, unpacked everything and began preparing our evening meal.’

  Grace, focused on her eyes, asked, ‘You work for the Mutual Occidental Insurance Company?’

  ‘I do, yes. Your friend here knows this, I saw her there this week.’

  ‘With Mrs Eden Paternoster?’

  ‘Correct, yes.’

  ‘Did you go anywhere else during this time, this afternoon, Mrs Watkins?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, like I said, I was here preparing supper.’

  ‘And your husband would be able to confirm that?’ Polly said.

  Both detectives saw the hesitation in her face. ‘He only came home at about 6 p.m. and then went straight out for a run.’

  ‘What time did you go to Waitrose this afternoon?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I don’t know – around 3 p.m.’

  ‘And how long were you in the store?’

  ‘Half an hour – maybe forty minutes.’

  ‘Then you came back home?’ he continued.

  The hesitation again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The CCTV in the Waitrose store would be able to confirm the time you arrived and left,’ Grace said. ‘Are you sure you came straight back home?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I had stuff that needed to go into the freezer. What is this about?’

  Grace reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a series of photographs, which he laid, facing her, on the coffee table. She was good, he thought, with sneaking admiration, she barely twitched a muscle. She just looked at them, completely dispassionately.

  ‘You can see in the first photograph a black-and-white Range Rover Evoque, the licence plate is the same as the one parked on your driveway. Is that your vehicle, Mrs Watkins?’

  ‘Yes.’ Still defiant.

  ‘And is that you in the other photographs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘These were taken at approximately 5.30 p.m. today in the car park at Devil’s Dyke. You say you were at home all afternoon, after returning from Waitrose, that’s correct, is it?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ she said. ‘I forgot about that bit.’

  Grace glanced at Polly. ‘We’re not here to make any moral judgements, Mrs Watkins. We are investigating the disappearance of Mrs Eden Paternoster, the wife of the man in these photographs with you. We believe she may have been murdered. You and Mrs Paternoster are work colleagues – you are her line manager, if I understand correctly.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Are you aware that Niall Paternoster, her husband, is a prime suspect in our murder enquiry?’

  ‘It’s been all over the news,’ she retorted. ‘It was front page on the Argus yesterday and headlined on Radio Sussex and BBC television. But if you think Niall was responsible, you are very wrong. He’s a sweet man who wouldn’t harm anyone.’

  There was a knock on the door. Polly immediately leaned forward and grabbed the photographs, just as it opened.

  Ned Watkins peered in. He shot a ‘still here?’ look at the detectives, then addressed his wife coldly again. ‘Off to poker – everything OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m going to my kick-boxing class shortly.’

  ‘See you,’ he said.

  ‘See you,’ she replied stiffly.

  As he closed the door, the lack of affection between the two hung in the air like the vapour from dry ice.

  ‘Mrs Watkins,’ Grace asked, ‘where were you last Sunday, September the first, around 5.30 p.m.?’

  ‘I took our dog, Kiko, for a walk on the Dyke.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Grace persisted.

  Outside they heard the roar of a high-powered engine starting, followed by what seemed to the officers to be several unnecessarily loud revs, as if Ned Watkins was signalling some displeasure. Then came a squeal of tyres and the vroom of the McLaren, they presumed, roaring off at speed.

  Seemingly ignoring the
sound, Rebecca Watkins gave Grace a long, hard stare. ‘I’m guessing you know the answer to that. So, before I say anything else, am I a suspect – is that what this is about? Should I have my solicitor present?’

  Both detectives shook their heads. ‘No, you are not a suspect,’ Grace answered. ‘Not at this moment.’

  ‘Meaning?’ she rounded on him.

  ‘If you were a suspect, we would have arrested you,’ Grace said. ‘We are aware that you appear to be in some form of relationship with Niall Paternoster, who is a person of interest to us. The purpose of coming to see you is to be able to eliminate you from our enquiries.’

  ‘Or implicate me?’

  Roy Grace stared levelly at her. ‘We need to make sure you didn’t help Niall Paternoster murder his wife, Eden, and dispose of her body.’

  ‘That’s absolutely ridiculous!’ she replied.

  ‘Then you have nothing to worry about. We would like you to come to the Police HQ in Lewes tomorrow morning to be interviewed as you are an important witness. What time would be convenient?’

  ‘I’m in a meeting at work all tomorrow morning – it’s the monthly appraisals of my team, we’re having to do them on a Saturday.’

  ‘Fine,’ Grace said. ‘What about tomorrow afternoon?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve meetings booked all afternoon.’

  Grace stared back at her. ‘Would you prefer us to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder?’

  There was a long, silent stand-off. Then she said compliantly, ‘Would 9 a.m. work?’

  Grace glanced at Polly, who nodded. ‘OK, 9 a.m. If you go to reception at the front entrance of the Police HQ in Lewes, they’ll have a car park space reserved for you.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think I have anything to do with Niall’s wife’s disappearance, do you?’

  ‘So long as you don’t, Mrs Watkins,’ Grace said, ‘then you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then I’m afraid I have to be off, I don’t want to be late for my class.’

  86

  Friday 6 September

  As the detectives drove away from the Watkinses’ house, heading back to HQ, Roy Grace turned to Polly. ‘Your thoughts?’

  ‘Her husband is one angry man.’

  ‘A right loving relationship – not,’ Grace said.

  ‘Has the husband found out about her affair?’ Polly asked. ‘Should we include him on our list of suspects?’

  Grace, halting the car at the junction with Dyke Road Avenue, said, ‘If he was going to murder anyone it would be his wife – or Niall Paternoster. He wouldn’t have any reason to harm Eden – unless I’m missing something?’ He turned left.

  ‘There’s a very strange dynamic going on in that relationship.’

  ‘For sure. But there’s always two sides in a marriage breakdown.’

  ‘We’ve been focusing on Niall Paternoster as our prime suspect, sir,’ Polly said. ‘But that Rebecca Watkins, blimey O’Reilly, she is one cold fish. Hard as nails.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Hard enough to have murdered Eden, to get her man?’

  ‘I was wondering that, sir. Does she look like a murderer?’

  Grace smiled. Something Glenn Branson had once said, quoting a movie as he so often did, came into his mind. He was trying to remember which, then it came to him. ‘Did you ever see that Hitchcock film Strangers on a Train, Polly?’

  She frowned. ‘I think I may have done.’

  ‘There’s a line in it that gives you your answer; it’s something like, “I’ll tell you what a murderer looks like. A murderer looks like anyone.”’

  She nodded. ‘So true. Worth putting surveillance on Rebecca Watkins as well?’

  Grace shook his head. ‘Nice idea, but we don’t have the resources. And, despite what we’ve seen of Niall Paternoster and Rebecca Watkins, I’ve still got doubts about Eden’s disappearance. Maybe we’ll know more after we interview Rebecca tomorrow. Wear plain clothing. Nothing to distract the subject.’

  ‘I’ve got a shirt that DI Branson would be ashamed of,’ Polly said with a smile.

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  87

  Friday 6 September

  It was just past 9 p.m. when Roy Grace pulled up outside their cottage. It was dark and as he climbed out of the car, hearing the distant bleat of a sheep somewhere, he felt a small amount of weight fall from his shoulders. The air smelled sweet and he breathed in the almost intoxicating smell of freshly mown grass. Before his thoughts returned to Bruno.

  Inside their house, he could hear Humphrey barking his greeting. He stood for some moments, looking up at the hill, thinking. Thinking that Bruno would never see this again. That he would never see Bruno again.

  His only link with Sandy now gone.

  He put the Indian takeaway into the oven to keep warm. At least, now he was on the Paternoster case, he was no longer at risk of being called out in the middle of the night to a crime scene – someone else could have that pleasure.

  ‘Hey, darling, I’m home.’

  He was really hungry, he realized, having barely eaten all day.

  ‘I’m home!’ he called out.

  Silence.

  As he went through into the living area, Humphrey walking along beside him, he saw Noah’s baby monitor on the coffee table in front of the sofa, beside a book Cleo was part way through.

  ‘Cleo!’ he called out, then climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. No sign of her. He slung his jacket onto the antique chaise longue in front of the bed that they’d bought at the weekly auction in Lewes, tugged off his tie and dropped that onto it, then undid the top two buttons of his shirt and walked along the corridor to Noah’s room, rolling up his sleeves. He opened the door. The curtains were drawn and he saw the silhouette of his son asleep.

  He crept over and looked down at the boy, curled up in his cot – which he would soon outgrow – clutching his special teddy and a small stuffed monkey close to his face.

  Blowing him a silent kiss, he retreated, closing the door softly, then climbed the steep attic steps and opened the door to Bruno’s room. Instantly, he felt a tug in his heart. Cleo was sitting on the end of his bed, on the red-and-white Bayern Munich bedspread, dressed in a loose smock, her hair clipped up, hands folded in her lap.

  ‘Darling,’ he said gently.

  She looked up at him through red, tear-stained eyes, her face a picture of sadness.

  He strode over, sat down beside her and put his arm around her, kissing her on her wet cheek.

  ‘It’s just so horrible, isn’t it?’ she said.

  He hugged her tightly to him. ‘Yes.’

  He gazed around the cosy little room at the poster of Pascal Gross looking triumphant, scoring a winner for Brighton and Hove Albion. He looked at the television screen on the wall and Bruno’s beloved gaming box, wires trailing, beneath it. The little dressing table with a neat row of bottles and tubes of hair gel.

  He was tearful now, too. ‘I still just – I just—’ He fell silent for some moments. ‘I knew him for such a short time. I just wish we’d had longer. I’m sure in time I could – we could—’ He fell silent again.

  Cleo squeezed his hand. ‘You would,’ she said. ‘I know you would.’

  They sat in silence again. Cleo finally broke it. ‘I know he had his strange ways, but he was a nice person at heart, I’m sure of it.’

  Grace thought suddenly about the dead hens. Neatly laid out. Remembering what Bruno had said to him in the car on Tuesday, just three days ago, when he’d been fine, alive, alert. His comment about the ancient Egyptians.

  Had Bruno somehow known he was going to die that day? Had he prepped for it? Killed the two hens – his favourites?

  Was he wanting them to be mummified and buried with him?

  ‘He had the most rotten start in life,’ Cleo went on, ‘but he really did love the hens – and Humphrey.’ She paused. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did –
and I know you loved him, too.’

  Another long silence.

  ‘How’s the case going?’ Cleo asked at last.

  ‘It’s just got a whole lot more complicated.’

  ‘And just when you don’t need that.’

  ‘I’ve not yet met a considerate criminal,’ Grace said. It made Cleo smile, albeit fleetingly.

  ‘Want to tell me anything about it?’ she asked.

  One big difference between Cleo and his late wife, Sandy, was that Cleo was in many ways a work colleague, with whom he could share confidential things, knowing they would go no further. ‘Turns out that the husband of our missing – presumed dead – woman, Eden Paternoster, is having an affair with his wife’s boss. And it seems Eden may have been aware of this and might have put a tracker on their car to monitor hubby’s movements. Sometime before her disappearance, she’s moved all her cash into a company with nominee directors – which Emily is currently digging into. Has she faked her death to dump her husband in the deep doody? Or have her husband and his lover conspired to kill her?’

  Cleo looked thoughtful. ‘You once told me that motives for murder could be put into four sets of Ls: lust, love, loathing and loot. Yes?’

  ‘Well remembered. So which do you think applies here?’

  ‘I’m thinking what motive could Niall Paternoster have for killing his wife? If he’s having an affair with her boss, fine, he could file for divorce – or so could Eden. But that would mean divvying up whatever financial assets they have. If Eden was dead, that would be much easier – except for one thing, the seven-year rule.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Under English law, as Grace knew only too well, a person could only be declared legally dead if they were missing for seven years. Until that time, all their assets were frozen.

  ‘If money is the motive, they’re playing a long game.’

  ‘A very long one,’ Grace concurred.

  Cleo thought hard again. ‘Lust, love, loathing and loot. So, we rule out loot. Leaving you with lust, love or loathing.’

  ‘Yup, and I’m finding it hard to see a motive for murder in any of those three. Sure, I got the impression from interviewing Eden’s husband that their relationship wasn’t great, but she was the breadwinner. Maybe he thought by killing her, he would inherit the house – and didn’t know she’d transferred most of its value out of his reach. That’s the only motive I can come up with so far.’