Need You Dead

by Peter James

  Was she dealing drugs or stolen property from there?

  So often in his experience it was the obvious answer that was the correct one. However obscure it might seem at first. But equally he knew he could not always rely on that.

  Right now one possibility was that Seymour Darling was Lorna Belling’s killer. DNA would establish if it was his semen inside Lorna. If it was, that would be strong evidence.

  And if not?

  That would not necessarily mean he hadn’t killed her. But it could mean that someone else had. He needed some fast-time intelligence on the woman if the DNA failed to produce a match with Darling.

  Was Darling too obvious a suspect? Because the husband was still in the frame. It would be interesting to see what examination of his electronic devices revealed.

  He couldn’t explain why, but all his instincts, backed by his experience, were telling him there was something more than the obvious going on here. Ordinarily he would have delegated the interviewing of a suspect like Darling to two trained cognitive suspect interviewers from his team. But he didn’t want to do that. Instead he decided that he and Batchelor, who were both also trained interviewers, should do it themselves.

  Grace called the DI and told him to meet him in his office at 7 a.m.

  Ten minutes later he pulled up outside the country cottage on the edge of the village of Henfield, which now truly felt like home, and walked up to the front door. As he opened it, an appetizing smell of cooking greeted him, and he heard the sound of the television. Canned laughter, then an indignant female voice. More laughter. Moments later, Humphrey rushed up to him, barking.

  ‘Hey, boy!’

  Cleo appeared from the kitchen, in jeans, a loose jumper and battered slippers, looking all-in. He put his arms round her and kissed her.

  ‘Missed you,’ he said.

  ‘Missed you, too. How was your day? You’re limping badly. How’s your leg?’

  ‘Hurting a lot. But, hey, we could have a result!’

  ‘Really?’ She suddenly looked genuinely excited. ‘Talk me through it over a glass of wine!’

  ‘Over three glasses, I think. Maybe four! And I’m craving a fag. So, how’s Bruno?’

  ‘Yes, OK, I think. Actually, he seems a nice boy. I can see a lot of you in him – particularly when he smiles. I took him for a walk with Humphrey and let him feed the hens some scraps. We had a nice chat – I think we’re going to get on.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘He asked if his friend Erik could come and stay with us some time. I told him of course, he’d be very welcome.’

  ‘He asked me the same thing.’ Grace smiled.

  ‘We talked about what he likes to eat – for breakfast, lunch, supper. About his school in Munich – and about going to St Christopher’s school in Hove. The former Chief Constable’s wife, Judith, teaches there. I’ve already had a word with her and she’ll make sure Bruno is well looked after when he starts.’

  He frowned. ‘If they accept him. Didn’t you say they have strict criteria?’

  ‘They’re going to give him some assessment tests on Monday in verbal and non-verbal reasoning – and they’ve said they’ll make an allowance for him being bilingual – but that can also be an asset.’

  ‘What happens if they don’t accept him?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Plan B,’ Cleo said.

  ‘Which is?’

  She smiled. ‘I haven’t figured that one out yet. There are other private schools in the area. I’m told that the Lancing Prep in the Droveway is a good one. I’m sure it will be fine, darling, we’ll just have to see what happens. Bruno’s a bright boy. From everything Judith Martinson has told me, I can’t see there’s going to be a problem.’

  They walked through into the kitchen. ‘So what other interests, apart from his drums, does he have? Have you found out?’ Grace asked.

  ‘He told me he likes to swim. Listen, there’s that really nice country club down the road that has an indoor pool. It also has a spa with a sauna. Didn’t your physio tell you that regular saunas would be good for your leg?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What about joining this club – it’s called Wickwoods.’

  ‘Darling, we’ve got enough expense with this house. I’m not sure we can afford the membership fees of a country club.’

  ‘They do a really reasonable weekday membership rate. And I thought you were getting something towards medical expenses for your leg from the police?’

  ‘Well, I might be, yes.’

  ‘I had a word with the manager and he’s offered us the full family membership with one month’s free trial. What do we have to lose? It would be great for Bruno to do his swimming. And it might help your leg. I could ask Mum and Dad to help us with the fee if you can’t get any money from the police fund.’

  He liked Cleo’s parents but was reluctant to take any charity from them. ‘What are the rates? Let’s take a look at them.’

  ‘I’ve got them here.’ They sat down at the small oak kitchen table. The television was still blaring in the living room. Cleo poured him a large glass of Australian Chardonnay, then put an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the windowsill in front of him.

  He took a large gulp, leaned over and opened the window, then lit a cigarette and sucked in the sweet smoke, gratefully. For some moments it made him feel dizzy. It was the first cigarette he had smoked in over a week, he realized. He talked Cleo briefly through the events of the evening.

  ‘What a little shit,’ she said. ‘Seymour Darling sounds horrible. Even his name! Yech, creepy!’

  ‘You should have met his wife. She was a charmer.’

  She pinched a drag of his cigarette. ‘Yup, well, as my mum always says, there’s someone out there for everyone.’

  He smiled. ‘So where are the kids?’

  ‘It’s going to take a while to get used to the plural.’ She sipped some wine and hunched her shoulders. ‘Noah’s asleep, he’s been fine all day – really taking an interest in his play mat thing – and finishing The Times crossword.’

  Roy grinned. ‘Maybe I should let him read my investigator’s notes on Operation Bantam. He might solve it for us! And Bruno – where’s he?’

  ‘In his room, gaming – the last time I looked in.’

  ‘What kind of game?’

  ‘Football. He’s playing it on his television with Erik in Germany.’

  ‘So how was it with Jason and Stan at the football game today – how did he get on with Stan?’

  ‘He was a bit subdued when he came home – I think he was shattered, to be honest. But it sounds like it was OK. Jason said he’d have a word with Stan about inviting him over to play. And as soon as he gets settled in at school, I’m sure he’ll make more friends.’

  ‘Has he had supper?’

  ‘I made him spaghetti bolognese, because that’s what the Lipperts told you he liked. But he only had a few mouthfuls before excusing himself, very politely, and going up to his room. Probably because he was exhausted.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Grace smoked some more of the cigarette. ‘It’s hard to imagine what this is like for him. This kid’s been brought up as a single-parent child, by a wonky mother who spent part of his childhood a junkie. She commits suicide, and the next thing is a father he’d never been told about pitches up, takes him away from his home, from everything he knows, and dumps him in the middle of nowhere, in rural England, with a bunch of strangers. How would that feel if it was you?’

  She pinched another drag of his cigarette. Exhaling the smoke, she replied, ‘Like I’d won the bloody lottery!’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t see it quite that way.’

  Noah began to cry. Cleo shot an irritated glance upstairs. Then she picked up her wine glass. ‘That was a frivolous answer I gave you, I’m sorry. But, honestly? I don’t know.’

  ‘Something I read in one of those books on philosophy you gave me – I can’t remember the title – kind of makes sense h
ere.’

  She looked at him, quizzically.

  ‘It was one of the American Indian tribes. Before you judge any man first walk ten moons in his shoes.’

  She seemed about to say something, then fell silent.

  ‘What?’ Roy Grace asked.

  She remained silent.

  ‘What, darling?’

  She shook her head then drank some wine. ‘I want to help Bruno, make him happy. I guess I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘Do you think I should go up and say a quick hi to him, and see how he is?’

  ‘I think that would be nice.’

  His phone rang.

  ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered. Then with dismay he heard the voice of his boss, Pewe.

  ‘Roy?’ Pewe said. ‘Are you back from Germany? Sounds like it from your ringtone.’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘Why has no one given me an update on Operation Bantam?’

  Grace held his temper. ‘As you’re off this weekend, I thought the good news could wait.’

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘We have a suspect in custody.’

  For a brief, sweet moment which he relished, Roy Grace knew that he had rendered the ACC, albeit momentarily, lost for a snide reply.

  44

  Sunday 24 April

  Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor met in HQ at 7 a.m. on Sunday to plan their interview strategy. Grace had worked so many weekends during his career that it never felt odd for him to be suited and booted on a Saturday or Sunday. His right leg was giving him grief, and he knew he needed to organize some massages and time in a steam room. Cleo’s idea about joining Wickwoods was a good one, but he had no time right now.

  Seated in his office, cradling a mug of coffee, Grace yawned, feeling tired. He discussed with Batchelor the order of the questions they would put to Darling, their tactic being to try to get him to say as much as possible, before they revealed what they knew. He often thought suspect interviews were like games of poker, at times. The cards you held in your hand and the way you bluffed could be the key to winning.

  This was assuming the creep didn’t continue going no-comment on them, as he had done last night. Hopefully he’d have been talked out of that by his solicitor, if he had nothing to hide. It was of course everyone’s right under questioning, but that was a big waste of time and most briefs knew that it did not look good to a jury when endless ‘no-comment’ replies from the accused were read out in court.

  Grace looked at his watch. ‘Probably too early to call the lab, especially on a Sunday. Let’s try them in an hour. If we can get a DNA match to Darling with the semen that would be very helpful.’

  ‘But equally I guess, boss, if it isn’t a match, that doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t murder Lorna.’

  ‘I agree. Let’s see what we can get out of him now – it might make the DNA irrelevant one way or another.’

  At 8.30 a.m., with a light drizzle falling, they headed into Brighton in one car, so they could continue talking. The custody block, where they had booked Darling in last night, was located right behind Sussex House, the building on the edge of the Hollingbury industrial estate which had been Roy Grace’s second home for the best part of a decade.

  He wondered what had happened to Duncan on the front desk, who was also a runner like himself. It was strange to think it was now empty and would soon be demolished. ‘Bugger!’ he said, suddenly.

  Batchelor looked at him. ‘What, boss?’

  ‘I’m craving a coffee. Was just thinking about grabbing a couple from Asda for us, but I forgot it’ll be shut.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Doesn’t open until ten on Sundays.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘You OK, Guy?’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I’m fine, boss, thanks. Had one of those nights where I couldn’t get to sleep – brain whirring.’

  ‘I get plenty of those sleepless nights, particularly when my leg’s playing up. Hate them.’

  Batchelor braked and turned in, pulling up in front of the massive green-painted steel gate. He wound down his window and pressed his card against the wall-mounted reader. Moments later the gate began to slide open. They drove through and up the short, steep incline to the rear of the custody block itself, with the row of green garage doors which prisoners under arrest were driven through, and then escorted straight into a small bare room, furnished with nothing except a hard bench and a notice pinned to the wall telling them the procedure they were about to undergo.

  To be stripped of all possessions, searched and then put into a cell, the door banged shut deliberately hard and loudly on you, is a humiliating process. It takes only a few hours for any suspect to start feeling institutionalized.

  Both detectives were hoping that after his night on the hard, narrow bed in the bare room, Darling might be more cooperative this morning.

  45

  Sunday 24 April

  Seymour Darling and his solicitor were already seated at the metal table in the sparsely furnished, windowless interview room. Darling seemed even smaller than the night before, as if these few hours in a cell had shrunk him further. The fifty-three-year-old’s own clothes had been removed for forensic purposes, and he was now dressed in faded police issue clothing that seemed a size too big for him. His narrow face, with its swarthy complexion, dark eyes too close together and slicked hair, combined with the shabby clothes, gave him the furtive, somewhat sleazy look of a street drugs peddler.

  His solicitor sat beside him. An alert-looking woman in her early forties, with a mop of ginger curls, she wore a chalk-striped trouser suit over a white blouse, and fashionable glasses. A bottle of mineral water sat on the table in front of her, beside her large leather-bound notebook.

  After cursory greetings, Grace and Batchelor sat down facing them, Grace positioning himself directly opposite Darling so he could watch his eye movements and body language. The fragrance the solicitor wore barely masked the rank odour in the room, which he realized must be coming from Darling. It smelled as if the man had slept and sweated into his clothes all night – which he probably had.

  Both of Darling’s hands were flat on the table, as if he was trying to look calm, but his fingers gave him away. All of the nails were bitten to the quick, and on several there were raw marks on the surrounding flesh where they had been gnawed away very recently. Had he lain awake most of the night in his cell, tearing away at his nails, worried?

  Would he be so worried if he was innocent?

  Grace could have murdered a coffee, but had to put that out of his mind now. Maybe he’d get one in the staffroom when they took a break. He activated the video recorder, and the police officers identified themselves for the benefit of the tape. Then he gestured in turn to the suspect, then the solicitor. ‘Could you please state your names for the recording?’

  For a while he was unsure whether the man would speak or not. The suspect just stared at him, sullenly. Then he said, ‘Seymour Rodney Darling.’ Moments later the woman said, ‘Doris Ishack, of Lawson Lewis Blakers, solicitor for Mr Darling.’

  Grace continued. ‘I’m confirming the time as being 9.02 a.m., Sunday, April 24th.’ He looked hard at the suspect. ‘I’d like to remind you, Mr Darling, that you are still under caution. However, I will repeat the caution.’

  Darling looked at his solicitor, who nodded to him. Then she said to the two detectives, ‘I’ve had the chance to speak to my client, and he is prepared to answer some of your questions.’

  ‘Good,’ Grace said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Batchelor added.

  ‘Mr Darling, what is your current occupation?’ Grace asked, focused intently on the man’s eyes. After some moments they moved to the right.

  ‘I work for a fencing contractor – pricing up fencing.’

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  Again the eyes momentarily flicked right. ‘Just over two years.’

  That confirmed to Grace which way his eyes
would move when he was telling the truth. They were likely to move to the opposite side – the left, to the construct side of his brain – if he was lying. As Grace knew, it wasn’t infallible, but eye movements, combined with general body language, would be a good indicator. He next addressed the solicitor. ‘We have already disclosed to you, Ms Ishack, that your client has recently become known to the deceased, and it appears there has been a dispute of some kind between your client and the deceased.’

  ‘I may have been in dispute but I didn’t kill her,’ Darling said, flatly. His eyes remained dead ahead, but now he folded his arms, which was a defensive, challenging position.

  ‘How long had you been in contact with Lorna Belling?’ Guy Batchelor asked him.

  ‘A couple of weeks.’

  ‘How did you get to know her?’ he continued. ‘What were the circumstances, and what was the nature of your relationship?’

  ‘Relationship? What are you insinuating? I met her about a bloody car she advertised on eBay. An MX5. I wanted to buy it as a birthday present for my wife.’

  ‘Did you have a nice bonus from work – or make a big sale?’ Grace quizzed.

  ‘Is this relevant?’ the solicitor asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Grace said. ‘It seems a rather unusual and expensive present.’

  ‘Yeah, well I had some redundancy money from my previous job, and it’s actually a very special birthday,’ Darling said.

  ‘A milestone?’ Grace asked, jotting down a note.

  ‘You could say that. This will be her last birthday, she has terminal cancer. Four to six months is the prognosis. She’s always loved those little Mazda sports cars. I thought, you know, summer’s coming, her last summer, she can put the roof down.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. Batchelor nodded his sympathy, too. Then after a short pause he asked, ‘Can you give us details of exactly what communications you had with Mrs Belling?’

  ‘I’d been looking around for a car on all the sites, you know? Autotrader, Gumtree, eBay – she particularly wanted that red colour. I saw the one Mrs Belling had up on eBay, and I arranged to go and see it.’