Peter James - Dead Man’s Footsteps

‘Which was the same probable cause of death for Joanna Wilson,’ said Nick Nicholl.

‘Well remembered,’ Grace said. ‘You’re on peak form today, Nick. I’m glad your sleepless nights haven’t dulled your wits!’

Nicholl blushed, looking pleased with himself.

‘Ronnie Wilson’s not done badly for a dead man,’ Norman Potting said. ‘Managing to strangle his wife.’

‘We don’t have enough evidence to make that assumption, Norman,’ Grace said, although privately he was wondering. He glanced at his agenda. ‘OK, so this is what’s going to happen. If she spent over three million quid in cash, in the space of a few months, someone will know about it. Glenn and Bella, I want you to prioritize that. Start with the Klingers again. Find out everything you can about the circles the Wilsons moved in. What did they spend money on? Did they gamble? Did they buy a place abroad? Or a boat? Three and a quarter million quid is a lot of money – and it’s value was even more five years ago.’

Branson and Bella nodded.

‘Steve, can you use your banking fast-track to find out what happened to Joanna Wilson’s inheritance? I appreciate we’re talking ten years back and there may not be any records. Just do all you can.’

Grace paused to check his notes, then went on. ‘I’m flying to New York tomorrow to see what I can find. I’m intending to fly back overnight, Thursday night, and be here for Friday morning. I want you, Norman and Nick, to go to Australia.’

Potting looked pleased as punch at the news, but Nicholl seemed worried.

‘Reservations have been made for you on a flight out tomorrow evening. You’ll lose a day and get there for early Friday morning, Melbourne time. You could have a full day’s investigation and, with the time difference, be able to report back to us by our morning briefing here on Friday. You look like you’re fretting about something, Nick. Can you not tear yourself away from your paternal duties?’

The DC nodded.

‘You OK about going?’

He nodded again, more vigorously this time.

‘Either of you been there before?’

‘No, but I’ve got a cousin in Perth,’ Nick Nicholl said.

‘That’s almost as far from Melbourne as Brighton is,’ Bella said.

‘So I wouldn’t have time to go and see him?’

‘You’re not going on a vacation. You’re going to get a job done,’ Grace chided.

Nick Nicholl nodded.

‘Following a dead woman’s footsteps,’ Norman Potting said.

And, Grace had a hunch, maybe following a dead man’s too.

Roy Grace went straight from the briefing meeting to his office and phoned Cleo, telling her he would be later than planned as he needed to finish off here, then go home and pack a bag.

He had been to New York on several previous occasions. A couple of them were with Sandy – once for Christmas shopping and once for their fifth wedding anniversary – but the rest of the times were for work, and he always enjoyed visiting the city. He was particularly looking forward to seeing his two police friends there, Dennis Baker and Pat Lynch.

He’d met them seven years ago when, as a Detective Inspector, he’d gone to New York on a murder inquiry. That had been the year before 9/11. Dennis and Pat were then officers in the NYPD, working in Brooklyn, and had been among the first police officers on the scene at 9/11. He doubted there were two men better qualified in the whole of New York City to help him find the truth about whether or not Ronnie Wilson had perished on that dreadful day.

Cleo was fine, all sweetness and light, just get here when you can. And, she assured him, she had a very, very, very sexy treat awaiting him. Knowing from past experience just how good her sexy treats were, he decided it would be well worth the dry-cleaning bill from little Humphrey’s dog training and projectile-vomitingsession.

He turned his attention first to his emails. He replied to a couple of urgent ones and decided to leave the rest for his plane journey in the morning.

Then, just as he was making a start on his paperwork, there was a rap on the door and, without waiting for an answer, Cassian Pewe came in with a pained expression on his face. He stood in front of Grace’s desk, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, top button of his shirt open, expensive-looking tie at half mast.

‘Roy, excuse me, sorry to bounce in on you, but I’m rather hurt.’

Grace raised a finger, finished reading through a memo, then looked up at him. ‘Hurt? I’m sorry. Why?’

‘I just heard you are sending DS Potting and DC Nicholl to Melbourne tomorrow. Is that right?’

‘Yes, absolutely right.’

Pewe tapped his own chest. ‘What about me? I started this. Surely I should be one of those going?’

‘I’m sorry – what do you mean, you started it? I thought all you did was take a call from Interpol?’

‘Roy,’ he said, in an imploring tone that suggested Grace was his very, very best friend ever, ‘it was my initiative that got everything moving so fast.’

Grace nodded, irritated by the man’s attitude and the interruption. ‘Yes, and I appreciate that. But you have to understand we operate on teamwork here in Sussex, Cassian. You’re in charge of cold cases – I’m running a live inquiry. The information you’ve given me may be very helpful and your swift action has been noted.’

Now fuck off and let me get on with my work, he wanted to say, but didn’t.

‘I appreciate that. I just think that I should be one of the team going to Australia.’

‘You are better off being deployed here,’ Grace said. ‘That’s my call.’

Pewe glared at him and, in a fit of sudden pique, snapped back, ‘I think you might regret that, Roy.’

Then he stormed out of Grace’s office.

Tuesday evening, 8 o’clock. Ricky sat in his van in darkness, back at the same cross-street vantage point opposite Abby’s mother’s flat where he had waited earlier. From here he could see both the front entrance and the street she would have to use if she tried sneaking out of the rear fire-escape door.

The chill was really seeping into his bones. He just wanted to get everything back, get Abby out of his face and get the fuck out of this godforsaken damp, freezing country and into some sunshine.

He’d hardly seen a soul in the past three hours. He seemed to remember Eastbourne had a reputation as a retirement town where the average age was either dead or nearly dead. Tonight it felt as if everyone was dead. Street-lighting fell on empty pavements. Fucking waste, he thought. Someone should talk to this place about its carbon footprint.

Abby was inside, in the warm with her mother. He had a feeling she would be staying there tonight, but he did not dare leave his post and go to find a pub and have a drink or three until he was sure.

About two hours ago he’d picked up the signal from her new mobile phone when she’d made a call to her mother’s new phone to test its ring tone and volume, and to give it her number. Now, thanks to that call, he had both of their numbers logged.

When they were testing the phones he heard the television in the background. It sounded like some soap opera, with a man and a woman bickering in a car. So the bitch and her mother were settled in for a cosy evening in front of the telly, in a warm flat, charging two new mobile phones that had been bought with his money.

The Intercept beeped busily. Abby was phoning rest homes, looking for somewhere that would take her mother in immediately for four weeks, until a room in the place she had chosen came available.

She was interrogating them about nursing care, doctors, mealtimes, ingredients of the food, exercise, about whether there was a pool, a sauna, whether they were near a main road or somewhere quiet, gardens with wheelchair access, were there private bathrooms? Her list went on and on. Thorough. As he had learned to his bitter cost. She was a thorough bitch.