Peter James: Need You Dead

‘The first thing is that there are a number of emails, under a Hotmail account in the name of “Greg Wilson”, to Lorna Belling — which tally with those on her laptop recovered from Shoreham Harbour. These go back approximately eighteen months.’

‘Greg Wilson?’ Norman Potting queried.

‘A false name, Norman,’ Packham replied.

‘Greg was the name of her lover she confided to her close friend, Kate Harmond, who you interviewed, Norman,’ Grace interjected.

The Detective Sergeant nodded.

‘Secondly,’ Packham continued, ‘the weekend following Lorna Belling’s death, his website history shows he looked at a number of sex sites. I’ve not had the time yet to check on them all, but the ones I’ve done so far tally exactly with the calls made on DS Exton’s work phone to sex workers.’ He looked at the team, and shrugged. ‘In my opinion that is too much to be a coincidence.’

‘He sneakily got hold of DS Exton’s phone somehow, and made these calls?’ Donald Dull said.

‘That’s the way it looks,’ Grace said.

‘What a devious bastard,’ Dull retorted.

There was a long silence.

‘Is there any other explanation, boss?’ Kevin Hall asked.

‘I’m all ears if you have one, Kevin,’ Grace replied.

Hall shook his head.

‘There’s something else the search team recovered from Guy’s home,’ Grace added, his tone grim. ‘Lorna Belling’s appointments diary for her hairdressing clients. It was still in an evidence bag, concealed under a case of wine in his garage.’

‘Stupid sod.’ Potting shook his head. ‘What a stupid sod.’

There was a long silence, finally broken by Jack Alexander.

‘Where’s DS Exton now, sir?’ he asked.

‘I saw him an hour ago. I’m happy to say that Dawn picked him up from here and has taken him home. Hopefully that is at least one good outcome from this sodding, sad mess.’

‘What will happen to Batchelor?’ Arnie Crown asked.

‘Not much!’ Potting quipped and turned to Velvet Wilde for approval.

But neither she nor any of the team was in any mood for laughter. Grace glared at the old sweat. Fond though he was of Norman Potting, there were times when he thought this dinosaur should be in a museum, not on his major enquiry team. But equally, he knew, there were other times when the man could be invaluable. As he had proved on this operation. ‘In answer to your question, Arnie,’ Grace said, ‘he will be taken to a police station outside of Sussex and Surrey — probably Hampshire again, for further questioning under caution. Following that he’ll be remanded in custody pending trial.’

‘What a stupid, bloody idiot,’ Potting murmured again, shaking his head as if bewildered by Batchelor’s actions.

Grace then read out Dr Frazer Theobald’s findings, which the pathologist had now produced in a formal report. It gave the cause of death as firstly a head injury causing a brain haemorrhage, and secondly, electrocution. He told his team that the head injury was a fatal blow from which Lorna Belling would have died, but the hair-dryer dropping in the bath had actually caused her heart to stop. Batchelor had of course been responsible for both events and the Crown Prosecution Service were looking at a charge of manslaughter in regard to Lorna, and attempted murder in respect of the police officer, Tim Weatherley.

Forty minutes later, after delegating evidence and paperwork duties, Grace thanked his team and told them to take the rest of the day off. They would meet again the following evening, at 6 p.m.

Then he went home. Despite being desperately upset about Guy, he looked forward to some time at home. May Day. A fine, sunny afternoon.

And he was on a promise...

Jason Tingley dropped Bruno home shortly after 5 p.m. Roy Grace had the barbecue well alight, and cooked them all a supper of corn on the cob, chicken wings, sausages, burgers and baked potatoes, and Bruno came back for seconds.

He was pleased to see his appetite, taking it as a positive that he was feeling settled and as reasonably OK as a boy who had recently lost his mother could be. After eating, Bruno went up to his room, saying he was going to be playing another online game with Erik. Before he did so he reminded Grace of his promise to teach him shooting tactics. He told Bruno he had not forgotten.

Roy cooked some extra food for Kaitlynn, who arrived an hour later to babysit, then he and Cleo headed into Brighton for the concert.

He had temporarily parked the shadow of Guy Batchelor in another compartment and was feeling relaxed and happy. He was looking forward to his night out with Cleo and seeing the rock band again — they had been to see them at this same venue a year ago on the recommendation of friends, when they had played their first gig in Brighton, and both of them had really liked their music.

When they walked into the Hope and Ruin pub, near the bottom of Queens Road, there was a sign up saying that the concert was delayed, and would start in approximately one hour. Grace stood with Cleo just inside the entrance for some moments, glancing around the packed room, clocking every face. He couldn’t help it, he did it every time he entered a restaurant or a bar, like many coppers. He never wanted to find he had spent an hour in a room where there was a wanted villain he had missed, nor to enter a place that was about to kick off.

He bought a glass of Chardonnay for Cleo and a pint of Guinness for himself and they found a small, free table at the back of the packed downstairs bar. One chair was against the wall, the other facing it.

‘Which would you like, darling?’ he asked.

She took the one facing the wall. ‘I think you’re going to want the policeman’s chair , aren’t you?’

She was right, she knew him too well. He grinned, setting their glasses down and squeezing behind the table. He was never comfortable sitting with his back to a crowded room.

He raised his glass and chinked against hers. ‘Cheers, darling.’

‘Cheers. Quite a treat to have you for a whole afternoon and evening as well!’ She looked genuinely happy. ‘You haven’t told me how it was, climbing up that ladder. I don’t know how you did it.’

He shrugged.

‘Weren’t you scared? You hate heights.’

He sipped his beer. ‘You know, it’s a funny thing, I’ve talked to many colleagues over the years. At some point in their career, almost every police officer is going to be in a situation where his or her life is in danger. Your training just kicks in and you don’t think about it at the time. It’s only afterwards, when it’s over. That’s when you think, Shit, what the hell did I do that for? But you know what you did it for. You did it because that’s what you signed up to do.’

‘At some point in their career?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’ve been in danger more than once, my love. Every time you leave home I worry about you, wondering what your day will bring.’

‘Both of us do a tough job. You are dealing with dead bodies all day long. Some of them pretty gruesome. But you cope.’

‘There’s a big difference, Roy. I respect the dead, but they don’t pose any threat to me. You are dealing with dangerous people all the time. Even one of your most trusted colleagues turns out to be dangerous. You’ve got two children now, dependent on you. I know I’m never going to change you, and I wouldn’t ever want to. I understand you’re a decent man doing your best. I just don’t ever want you to be a dead hero. You know what would be my worst nightmare?’

‘No.’

‘You arriving in the mortuary for a postmortem.’

He tapped his chest. ‘Probably mine too.’