Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

‘Did the pilot have any comment on the relationship between Walker and his wife?’ Grace quizzed.

‘We did ask him that, Chief,’ Norman Potting said. ‘So far as Kempson knew they had been a happy couple, but lately they were in severe financial difficulties, and Walker had got mixed up with some loan sharks, who were making threats to recover their money. We are following this up — whoever he owed money to must at this stage be considered a suspect, Chief.’

‘There’s a specialist team from the British Parachute Association coming tomorrow,’ DS Batchelor said. ‘Hopefully we’ll find out more from them.’

Grace nodded, mindful that he needed to hold a press conference at some point during the next morning, which he was dreading. ‘What time will this team be here?’

‘Nine a.m., boss,’ Batchelor said.

‘There is another thing of possible significance,’ Norman Potting said. ‘According to the pilot, Walker had joked that he had a big life insurance policy and that if he ever died, his financial woes would be sorted and his wife, Zoe, would be well taken care of.’

Grace noted this down. ‘Nice work,’ he said.

Detective Constable Emma-Jane Boutwood raised her hand. ‘Sir, an officer spotted someone who fitted Scrooge’s description shedding his Santa hat ten minutes after the Christmas tree was felled in Churchill square last night, and replacing it with a baseball cap. He’s been identified as Sidney Carp.’

‘Sid Carp?’ said Potting. ‘He was always a fishy blighter.’

The entire team groaned in unison. But they all knew the name. Sid Carp was a frequent flyer with Brighton Police. An old lag and a true recidivist — or revolving door prisoner as they were known — a nasty petty thief and small-time drug dealer. ‘Sid Carp?’ Grace said. ‘He must be older than God.’

‘Got to be nudging seventy,’ Potting said.

‘Old enough to play Santa, anyway, sir,’ DC Boutwood continued. ‘He’d been the resident Father Christmas in the Churchill Square shopping mall until a week ago, when he turned up drunk and was fired. Apparently he went round telling several of the staff that if he couldn’t be Santa, no one would be, and the store and Brighton were going to regret it. So it sounds like this could all be about his revenge.’

‘How on earth did he get past the security vetting?’ Grace asked, shaking his head. Then he turned to Potting. ‘Norman,’ Grace said. ‘I want you to come with me to see Walker’s wife — we need to find out if, in his financial predicament, she thinks he might have been unstable.’

An hour later, Roy Grace and Norman Potting climbed out of Grace’s car in front of a smart, mock-Tudor house on Woodland Drive — a street nicknamed by locals as Millionaire’s Row. It was freezing cold, the stars glittering like heavenly bling above them. There would be a frost in the morning for sure, the Detective Superintendent thought, as they strode past two cars on the driveway, a convertible Audi and a BMW coupé. He rang the doorbell, waited, then rang again. Then he rapped hard on the door.

After a good couple of minutes it was opened by an attractive blonde, with dishevelled hair and streaked make-up. She was wearing a slinky dressing gown with her boobs half falling out.

Grace showed her his warrant card. ‘Mrs Zoe Walker?’

‘Yes?’

‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Potting from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. I understand you have been informed of the very sad news about your husband?’ he said.

‘I have, yes.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Would you like to come in?’

‘Just for a moment, thank you.’

The two detectives entered the hallway and she shut the door behind them.

‘Can I offer you gentlemen a drink? Tea or coffee, or something stronger?’

‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Grace replied. They briefly talked through what had happened that afternoon, and gave her an outline of the police investigation to date. ‘We don’t want to keep you tonight,’ Grace said. ‘But I understand your husband may have had financial worries. I believe he owed a lot of money and had recently been threatened.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid he was a bit of a gambler. He told me he was sorting it all out. I...’ She hesitated for a moment and he saw her shoot a sudden glance upstairs. He studied her eye movements carefully.

‘What do you think has happened?’ she asked.

‘It’s really too soon to say — we need more information. We have to establish whether this was a terrible accident, murder or possibly suicide.’

‘Well now you mention it, Richard did mention suicide occasionally, but only in the way many people do when things are bad — you know. I never thought he — you know — he would actually do it. He’s not the type.’

‘What do you think might have happened to your husband?’ Grace pressed.

‘I don’t have an explanation,’ she said and began sobbing. The detectives waited for her to regain her composure. ‘He was highly experienced, and even if his main chute didn’t open, his reserve should have done, for sure.’

‘Accidents do occur,’ Grace said, ‘from what I’ve read up today.’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, I packed his parachutes immaculately. I know I did.’

Grace nodded. ‘OK, well, we have the British Parachute Association team coming down tomorrow, so hopefully we will be able to establish exactly what happened. I won’t trouble you any more until we have all the facts.’

As she closed the front door on them, Potting gave him curious look. ‘That was a bit short, Chief.’

Grace patted the bonnet of the Audi, which was icy cold. ‘Nice cars, these,’ he said. Then he touched the bonnet of the BMW and could feel the heat from it. ‘I like Beemers. Always have.’ He made a mental note of the registration number.

‘Know what BMW stands for, Chief?’ Potting said as they climbed back into the car.

Grace stared at him, knowing it was going to be something rude. ‘Don’t go there,’ he warned. He started the engine, drove a short distance from the house, then pulled over and radioed for a PNC check on the BMW, reading out its index number to the controller.

Roy Grace delayed the Sunday morning briefing to the afternoon, to give the parachute investigation team a chance to carry out their work. Meanwhile his own officers were still trying, urgently, to trace Sidney Carp. At 10 a.m. Roy held a press conference at which he gave public reassurance about the numbers of officers on the case, leave being cancelled, and his enquiry team working through the holiday period to establish what had happened and make the city safe.

In the early afternoon, just as his briefing was about to commence, Norman Potting came hurrying in. ‘We’ve netted our suspect, Sidney Carp!’

‘Brilliant work, Norman!’ Grace said.

Then Potting looked gloomy and shook his head. ‘Not good news, I’m afraid, chief, he’s going to be the fish that got away.’

There was another loud groan from the team.

Potting continued. ‘He was arrested at Victoria Station in the early hours of Sunday morning, in a drunken state, with a holdall containing a chainsaw, and is still in custody, having refused to give any details or explain why he was carrying a chainsaw.’

‘That doesn’t necessarily eliminate him,’ Grace said, ‘but he’s no longer our best suspect. I think I have a better one.’

An hour later, Grace was armed with the preliminary, but fairly conclusive, information about why both parachutes had failed. The two detectives returned to Woodland Drive. As they climbed out into the sub-zero air and walked to the front door, Grace noted that both the Audi convertible and the BMW were coated in frost.