by Peter James
The DS came in a few minutes later, clutching a cup of coffee. He was still smarting after the bollocking he’d been given by Roy for entrusting Exton, clearly in an unreliable state, with a crucial piece of evidence to take to Guildford. He’d already apologized to Roy, telling him he just hadn’t thought it through, it was time critical and Exton was available.
‘Any updates, Guy?’ Grace asked, as he waited for the files to load.
‘Exton’s on his way to Portsmouth. Glenn Branson and Kevin Hall are accompanying him and will do the interview, as you suggested, boss. He’s got a solicitor on the way from Eastbourne.’
‘Who’s that?’ Grace asked.
‘Nadine Ashford, from Lawson Lewis Blakers.’
Grace had selected the two trained suspect interviewers carefully. Glenn was good at reading body language – something he’d taught him himself; Hall had a beguiling warmth about him that masked a chip of ice in his heart. Grace had done a number of suspect interviews with him in the past, and no one played the role of good cop better.
The downloads were complete, and Grace opened the first one. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what this gives us.’
The image wasn’t great, but it was, to Grace’s surprise, clearer than Gargan had warned. They could see the residential road, and the flare of the street lights. Orientating himself, he could see that the view through the windscreen of the BMW was north, up Vallance Street, with the seafront directly behind. To the left, across the quiet residential road, was the eastern facade of Vallance Mansions and the side entrance.
After some moments, in a series of staggered, jump-frame time-lapse images, a young female jogger jerked past, the images making her look almost comically fast. Then a male figure emerged from the side door of Vallance Mansions.
The time display showed 9.01 p.m.
Tall, wearing a raincoat, the top half of his face was totally obscured by a plain, long-peaked baseball cap, of the kind favoured by golfers. The features of the lower half of his face were impossible to see clearly. He seemed to be clutching something concealed inside the coat. He was also carrying two bin bags and some flowers.
‘What’s inside his coat?’ Grace said.
‘The laptop?’ Batchelor replied.
‘Could be.’
In the next frame he appeared a yard further on down the pavement. Then another yard. Then he was gone from view.
Grace stopped the video, wound it back to where the man first appeared, then magnified the image. The larger it became, the more blurry it was.
‘Exton’s height,’ Batchelor said.
Grace nodded, uncertainly. ‘Exton’s height, yes, but not his build – although that could be the quality of the image, distorting through the wet glass.’
‘They say television adds pounds to anyone’s face – and features,’ Batchelor said, staring intently at the screen.
Diplock had done a good editing job; the two detectives observed the time display jump to 10.22 p.m. This time the same man appeared striding up the pavement on the other side of the road now. One hand held an umbrella and he carried a bag in the other. He was visible for three frames, looking carefully around, then went out of shot.
‘Hello!’ Batchelor said. ‘Nice to see you again!’
‘Laptop’s gone?’ Grace suggested.
‘Looks like it. He’d have had plenty of time to go to Shoreham Harbour and ditch it.’
‘It would have been a round trip of ten minutes in a car.’
‘A good half an hour walk each way on foot though,’ Batchelor said, thoughtfully.
After another time jump they saw the man again, walking back down the street, on the opposite side of the road, still using what appeared to be a busted umbrella.
‘Aha, looks like he’s the local Good Samaritan,’ Grace said. ‘Carrying out everyone’s rubbish for them in the middle of the night.’
They looked back at the footage of the man’s return to the flat.
When the man reached the side door to Vallance Mansions he stopped, pulled out what both detectives presumed must be a key, opened the door and went in.
‘Reminds me of that old Marx Brothers joke,’ Grace said.
‘Which one, boss?’
‘“Hey, Charlie, the garbage man’s here!” “Yeah? Go tell him we don’t need any today.”’
Batchelor smiled wanly.
‘So what’s our Exton doing at half ten at night carrying a garbage bag into Lorna Belling’s apartment building?’
Batchelor stared intently at the screen for some moments. His face looked pale and Grace noticed a faint nervous tic around his jaw. He felt for the man. There was nothing harder than having to arrest and bring evidence against a colleague, particularly one who had been a friend as well.
‘Groceries?’ he said, finally.
‘Not in a bin bag,’ Grace said. ‘Groceries come in carrier bags, so do cans of booze. Is he planting something, perhaps? Or got some tools in there – is he planning at this stage to chop her up?’
‘Of course we don’t even know for sure this is Exton, or that this man has any connection to Lorna Belling.’
‘Correct, Guy. We need to get him either positively identified, or establish that it’s not him.’
‘That wouldn’t necessarily prove anything either way, would it, boss? What I’m saying is that if this character is Exton, that puts him in Lorna Belling’s apartment building, but if it’s someone else – a complete stranger – he’s not necessarily going to Lorna’s flat – he’s just behaving very oddly.’
‘Very.’
Grace picked up his phone and dialled Jonathan Jackson’s number. When he answered, he explained what they had on video, which didn’t faze the Met officer, and asked him how soon he could get a member of the Super Recognizer team down to Sussex.
‘I should be able to get someone to you within a few hours, Roy. I’ll call you back.’
Grace thanked him and ended the call. Then he looked again at the video on the screen. At the man with the bin bag.
His shape looked wrong. Wrong for Exton. Exton was slight – and in recent weeks had become even slighter. This man was quite a different build, quite a bit bulkier. But, on the other hand, the image was pretty crap.
Grace gave Batchelor a quizzical look. ‘Spot anything of significance, Guy?’
‘No, you?’
‘My best guess is he’s clearing any evidence. He did a pretty thorough job, as the CSIs weren’t able to find anything of real value.’
His colleague nodded, thoughtfully. ‘OK, I’ll bell you as soon as I have anything more,’ Batchelor said.
‘I’ll go and chase Ray, see what he can find from the laptop.’
Moments after Batchelor left Grace’s office, the phone rang. It was Jackson.
‘Roy, there’s a DS from our Super Recognizer team who’s not far from you at the moment. His name’s Tim Weatherley. He’s familiar with Sussex CID and has been working with one of your colleagues, Superintendent Sloan, on the Crime and Ops team. He’s currently at the Surrey Police HQ, working on a development on the multiple homicide of a British family and an unconnected cyclist, at Annecy in France – back in 2012. Apparently there’s some new footage come to light.’
‘Yes, I remember it,’ Grace said. An Iraqi-born British tourist, his wife and his mother-in-law, as well as a French cyclist, had been shot dead in a forest clearing. The family’s two young daughters had miraculously survived but had been unable to provide much evidence. It remained one of the darkest unsolved crimes of recent years.
‘He could be with you between 4 and 5 p.m. I’ve given him your number and he’ll call you when he has an ETA.’
‘Brilliant, thanks JJ.’
‘Anytime, Roy. We should have a drink and catch-up sometime.’
‘Are you still living in Saltdean?’
‘Yep – let me know when’s good.’
‘I will.’
As he ended the call, Grace wondered, in view of t
he sensitive nature of their prime suspect, whether he should view the footage with just the Super Recognizer and Guy Batchelor without involving the rest of the team.
But then he had a better idea.
93
Saturday 30 April
It felt like he was swimming underwater. He could see light above him. The silhouettes of faces. His mind swam, too. He felt all giddy. Nauseous.
Momentarily he broke the surface. Saw a dog at the edge of the pool. A squat, ugly thing. It had different coloured eyes, one bright red, the other grey. It was a mutt. Part Dalmatian and part pug.
It was looking at him balefully. Reproachfully. Are you abandoning me? Just like my last owner?
‘Yossarian!’ he called out. ‘Yossarian!’
He cared about it. This ugly mutt that he had found on a Beverly Hills street was the only thing in his life he had ever cared about. It was standing, looking down at him, and hungry.
‘Yossarian!’ he screamed.
No sound came out of his intubated throat.
The ITU nurse at the Royal Sussex County Hospital ran across to Bed 17 and stared down at the small, shaven-headed man, who was connected to a forest of drip lines and a ventilator. He was thrashing around wildly, his eyes opening and shutting in rapid succession, as if he was fitting.
This patient, who went by the odd, single name of Tooth, was under special watch, and until recently there had been a police guard for him posted on a 24/7 rota outside the unit entrance. She did not know too much about the circumstances that had brought him here, in a persistent vegetative state, a month ago from the Tropical Diseases Unit at Guy’s Hospital in London, other than that he had suffered a series of bites and stings from a spider, a scorpion and a saw-scaled viper snake in a reptile house. Because of the police interest in him, she imagined he had been involved in a burglary at a zoo that had gone badly wrong.
She paged the duty doctor, urgently.
Ten minutes later Roy Grace was interrupted from his studies of the Jodie Bentley file by a call. The voice at the other end sounded foreign. ‘This is Dr Imran Hassan from the Intensive Care Unit at the Royal Sussex Hospital. We have a note on file to contact you if there is any change in the condition of one of our patients, a gentleman called Mr Tooth.’
This was all he needed right now, Grace thought. ‘Yes, thank you, Dr Hassan.’
‘He seems to be showing signs of emerging from his coma. He keeps trying to shout. We removed the tube from his throat and immediately he shouted out a name. It sounded like “Yossarian”.’
‘Yossarian?’
‘Yes, but now he seems very distressed about this Yossarian. His eyes remain closed but he screamed that Yossarian needs feeding. Does any of this make any sense to you?’
‘It does, yes, Dr Hassan. Yossarian is this man’s pet dog – he lives in the Turks and Caicos. Tooth is under suspicion of committing several murders, and the dog is being cared for. He doesn’t need to worry.’
But Grace was worried.
‘Good, we are regarding this as a positive sign that this patient is improving.’
‘To what extent?’
‘At this stage very minor. He is still totally incapacitated.’
‘Dr Hassan, if at any time you or your colleagues believe that Tooth is capable of standing and walking, I need to know immediately.’
‘Yes, this is on his notes, Detective Superintendent.’
Grace thanked him, then immediately sent an email to Pewe, updating him on Tooth’s condition. He did not suggest that the scene guard be reinstated at this stage, but instead covered his back by finishing,
as you know we are dealing with a man of extraordinary reserves and resources. It would be a deep embarrassment to Sussex Police if he were to disappear. At this time, the staff at the Royal Sussex County Hospital do not believe this is likely. But they know to notify me if the situation changes.
He wasn’t expecting a reply. And didn’t get one.
94
Saturday 30 April
Grace liked Tim Weatherley instantly. The detective from the Scotland Yard Super Recognizer Unit arrived in his office shortly before 6 p.m., apologizing effusively for being so late, and looking like he’d already had a long day. He was dressed in a crumpled grey suit, a pink shirt and striped tie at half mast, and had untidy black hair. He reminded Grace of the TV comedian Michael McIntyre.
For some reason he had been expecting an intense, studious geek, but Weatherley, in his late thirties, was warm and open, with a booming voice.
‘I’ve got a message for you from Superintendent Sloan,’ he said.
‘Oh yes?’
‘He said to tell you that you still owe him a beer!’
Grace grinned. ‘That’s rich coming from him. Short arms, deep pockets.’
Weatherley grinned back.
‘Would you like tea? Coffee?’ Grace offered.
‘No, thanks, I’m fine. It’s actually my wedding anniversary and I have to take she-who-must-be-obeyed out to dinner in London – in Battersea – so without wanting to rush anything, the sooner I can get away, the better. How can I help you?’
Grace filled him in on the history and the sensitive nature of the issue. Then he added, ‘It has always been my method of operating to include my whole team. We have a briefing scheduled for 6.30 p.m. I’d like you to view the footage before the briefing, and then I’ll introduce you to the team so you can educate them on what resources are available. We might have an unknown talent with Super Recognizer abilities on this team. But what I would appreciate is that if you are able to make a positive ID on DS Exton when you initially see the footage, that you don’t mention it to the team.’
Weatherley frowned. ‘It’s your call.’ He shot a glance at his watch.
‘I’ll make sure you’re on your way by 7 p.m. You’ll be in Battersea by 8.30 p.m latest.’
‘Do you have some images of this DS Exton for me to get familiar with?’
Grace showed him a photocopy of Exton’s warrant card, and a series of images of him from the internal CCTV at Malling House. Then he took him out into the corridor to the board on the wall where there were photographs, with their names beneath, of all the members of the Major Crime Branch, and pointed out Exton.
As he was standing there his phone rang. It was Ray Packham.
‘Roy, some good news. I think you’re going to like this.’
‘Tell me?’
‘It’s drying out well – I’m standing here like a twat, with a hair-dryer! But in the meantime I’ve got a result from tracing the serial number. The computer was bought from the Apple store in Churchill Square in Brighton last November 22nd – by Lorna Belling.’
‘Bloody hell, that is brilliant, Ray, well done.’
‘Thought you’d like that. I’ll call you as soon as it’s up and running.’
‘Brilliant.’
As Weatherley studied the photographs of the team on the board, Guy Batchelor walked along the corridor. ‘Boss, just wanted to check the time of this evening’s briefing.’ Then he hesitated, looking at the visitor.
‘Oh, Guy – this is Tim Weatherley, from the Super Recognizer unit.’ He turned to Weatherley. ‘DI Batchelor is the Deputy SIO on this case, Tim. Feel free to share anything with him.’
The two men shook hands. ‘Nice to meet you,’ Weatherley said.
‘Likewise. Thanks for coming down, we really appreciate it,’ Batchelor said. ‘I’ve heard great things about your unit.’
‘Feel free to spread the word! Not enough forces know about us yet.’ Weatherley smiled warmly.
‘Absolutely!’ Batchelor said.
‘We’ve a development,’ Grace informed him. ‘Ray Packham’s just called me, he’s identified the owner of the Apple MacBook Pro.’
‘He has?’
‘Lorna Belling.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘This could be dynamite for us!’ Grace said enthusiastically. ‘He hopes to have it up and running tonight.�
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‘Fantastic,’ Batchelor said, but he looked uneasy.
Grace felt uneasy too. The thought of seeing Exton brought down and imprisoned for murder was not something any of them relished, and Batchelor, despite his tough appearance, had a deeply sensitive and caring side that Grace had noticed often in the past.
‘As DS Weatherley has to get away by 7 p.m., I thought we’d bring the briefing forward. Could you tell everyone we’ll have it in fifteen minutes’ time.’
‘Yes, boss. I’ll get right on it.’
‘Good man.’
Grace led Weatherley back into his office, and left him alone to watch the footage, before joining him in the briefing.
95
Saturday 30 April
At 6.20 p.m., minus Glenn Branson and Kevin Hall, who were down in Portsmouth with Jon Exton, Grace’s entire team was assembled in the conference room. He cut to the chase by introducing Tim Weatherley, who had just entered the room, and asking him to give a brief outline of the work of the Scotland Yard Super Recognizer Unit.
When he had finished, the Detective Superintendent said, ‘We’re now going to view one still from a camera in a fortuitously parked vehicle on Vallance Street, on the night of Wednesday, April 20th – the date that Lorna Belling died. The image is very blurry, partly because it is through a windscreen on a wet night, and partly because of the darkness—’
He was momentarily distracted by a ping from Velvet Wilde’s phone. Then he went on.
‘If any of you think you know the identity of the person in this image, who may or may not be the offender, let us know immediately. Let’s see if any of you have Super Recognizer abilities!’ He nodded at Weatherley and he switched on the projector.
All of them turned to look at the blurry image of a figure on the flat screen on the wall, who appeared to be carrying two rubbish bags.
‘I recognize him, chief,’ Norman Potting said.
‘Yes?’ Grace encouraged.
‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Super Binman!’
There was laughter.
‘Thank you, Norman,’ Grace retorted, acidly. ‘Not terribly helpful.’
