Left You Dead

by James, Peter

  ‘What planet is he on?’ Branson retorted. ‘So we have to take over from Surveillance ourselves?’

  ‘Yes, as best we can.’ Grace tapped his screen. ‘I have the tracker on Niall Paternoster’s rented Fiesta showing – currently stationary outside their home in Nevill Road. Aiden Gilbert’s doing some wizardry and it should appear on all the team’s laptops and phones. Glenn, I’m giving you the action of organizing a rota for this weekend of three team members to man the observation post, as discreetly as possible, to confirm when he drives away from the house. We will have his whereabouts on our screens.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  Grace turned to Alexander. ‘Jack, I need you—’

  He was interrupted by his job phone ringing again. Raising an apologetic hand to the two detectives, he answered. It was Emily Denyer.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I’ve been going through the documents seized from the Paternosters’ house by the Search Team. There’s a solicitor’s letter regarding a will made by Eden Paternoster. It was hidden under the paper lining of a drawer in an antique bureau which appears to be her writing desk and where she keeps all her private papers along with a life insurance document.’

  ‘How recent was this document?’

  ‘It’s dated March seventeenth of this year.’

  ‘What’s the gist of it?’

  ‘It’s pretty simple really. I think you’ll find this interesting, sir – any death benefit was to be paid out to Rebecca Watkins.’

  94

  Saturday 7 September

  Glenn Branson and Jack Alexander both sat in silence for some moments, absorbing what Roy Grace had just told them. Trying to make sense of it.

  Then Grace called Aiden Gilbert, whose team was working on recovering documents from the hard drive of Eden Paternoster’s laptop. He told Gilbert what he needed very urgently, and he promised to take a look immediately.

  True to his word, less than five minutes later, a document labelled New Will as well as the life insurance policy taken out by Eden Paternoster in favour of Rebecca Watkins came through on Grace’s email.

  The three detectives immediately studied the documents. The will was a short and simple document, properly signed and witnessed by two people, one called Jo Cabot, Legal Executive, and the other, Miro Afonso, Assistant Solicitor. Attached to it was a covering letter, signed off by a woman called Jill Riddle, Head of Wills and Probate, Cardwell Scott LLP.

  ‘Let me get my head around this,’ Branson said finally, looking baffled. ‘She’s basically leaving everything she has, bar a few small bequests, to the woman who’s sleeping with her husband? Or am I missing something?’

  ‘I’d say you’d just scored what golfers might call a hole in one,’ Grace replied, looking equally baffled.

  ‘Her boss,’ Alexander commented. ‘The Ice Queen? Excuse me, but what the hell is going on here?’

  ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’ Grace replied.

  ‘“When first we practise to deceive,”’ Alexander quoted.

  Both his colleagues looked at him.

  ‘What film’s that from?’ Branson asked.

  Alexander shook his head. ‘People think it’s from Macbeth, but it’s actually in Walter Scott’s poem, “Marmion”.’

  ‘Never took you for a poet, Jack,’ Branson said.

  ‘I’m not. But I am a mine of useless information.’

  ‘Who do people generally leave their money to in their wills?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Their other half?’ Branson ventured.

  ‘So,’ Grace said, ‘we’ve been putting all our focus on Niall Paternoster – and perhaps that’s not misplaced. What about this as a hypothesis – bearing in mind we know from what Rebecca Watkins told us last night that Eden confided in her about her marriage problems.’ He paused before continuing.

  ‘A big part of these marital problems, unknown to Eden, is that Rebecca Watkins is having an affair with her husband – Niall. Only Rebecca Watkins and Niall Paternoster know this. Rebecca plays on Eden’s vulnerability and builds a friendship with her. She plays the game of being the considerate, trusted, forever friend, someone who will support her out of this situation, help her build her life back and plan for the future.’

  He paused to let this sink in. ‘Rebecca then puts a cunning plan to Eden – leave all your money to me, fake your disappearance, setting up Niall as the possible murderer, but without sufficient evidence for him ever to go to trial. And bingo! There’s no body, but as we’re going to map out the rest of your life and get you to a better place, what’s a seven-year wait to be declared legally dead to collect the cash?’ He looked at the two detectives. ‘It may sound far-fetched, but we need to consider everything. Where are we with obtaining Eden’s medical records?’

  ‘We’ve requested them, but they haven’t arrived yet. Maybe we should go and pay the solicitor who drafted the will a visit, boss?’ Branson suggested. ‘I know the firm, they’re local, just opposite Brighton Library.’

  Grace looked at his watch: 11.34 a.m. ‘They’ll be closed today but we’ll go Monday morning, Glenn. Maybe we can catch her between clients, or else in her lunch break.’

  ‘Will she talk to us? You know what briefs are like. Or should we get a warrant?’

  ‘No, that would be too heavy-handed and I think we’d struggle to get one for this – client confidentiality is sacrosanct. Let’s just try our natural charm.’

  Branson gave him a quizzical grin. ‘Yours or mine?’

  ‘Really? You think you have some?’ Grace replied.

  His colleague shook his head. He shot a glance at Alexander, who was smiling, then back at Grace. ‘I honestly don’t know why I like you.’

  ‘Could it be my natural charm?’

  95

  Sunday 8 September

  The police search officers had finished at the end of last week, the crime scene tape had been removed from the front of the house and Niall Paternoster had been allowed to go back inside his home. Although, to his chagrin, on searching round, he’d discovered the police had carted away almost every scrap of paperwork, and he had no idea when his laptop would be returned.

  Now, he sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee with milk that was almost on the turn and scanning through the Argus for any mention of the mystery of his missing wife. But, it seemed, the news had already moved on. Fatboy Slim had a whole page, publicizing a free concert he was giving on Saturday night on the seafront. The headline story was a gruesome murder, dismembered remains found in a wheelie bin. There was an article on the superstar blogger Zoella. A family were concerned about the wife’s missing eighty-four-year-old father, who had dementia and hadn’t been seen in four days.

  Nothing about Eden or himself.

  If she was alive, just where the hell was she? What game was she playing? And, more to the point, why?

  Had she had an accident?

  Then a wilder possibility came into his mind as he thought suddenly about the Hitchcock film Psycho, which they both loved and had seen several times. The irony of Janet Leigh embezzling money and disappearing, only to end up staying at the Bates Motel and being murdered by Norman Bates. Could something like that have happened to her?

  It was a crazy idea, but nothing else made any bloody sense. If she’d stayed away for a night, as she’d done before when they’d rowed, that was one thing. But this many nights? That was very different. Had she somehow discovered his affair with Rebecca? But if so, surely she would have confronted him and not simply disappeared? Or was fitting him up – as she clearly had from all the police had told him – her nasty idea of revenge?

  In six hours’ time he was due to head over to Mark Tuckwell’s and do a long stint in the cab, first collecting a couple flying in from Tenerife to Gatwick and taking them to their home near St Leonards. Then up to Heathrow Airport to pick up a Mr and Mrs O’Connor arriving from Munich. After dropping them home, to Tunbridge Wells, he would head back to Brighton and spend the rest of the night pic
king up the detritus of weekend revellers blowing their latest wage packet on booze and drugs. All the time hoping none of them would throw up in the cab or do a runner.

  Then tomorrow, Rebecca’s hubby was off to France for a golfing holiday. They would have a whole week together. Happy days!

  His phone rang, a WhatsApp call, intruding on his thoughts. Glancing at the display, he saw it was Rebecca. ‘Hey, gorgeous!’ he answered. ‘I was just thinking about you – how much I’m looking forward to tomorrow! I’ve told Marky I’m not available to drive for him for the next week – told him I need to wait home until she turns up. Know what I’m saying?’

  She sounded strange as she replied. ‘I’ve been interviewed by the police. I think they’re suspicious.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Hello? Eden has disappeared. They’ve seen us together up at the Dyke. What would you be suspicious of if you were a cop?’

  ‘Yeah, I know how it looks. But at the end of the day I haven’t harmed her and nor have you – unless you’re not telling me something?’

  ‘So now you think I’ve killed her? Thanks a million!’

  ‘Of course I don’t, my gorgeous.’ After a brief moment he added, ‘I love you.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Do you love me?’ he queried.

  ‘I don’t think we should be talking like this over the phone. If they’ve got us under surveillance, they might have bugged our mobiles.’

  ‘I don’t think so. And anyhow, WhatsApp is encrypted. They won’t be able to listen in.’

  ‘Really? So how did they find us at the Dyke?’

  ‘Other phone records? Are they watching us? I dunno. But I googled the authority the police need to bug anyone – there has to be a life at risk.’

  ‘And they don’t think Eden’s life is at risk?’

  ‘No, they think she’s dead – that was the gist of my interviews with them after they arrested me. They think I murdered her, as I told you.’

  ‘Even so, I think we should be careful over the phone.’

  ‘I bloody love you,’ he blurted. ‘I want you.’

  There was a long silence. Then she said, ‘Did you not hear what I said?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said tersely, ending the call.

  96

  Monday 9 September

  The offices of the law firm Cardwell Scott were in a red-brick building occupying a corner site diagonally opposite the piazza in front of the modern glass edifice of Brighton Library.

  Roy Grace and Glenn Branson walked in through the front entrance and up to the curved reception desk, behind which sat a woman with elegant, dark hair. She gave them a polite smile.

  They showed their badges. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ Grace led. ‘We would like to speak to Jill Riddle.’

  She glanced at her computer screen, then looked up at them. ‘Do you have an appointment, officers?’

  ‘No,’ Grace said. ‘But we need to speak to her urgently on a potential murder investigation we believe Ms Riddle may be able to help us with.’

  ‘Take a seat, gentlemen, and I’ll see if she’s free.’ She indicated to a sofa in front of a table with a spread of newspapers and local magazines, then lifted her handset.

  ‘How was your day, yesterday?’ Branson asked, his voice sympathetic. ‘And how’s Cleo taking it all?’

  ‘She’s pretty cut up.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know – I never thought she had much fondness for Bruno, but clearly she cared for him a lot more than I realized. But we had an OK day, thanks. Noah tried to make scones, which basically meant covering most of the kitchen – and Humphrey – in flour. He’s turning into a little rascal, nicking the cheese when Kaitlynn wasn’t looking.’

  Branson grinned.

  ‘Then Jack came over and we did a Sunday roast. Good to have a bit of normality. But I haven’t really slept.’

  The receptionist replaced her handset and looked at the detectives. ‘Ms Riddle has a fifteen-minute window before her next client.’ She pointed over to her right, to a lift. ‘If you go to the fourth floor, her assistant will meet you.’

  They entered and rode the irritatingly slow lift upwards. Finally, the doors jerked open to reveal a neatly dressed, middle-aged woman with a wavy fringe shaping her face standing on a small, sterile-feeling landing. She greeted them with an uncertain smile. ‘Follow me, please, gentlemen,’ she said.

  They walked along a corridor, past a number of closed doors. She rapped on the last one, then opened it and ushered the detectives through. Grace led, followed by Branson, into a small, tidy office, with one wall lined with bookshelves filled with legal tomes, and a window overlooking the library.

  A woman with wild grey hair, wearing a blue two-piece over a white blouse secured at the neck with a looped, bootlace-thin black bow, gave them a quizzical look. On her desk were several stacks of documents bound with ribbons, as well as a silver photograph frame showing two young men, seemingly twins, dressed in mortar boards and graduation gowns, and another of two Golden Doodles. There were more bound stacks of documents arranged on the floor next to the desk. On another wall Grace clocked a practising certificate and a large framed photograph of a women’s hockey team.

  She stood up. ‘Gentlemen, good morning.’

  Grace and Branson showed her their warrant cards. ‘Jill Riddle?’ Grace checked.

  ‘Yes, what is this about?’

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team and this is my colleague Detective Inspector Branson. We appreciate your seeing us at such short notice,’ he said. ‘We’re investigating the disappearance, under suspicious circumstances, of Mrs Eden Paternoster, whom we believe is a client of yours.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve been reading about this in the Argus.’ She indicated the two chairs in front of her desk. ‘Please sit. Can I offer you any tea or coffee?’

  ‘We’re fine, thank you, and we know you’ve only got a few minutes, so we’ll keep it brief. We believe Mrs Paternoster may have been murdered and her husband, Niall, is currently our prime suspect. Our investigating team have located a will on a computer hard drive which appears to have been drafted by you. I have a printed copy of it here.’

  He removed the document from his inside pocket and handed it across the desk to her. She studied it for a few seconds, then looked back at him, her demeanour turning slightly defensive. ‘Yes, we drew up this will.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Grace replied. ‘We think it may be significant in our enquiries that her husband has been excluded and that the principal benefactor is her line manager at the firm where she works, Mutual Occidental Insurance. We appreciate your duty of client confidentiality, but we are in a very serious situation, in which her husband is claiming he’s not seen or heard from Eden since last Sunday afternoon. But the fact is there’s been very little to indicate she is still alive since the previous Thursday, August the twenty-ninth. We are extremely concerned that she may be dead. Or, maybe, she has run away and is pretending to be dead? Any information you can give us would be extremely helpful.’

  She opened out her hands and a bunch of bracelets slid, jangling, down her wrist. ‘What information are you looking for from me?’

  ‘Did this will supersede a previous one?’ Branson asked.

  She looked at both officers. ‘I shouldn’t say so, but in light of the gravity of the situation, yes, it did.’

  ‘The previous one leaving everything to her husband?’ Branson pressed.

  ‘Pretty much, yes.’

  ‘You drafted that one, too?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Paternoster has been a client for a number of years. Normally any conversations would be subject to client confidentiality, but I am prepared to relax that on this occasion given that I am worried about what might have happened to Eden.’

  ‘If you can cast your mind back to when she asked to change h
er will, Ms Riddle,’ Grace asked, ‘did she seem normal to you? Did she say anything by way of explanation? It’s a pretty unusual situation where someone in a marriage changes their will to exclude their partner, isn’t it?’

  She smiled sardonically. ‘Not as unusual as you might think. I’m afraid, doing probate, I see it all. Not much surprises me. And – I’m not saying this is the case here – but I’ve known people take masochistic pleasure in deliberately excluding someone who would be expecting an inheritance. They leave it to a dogs’ home or some other charity. I had a client, some years ago, and now long deceased, who left an estate of over £4 million to her cat, just to stop any of her children, whom she’d fallen out with, from benefiting.’

  ‘So, clearly,’ Grace said, ‘Eden Paternoster didn’t want her husband to benefit. But leaving it to her boss strikes us as strange. Did she say anything to you about her reasons for that?’

  He held back on revealing the information his team knew – that Rebecca Watkins was having an affair with Eden’s husband – wanting to hear the solicitor’s reply.

  ‘She did, yes, she told me her reason. She told me her husband wasn’t very tech savvy. She’d become suspicious that he was cheating on her, after reading texts on his phone. From what she told me it seems she confided in her boss – her line manager, Rebecca Watkins – and one thing had led to another. In a short space of time she realized she had fallen in love with this woman, and this was where her true feelings lay. She told me she felt liberated, as if she’d shaken a monkey off her back.’

  Grace and Branson looked at each other in utter astonishment.

  ‘That’s why she changed her will?’ Grace asked.

  ‘There’s more to it than that.’ She gave both Grace and Branson a hesitant look. ‘When she came to see me back in March’ – she glanced down then looked up again – ‘March the twentieth, she was in an agitated state.’

  ‘For what reason?’ Grace asked. ‘If she gave one?’

  The solicitor hesitated, as if wondering if she should say any more. Finally, she nodded. ‘Yes, she did. One night, while her husband was out doing his taxi work, she’d looked at his computer. Perhaps, she told me, he didn’t realize that text messages were stored on that as well as his phone. Whatever, she found a string of messages between him and some other woman. The last one said that he had a plan to “get rid of” Eden. Such a clever plan, he boasted, no one would ever be able to prove a thing.’