Peter James: Love You Dead

‘What were your suspicions, Norman?’ Tanja Cale asked.

He held up the sheet of paper he had brought in earlier, and gave a broad smile. ‘I was late for this briefing because I was waiting for the emailed result to come through. I have the full details from the lab here, if anyone would like to read them. But to cut through the technical jargon, the vial contained freeze-dried venom from a saw-scaled viper.’

Roy Grace’s mind was spinning. There had been no ecchymosis around the puncture mark in Rowley Carmichael’s leg. Which was strong evidence that however the venom had got into his system, it hadn’t been through a snake bite. That had been confirmed by Dr West. He’d also confirmed that the geographic location where Carmichael was purportedly bitten was not terrain where this snake would be found. Grace stood up, balling his fists. He was so excited he could have hugged Potting. ‘This is really good, Norman, well done. This is going to help us enormously.’

An hour later, back in his office in a far happier mood, Roy Grace did not imagine today would get any better. But it was about to.

As he sat in furious concentration, hammering out his statement of facts to present to the Crown Prosecution Service for their consent to charge Jodie with the murder of Rowley Burnett Carmichael, his phone rang.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

It was the London Interpol detective he had spoken to before, Tom Haynes.

‘Sir,’ he said, sounding more good-humoured than the last time they’d spoken, when the man had been rather stiff and formal. ‘I have some information regarding your suspect Dr Edward Crisp that I think you will like.’

‘Tell me?’

‘Lyon police have him back in custody.’

‘They do?’

‘He was arrested early this morning.’

‘This is brilliant news — how — what happened?’

‘Apparently we have a French farmer to thank. His wife got up at her usual early hour to milk their cows, and saw a grubby-looking man stealing clothes off their washing line. Her husband detained him with his shotgun. I don’t have all the details at this stage, but I understand he was filthy, exhausted, frozen and possibly relieved. He didn’t put up any resistance.’

The image of arrogant Crisp spending the past week covered in excrement from his escape through the prison sewer system, and grubbing his way furtively around the French countryside, appealed to Grace. ‘Excellent news, Tom. I’ll notify the Extradition Service right away. Perhaps the French prison service can keep a closer watch on him than the last time.’

‘They’re pretty embarrassed by what happened, sir. I don’t think he’ll have a second chance.’

‘Please thank everyone involved.’

‘I think it was sheer luck that they got him.’ He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘I guess we all need luck.’

‘The harder I try, the luckier I get?’ Grace said.

‘Thomas Jefferson,’ the detective replied. ‘It actually goes something like, “I find the harder I work, the luckier I get.”’

‘That’s it!’

‘There’s another, from Franklin D. Roosevelt, sir: “I think we consider too much the good luck of the early bird and not enough the bad luck of the early worm.”’

Grace smiled. ‘You’re well up on your American quotes, Tom.’

‘I am American.’

Almost immediately after he had finished his conversation with Tom Haynes, Grace received an update email from Michelle Websdale confirming the findings of the toxicology report in Goa. Rowley Carmichael had definitely died as a result of venom from a saw-scaled viper.

At lunchtime Roy received the final piece of the jigsaw.

As soon as he had left the interview with Jodie, yesterday, with the snake fang locket, he had secured it in a sealed exhibit bag and then contacted Dr Colin Duncton, a Home Office pathologist who had developed an expertise in the interpretation of wounds and weapons.

He had spoken to the man over the phone, explaining what he wanted, and the pathologist had agreed to come down to Brighton Mortuary the next morning. He also informed the Coroner’s Officer of his action.

He was about to call the mortuary to see how Dr Duncton was getting on, when the pathologist rang him.

‘Detective Superintendent, I believe I have the good news you were hoping for. I’ve carried out a microscopic examination of the puncture-mark wound on the right ankle of Rowley Carmichael, believed to have been caused by a snake bite — a saw-scaled viper?’

‘Correct.’

‘I can tell you first that that wound was not caused by an ordinary snake bite, and I can categorically state that the wound was caused by Exhibit RG4, the snake fang that one of your officers handed to me this morning. On examination of that snake fang, I was able to detect striation marks — in particular, a number of specific ridges, furrows and unique irregularities to the surface and point of the fang which are identical with the incision wound. In my opinion, this snake fang caused that wound. In addition, I have arranged for it to be examined in a forensic science lab, as I believe they will find minute fibre traces from the deceased’s trousers. Do you have them?’

‘Thanks, that is brilliant news! I’ll try to track down the trousers.’

‘As always, I will send you a full report outlining my findings in due course. But I will email you something you can use now.’

As soon as he ended the call, Roy Grace updated Pewe, the CPS and his team, and instructed Norman Potting to prepare a murder charge against Jodie Carmichael.

His good mood stayed with him throughout the day. He arrived home earlier than normal, shortly after 5.30 p.m., with a beautiful bouquet of stargazer lilies for Cleo.

It seemed that even Noah sensed his good mood, and slept through most of the night. But Roy lay awake for much of it, running on adrenalin, thinking about the incredible turn of events this past day had brought. With Norman Potting’s discovery of the vial and the subsequent identification of the contents, and the conclusive match of Jodie’s snake fang and the wound to Carmichael’s leg, they now had the evidence to nail this bitch. Tooth, whose disappearance had long been a thorn in his side, was now under police guard. Almost certainly, if he survived, he would be permanently brain-damaged. And tomorrow the Extradition Team, who had travelled back to France this afternoon, would be bringing Crisp home in custody, to face the overwhelming mass of evidence against him.

An added bonus was the phone call he’d received shortly before leaving the office from Pat Lanigan, who was close to ecstatic. The contents of the USB memory stick recovered from Tooth were pure dynamite, Lanigan said. It gave them names, links and associations that the entire NYPD Mafia-busting team had been working a long time to find.

Grace asked him if he would do him a favour and email his arsehole boss ACC Pewe, to tell him of their gratitude.

‘You got it, pal, right away!’ Lanigan had replied.

Finally, an hour of dreamless sleep claimed him before the alarm beeped.

Cleo had not stirred. But he was wide awake again. He went through to Noah’s room and, without disturbing his son, sat in the rocking chair beside his cot, where Cleo sat when she was feeding him, thinking about the day ahead. And the weeks and months of paperwork that now lay in front of him to ensure, as best he could, the successful prosecutions of Crisp, Jodie and Tooth. On top of the rest of his workload of previous cases coming to trial. It would be months of pen-pushing, he thought gloomily, before he would be back as a fully operational homicide detective.