by James, Peter
‘What do you know about Eden’s boss, that her husband’s having the affair with?’
‘Polly and I have just been to see her at her home. She’s a cold fish – in what Polly and I agreed was clearly a toxic marriage. No love between husband and wife. A difficult lady to read, I’d say, a tough nut. We’re interviewing her in the morning as a significant witness.’
Cleo frowned. ‘What do you think’s going on?’
‘Honestly? I’m really not sure. Niall Paternoster lived in Australia for a time in his twenties, where he’d set up a sailing instruction business. He had a business partner who died – according to him washed overboard from a boat in a storm. Her body was never found, so the police had no evidence of foul play. But luckily – or conveniently – the business became all his and he sold it shortly after for a nice sum, and moved back to England.’
‘His wife, Eden, is the one with the money, here, you told me?’ Cleo said.
‘Yes.’
‘Sounds very straightforward to me,’ Cleo said. ‘He murdered his partner in Australia, netted some loot and came to England. Found himself a wife with some assets, then did the same again. A pattern?’
‘On the face of it, yes. But there are some anomalies that don’t fit. Cassian Pewe wants an update tomorrow, should be interesting.’
‘When is he going to be—?’ She made a cut-throat gesture.
‘Any time now – the wheels of internal investigations by Professional Standards grind slowly, if thoroughly, especially when two different forces are involved. It will happen and it will be very sweet. But until then I still have to kowtow to the corrupt creep.’
‘I don’t know how you do it.’
Grace smiled. ‘Remember when you were a small child, what it felt like going to bed on Christmas Eve? Waiting for your stocking to arrive? Waiting for Christmas Day? All that excitement? That’s pretty much how I’m feeling. Or I was, until dear Bruno.’
He looked around the room, then continued. ‘Mr Greenhaisen talked about including some of Bruno’s favourite things in the funeral. His music, toys, his passions.’
‘His Munich football team,’ Cleo said, glancing down at the bedspread.
‘Definitely,’ Grace said. ‘What else?’
‘Something else that he loved,’ Cleo said. ‘Maybe his favourite toy, his Porsche? And a photo of his mum?’
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Let’s do that.’ He kissed her and stood up. Stared around the room sadly. ‘Life sucks sometimes, doesn’t it? Let’s go and eat that food.’
‘Yeah, good idea. You know, I heard a quote today that I love, from the author Chuck Palahniuk, about how it’s hard to forget pain, but harder to remember happiness – because we don’t have scars for happiness.’
For some moments it sent Roy Grace spiralling back into memories of Sandy. The good times. The good years. No scars to show for that.
But plenty of scars since her disappearance and all that had happened subsequently. Scars, he knew, that would be with him for life.
88
Friday 6 September
There were scars that Eden Paternoster would have all her life. They were on her left arm, both above and below the elbow. She’d had severe bruises and fractures to her arm and two ribs after Niall had punched her in a drunken rage in her swollen abdomen, sending her hurtling backwards down the stairs. She had seen flashes of his frightening temper before, with him lashing out physically at his supposed friends, but it was on that night that Eden had first suspected Niall was capable of killing her.
They’d planned to have an early meal that summer evening as Eden had a horribly early start to drive to a sales conference in North London in the morning. Instead – and not unusually, in those months following the start of his business decline – the loss of a major printing contract after a disagreement and the banks threatening to foreclose his loans – Niall, railing at the injustices of the world, had arrived home from the pub. It was just after 10 p.m. and he was drunk and abusive – and hungry.
She’d been angry at him, a build-up of jealousy about the wife of a friend of theirs that she felt he was flirting with, and she’d confronted him.
Whether it was the punch to her midriff or the fall, she would never know. But it had caused her to miscarry the baby they’d been trying to have for two years. And had succeeded, finally, after several expensive and unsuccessful IVF attempts.
The emergency team who dealt with the miscarriage had saved her life, but the price had been that she would never be able to conceive another child.
Niall, of course, full of remorse, professed his love for her, begging her forgiveness, begging her not to press charges with the police and promising her on his mother’s life that he would change. And for a while he had, becoming again the attentive, loving husband, turning back into the man she had fallen in love with and married. But she could never forget nor in her heart forgive him, and she knew she could never trust him again.
But more than that, she had made the decision that one day, somehow, she would get her revenge on him. She remembered the adage that ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold’. That’s when she had started planning, changing her will after entering into a secret relationship with someone who was in an equally bad marriage as her own. Someone she thought really did care for her, the new love of her life. And she had begun, subtly, to move her assets out of Niall’s reach.
One of her purchases with these assets was this remote country property, named Woodbury Cottage, where she had been living in the days since her disappearance. Converted some years back from a derelict shepherd’s croft, it was half a mile up a farm track near Chiddingly, in a dip in the South Downs. And the love of her life was due to arrive any time! She looked at the kitchen clock: 8.05 p.m.
She opened the fridge door and checked that the bottle of Prosecco she had put in earlier was now nicely chilled. Then she popped open a tin of her beloved’s favourite anchovy olives and poured them into a bowl. Having done that, she pulled on oven gloves and checked the beetroot-based vegetarian pizza in the Aga. It was about done, so she moved it to the warming oven.
A ping on her phone signalled a text. She looked at it.
Three minutes! XXXXXXXX
She texted back:
Make it sooner XX
Then, thrumming with excitement, she raced upstairs and into the bathroom. She checked her hair in the mirror, sprayed mint fresher into her mouth and dabbed perfume around her neck.
Ping!
30 seconds! XX
Eden heard the roar of an engine and the scrunch of tyres on the gravel outside.
She felt so happy, so incredibly excited as she threw herself back down the stairs and raced over to the front door.
Flinging it open, she said, ‘Oh my God, I’ve missed you!’
‘And me too!’
Their mouths met, soft, sweet, and they stood on the doorstep for many seconds, kissing hard and holding each other tight, before breaking away and staring, breathless, into each other’s eyes.
Then they kissed again, for even longer, every cell in Eden’s body tingling with desire. Craving this incredible person, this incredible body.
She felt fingers running through her hair, down the side of her face, then down her body.
‘I love you so much, Eden!’
‘I love you even more!’
They were so entwined they almost fell over as they stumbled through the door, before Eden kicked it shut behind her. ‘God, I’ve missed you, Rebecca,’ she said.
Their lips met again.
89
Friday 6 September
Half an hour later, Eden Paternoster and Rebecca Watkins lay naked, wrapped in each other’s arms. Rod Stewart’s ‘Maggie May’ was playing softly in the background.
‘You’re amazing,’ Eden said, grinning.
‘Yeah, you’re a lucky lady,’ Rebecca replied teasingly.
‘Drink?’
‘Why not?’
Eden sli
pped out of bed and, without bothering to put on any clothes, walked out of the room.
‘Jesus, I’ll never tire of looking at that body,’ Rebecca called after her.
Eden wiggled her bum cheekily as she went through the door. She returned a couple of minutes later with the opened Prosecco, two glasses and the bowl of olives. They sat up in bed, with the olives balanced between them, and Eden filled their glasses. ‘To our future!’ she said.
‘To our future!’
They clinked glasses and drank. Then Rebecca dug her hand into the bowl and ate several olives. ‘I must say, I love my kick-boxing sessions.’
‘Kick-boxing sessions trump poker evenings, right?’ Eden said.
‘Every time!’ Then, eating more olives, Rebecca said, ‘I’m ravenous.’
‘Supper’s ready downstairs.’
‘You are the best lover ever! Did anyone ever tell you?’
‘Only you.’
Rebecca punched her, playfully. ‘Liar!’
‘It’s true.’
‘OK, your male lovers, then?’
‘The best I got from Niall was that I’m a great shag.’
Rebecca looked at her quizzically. ‘Was it ever as good with him as it is with me?’
‘Not remotely; not in a million, billion years.’
‘And I’m meant to believe that?’
‘Well, you’re shagging him, too – and your assessment is?’
Rebecca wrinkled her face. ‘Yech.’
‘Did you – you know – shag him today? Weren’t you seeing him this afternoon?’
She gave a shaking motion with her hand as her reply. ‘Just a hand job.’
‘Really?’
‘We were up at the Dyke in the car park. And I didn’t want – you know – before seeing you.’ She shrugged. ‘He was fine with that.’
‘Well, he is a wanker, through and through.’
Both women giggled.
Eden then looked at her, serious now. ‘Any news? What did he say about the police?’
‘Not much, really. He’s been released on police bail. He’s still totally mystified about your disappearance. He just repeated what he’s said before, that he thinks you’ve set him up. He’s worried about the evidence they’ve thrown at him, but he’s sure they won’t find any proof – that they’re not going to find anything. I think, actually, he’s angry because he knows, in his heart, you’ve beaten him.’
Eden smiled and raised her glass again. ‘I bloody well have.’
‘You have.’
‘We have!’ Eden replied.
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Again, they clinked glasses and drank.
‘So the police haven’t been in touch with you, other than questioning everyone in the office?’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘Nope, not at all.’
‘What’s the word around the office?’
‘Everyone thinks something must have happened to you. I’ve spread the word, as subtly as I can, that you once confided in me you were worried by Niall’s mood swings. I helped the rumour mill along by letting people know he had been arrested. And I made sure to take along a copy of the Argus, with the headline about his arrest, and leave it in the canteen.’
Eden grinned. ‘Smart.’
Rebecca drained her glass. ‘What was it you said about supper?’
Eden ran a suggestive finger down Rebecca’s chest, and on down, past her stomach. ‘Can it wait?’
Rebecca took her hand and kissed a finger. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘I need sustenance first. Then I’m going to have you all over again.’
They locked eyes. ‘I love you,’ Eden said. ‘I really love you.’
‘And I really love you.’
There was a brief moment of comfortable silence between them. Then Eden said, ‘It’s incredible, isn’t it, when a plan works out?’
90
Saturday 7 September
Polly Sweeney met Rebecca Watkins in the Police HQ reception, a single-storey building by the entrance barrier which was also now the reception for the East Sussex Fire and Rescue Service HQ.
Rebecca wore a navy two-piece business suit, ice-white shoes and an even icier expression as she walked alongside her in the morning sunshine, clutching a classy handbag and studying her phone, ignoring Polly’s attempts at small talk as she escorted her up the hill towards the bland, red-brick building housing the Major Crime suite.
She followed Sweeney up the stairs to the second floor into a small, modern room that smelled of fresh paint and new furniture, where she was ushered to one of the four seats at the table.
‘Can I get you anything to drink, Mrs Watkins?’ Polly asked politely.
‘I’m hoping not to be here long enough to need anything,’ she replied tersely, glancing out of the window at the view across a car park. ‘I have to get to a meeting in Croydon for 11 a.m.’ She switched her focus to her phone.
‘We won’t detain you any longer than necessary,’ Polly assured her. ‘I’ll be back in a moment if you’d just like to make yourself comfortable.’
Rebecca looked disdainfully at the plain blue chair. ‘I take it that’s your poor attempt at humour?’
Ignoring the barb, Polly left the room and returned after a couple of minutes with Roy Grace. They sat down opposite her. ‘Thank you for coming in to talk to us, Mrs Watkins,’ Grace said.
‘Did I have any choice?’ she replied. There was frosty humour in her voice but not in her eyes.
‘Just to repeat what I told you last night, we need to interview you to see if you can help in any way with our enquiries into the disappearance of Eden Paternoster,’ Grace said calmly and politely.
‘Because you think I’m having an affair with her husband?’
Grace watched her face carefully. ‘Are you?’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘Quite a lot really, Mrs Watkins. Eden Paternoster has been missing – according to her husband – since around 3.15 p.m. on Sunday September the first. On the evening of Thursday August the twenty-ninth, the Paternosters’ neighbours heard them arguing loudly – not an uncommon occurrence, they have informed us. According to you and your work colleagues, Mrs Paternoster never turned up for work on Friday, despite there being an important meeting that had been pre-arranged, which she was due to attend. Is that correct?’
‘It is.’
‘Is that in any way characteristic of Mrs Paternoster?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Since Thursday there has been no activity on any of her social media platforms, despite her posting regularly, normally – at least once, daily – on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. Nor has there been any activity on her credit cards. You are her line manager at the Mutual Occidental Insurance Company. How concerned are you that you’ve not seen her since last Thursday?’
Rebecca nodded. ‘Very. It’s completely out of character, as I just said. Eden was – sorry – is – a model employee. She’s hard-working, scrupulously punctual and brilliant at what she does. This makes no sense at all, it is totally out of character.’
Both detectives shot a glance at each other, clocking her momentary use of the past tense.
‘Do you think there is any possibility she has deliberately disappeared?’ he pressed.
‘Deliberately disappeared? Why on earth should she do that? She was up for promotion.’
‘I don’t wish to pry too much into your private life, Mrs Watkins,’ Grace said. ‘But as I’m sure you can understand, our priority is to discover what has happened to Mrs Paternoster – and as you are, from what it would seem, in some form of relationship with her husband, we are hoping you may be able to help us.’ He fell silent, waiting.
‘Of course, I’ll give you any help I can,’ Rebecca Watkins said. ‘But I really don’t know anything.’
‘So her husband, Niall, has said nothing to you about her disappearing? Nothing at all? Did he have any explanation for her not turning up to work on Friday?’
/> She took some moments, with Roy Grace watching her face closely all the time. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘He was surprised when I told him.’
Polly interjected. ‘Mrs Watkins, you told us that on Sunday afternoon, at around 5.30 p.m., September the first, you took your dog for a walk up on the Dyke. Was that all you did? Did you see anyone, talk to anyone?’
She hesitated. ‘Why are you bothering to ask me? You know who I saw there.’
‘Niall Paternoster?’ Grace asked.
‘Well, it wasn’t the sodding Pope,’ she retorted insolently.
‘Did Niall say anything about him dropping off his wife at a Tesco store to buy cat litter and then not reappearing?’
‘To be honest, we didn’t talk, that wasn’t why we were there.’ She tilted her head and gave a sly smile. ‘Prince Philip used to sail a lot, and had a friend, Uffa Fox, who skippered for him. Fox had a French girlfriend who didn’t speak English. One day, legend has it, Fox told His Royal Highness that he was getting married to this lady. Prince Philip asked him how on earth he could marry someone who didn’t speak a word of English, when he didn’t speak a word of French. Apparently, Uffa Fox replied, “There are only three things in life worth doing, eating, drinking and making love. Conversation adds little to any of these.” Wouldn’t you agree?’
Grace looked at her stonily, not rising to her challenge. ‘Did Niall Paternoster ever confide in you about marital issues with his wife, Eden?’
‘Of course he did, but I’m not a marriage wrecker. Eden confided in me, too.’
‘She wasn’t happy?’
‘As I just said, I’m not a marriage wrecker. I wouldn’t have done what I did – am doing – if I felt they had any future in their marriage. She’d told me on a number of occasions, when I’d seen her looking upset, that she was in a marriage she wanted out of.’
