Love You Dead Read online

  Instantly, he recognized the German detective’s voice. ‘Marcel!’ he said, quietly. ‘I’m in a meeting. Is it urgent, or can I call you back in half an hour?’

  Kullen was sounding more sombre than usual. Strangely sombre. In a few words he told him the reason for his call.

  Grace froze.

  60

  Tuesday 3 March

  As Jodie lay back on the bed in their cabin, sipping the glass of champagne the butler had brought her, she reflected on how it was all going with Rowley. So far so good. She knew enough about marriage laws to fend off a challenge from any of Rowley’s family, but she did not know the full size of his estate nor his inheritance planning. She’d walk away from this with a decent sum, a few million at the very least, she hoped. But not enough to buy a £50-million villa on Lake Como.

  More than anything in the world, she longed to fly her parents to Italy, take them out on a boat on Lake Como, past all the fuck-off villas, past George Clooney’s, Richard Branson’s and all the others. Then they would see the most stunning villa of all, and she would tell the driver of the boat to go to the dock and tie up.

  And she’d look at the strange expression on her parents’ faces.

  And she’d say, ‘Welcome to my little holiday home!’

  And Cassie, finally, would have said, ‘Wow!’

  All thanks to a snake.

  Well, some of it, for sure. Beautiful, beautiful snakes.

  On her laptop she typed into her password-protected diary:

  So just how different are we humans from snakes? Like, here’s an intriguing mathematical puzzle: Cows share twenty-five per cent of their genes with snakes. Humans share eighty per cent of their genes with cows. So we share about twenty per cent of ours with snakes.

  I reckon that percentage is a lot higher in some people. There are some seriously reptilian people out there.

  Snake charmers use a musical instrument called a Pungi. It’s a wind instrument made from a gourd with reed pipes. But snake charmers have removed either the fangs or the venom glands, and some sew the mouth shut. The charmer sits out of biting range because the snakes actually consider the charmer and the Pungi a threat.

  It’s all a con.

  You just have to turn to the Bible. Psalm 58, verses 3–5: ‘The wicked turn aside from birth; liars go astray as soon as they are born. Their venom is like that of a snake, like a deaf serpent that does not hear, that does not respond to the magicians, or to a skilled snake charmer.’

  I can tell you another thing that snakes don’t like – I learned it from my late husband, Christopher Bentley, keeper of snakes and expert on poisonous creatures in general. And that is having their venom extracted.

  It’s an incredible sensation! You hold the snake – in my case a saw-scaled viper – with your fingers, right behind its head, and press it down on a hard surface. I can tell you, it really does not like this. But if you keep the pressure up, in the right place, at the top of its neck, on the edge of a glass beaker, it spits its venom out. This is not a great way to make friends with a snake – but the reality is, none of us, ever, will become buddies with a creature that will only ever view you as one thing – lunch!

  Kill or be killed. It’s the story of the animal kingdom. And of the human race. If you want to be a survivor you must, like me, follow in the path of Ka, who said, ‘Life is not a matter of chance . . . it’s a matter of choice.’

  I made my choice. It’s all working out pretty well.

  One important thing Jodie knew about snake venom was that it begins to break down soon after being extracted and loses its potency. The only way to preserve that potency is to freeze-dry it immediately.

  Freeze-dried venom when rehydrated is almost as potent as a freshly delivered bite.

  And she already had some in the minibar fridge.

  61

  Wednesday 4 March

  Morning broke to a milky-white vista of the bay of Mumbai. Jodie leaned on the deck rail, yawning. She’d risen early, kept awake most of the night by her husband snoring like a warthog. But she hadn’t wanted to wake him. Hey, he might as well enjoy his last few days, she thought. But not out of any kind of altruism.

  She didn’t want to do anything that might arouse his suspicions.

  Dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt, lightweight jeans and plimsolls, holding a mug of coffee, she savoured the warm, humid morning air, and the glorious sight of the Gateway of India monument on the waterfront looming ever closer. The mass of skyscrapers. The long, curved bridge with what looked like a sail in the middle.

  Men in small fishing boats waving at them.

  She waved back.

  Three hours later the minibus moved in short, stop-start jerks through the almost solid wedge of Mumbai morning traffic, and the constant blare of horns. Pulling a shawl round her against the freezing air-conditioning, she dozily watched a man pulling a trailer loaded with canisters worm past them, then leaning against Rollo, who was photographing everything in sight – which was mostly just buses, lorries, mopeds and bicycles – she fell asleep. When she woke up, the minibus was still crawling through the same din of horns in the same heavy traffic. Tall, shabby, white colonial-looking buildings were all around them.

  ‘Amazing city, isn’t it, my angel?’ he asked.

  ‘Amazing.’

  She dozed on and off again and finally felt their speed picking up. She was next woken by the sensation of the minibus slowing. Through the window she saw a sign.

  SANJAY GANDHI NATIONAL PARK BORIVALI

  Moments later they entered a lush forest.

  The smartly dressed cruise-ship shore guide, Deepak, speaking loudly, told them that if they were lucky they would see an array of birds, including the Blue Flycatcher and the Maribar Whistling Thrush. He went on to list all the other birds they might see then added that if they were really lucky they might spot a tiger.

  She didn’t give a fuck about any of the birds. That was not why she had wanted to come here.

  The reason was in the right-hand pocket of her trousers.

  Finally the bus stopped and their cruise guide told them they could leave any of their belongings in the vehicle, they would be quite safe. Jodie put on her sunglasses and straw hat, and as she stepped down they were surrounded by a shouting horde of people, many of them kids, holding up plastic crocodiles, photographs of Mumbai, models of the Taj Mahal and a plethora of other tourist tat.

  Ignoring them, holding Rollo’s hand to help him down, she was already starting to perspire in the steamy late-morning heat, beneath a fierce sun. Wearing a floppy white hat of the kind favoured by cricket umpires, a linen shirt, bright blue slacks and sandals, a paparazzi-sized camera slung round his neck, and blinking at the light and the surrounding mob, Rollo looked every inch the tourist – and, in this debilitating heat, as if he had aged ten years since leaving the sanctuary of the ship.

  Deepak shepherded them past a long queue filing towards a ticket gate that looked like a miniature temple, to a separate entrance where he introduced them to another guide, a smiling Indian in a white kurta, and a set of teeth that looked like they had been borrowed from his grandfather. He held up a bunch of tickets in one hand and a paddle in the other on which was written the words ‘Organza VIPS’ and shouted a greeting at them all.

  ‘Hello, I am Prakash, your crocodile farm guide! We are going to visit the crocodiles. Everyone OK with crocodiles?’

  The group of ten Organza passengers – all elderly apart from Jodie – gave half-hearted smiles.

  ‘You do not need to worry. These are man-eaters, but we feed them on plenty of chickens, so they are not very hungry. I am guide here for fifteen years – and in all my time, we have not had one visitor eaten – yet! This is my guarantee to you – if you are eaten, then you get full refund of your ticket! Yes, fair?’

  ‘Very fair!’ an old lady shouted back.

  Several of them laughed. Nervously.

  ‘OK, so now follow me – in crocodile formati
on, yes! Please be keeping close together. Safety in numbers!’

  Jodie stopped to fiddle with the laces of her trainers, as the rest of the group filed off, obediently, in crocodile formation. Rollo waited patiently, then they followed on a short distance behind.

  ‘Maybe we should catch them up, my love,’ he said, sounding a little uneasy.

  ‘I hate organized groups,’ she said.

  They maintained a steady pace, some thirty or so yards behind the rest of the pack. After ten minutes they reached the start of a forest, bordered, on one side, by a wide, swamp-like lake. A small crocodile lay basking in the sun just a few yards from the path. In the water she could see a pair of eyes above a ripple.

  ‘They give me the heebie-jeebies, these things,’ Rollo said.

  ‘I think they’re beautiful, darling! Take a photo of me beside this one.’ She stopped and stepped back until she was just inches from the basking reptile.

  ‘My love,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it. Do you know how they kill their prey? They pull them into the water and drown them, and then keep them underwater, in what is their larder, to tenderize the meat for a few days before eating them.’

  ‘These are all fed – Prakash told us!’

  Looking dubious, he removed the camera from round his neck, focused it on her and snapped away, quickly. ‘OK, let’s move on!’

  The rest of the group had almost disappeared from sight. They continued along a narrowing mud-baked path, with forest and murky swamp to their left and the open water, filled as far as they could see with more and more crocodiles, to their right.

  ‘Don’t you think there’s something magical about them, darling?’ she asked, slipping her hand into her trouser pocket. She had practised the movements several times, to make sure she had it absolutely right.

  ‘No, I don’t. I think they’re hideous and scary. And they can outrun humans.’

  They walked on a few paces, the forest thickening to their left. Then suddenly she stumbled and fell over, crying out in pain, and lay, face down in the undergrowth. ‘Owwww!’ she cried out. ‘I’ve bashed my bloody knee.’

  ‘Jodie!’ he said. ‘My poor angel!’ He knelt beside her. ‘Here, give me your hand.’

  She reached up towards him, then as he began to pull her up, she used a manoeuvre she had learned in a judo lesson some years ago, to pull him, sprawling forward, without him even realizing it was deliberate. As he landed flat on his face she pulled the fang from her pocket and jabbed him in the right ankle with it, then returned it to her pocket.

  ‘Owww! Shit!’ he cried out. ‘I’ve been stung or bitten by something!’

  ‘What, my love, what is it?’

  ‘My ankle! Shit!’

  ‘Which ankle?’ She helped him to his feet. ‘Which ankle?’

  ‘My right one.’

  She knelt and pulled up his trouser leg. There was one tiny spot of blood showing. ‘I can’t see anything, my love,’ she said.

  ‘I felt something! I definitely felt something.’

  ‘Where?’ She ran her finger across his ankle, wiping away the blood spot. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Hello! Hello! Mr and Mrs White Hat and Straw Hat! Is everything all right?’ the guide called out, anxiously running up to them.

  ‘Fine!’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ her husband confirmed. ‘I just tripped over.’

  ‘But was it a nice trip?’ Prakash asked, with a winning smile.

  ‘Very nice,’ Jodie said.

  ‘I am always obliged to be at your very best service. Nowhere will you find better trips! Are you in need of any help?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Prakash,’ Rollo said.

  ‘If you are happy then I am happy!’

  ‘We’re very happy,’ Jodie said. ‘Couldn’t be happier.’

  62

  Wednesday 4 March

  The package Tooth had ordered on the internet arrived at his hotel at 11 a.m. on Wednesday. He tipped the young man who brought the large box up to his room, then hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his door.

  It was all there, just as he had requested. He took each item out and tested it. They were all working fine. He went out and bought a rucksack, then placed them all carefully inside it. Tonight, when it was dark, he planned to return to the empty house. It would take a while to complete the task, but there was no rush. He would have all night.

  And after that, peace of mind.

  Tooth didn’t smile often. But he smiled now.

  63

  Thursday 5 March

  ‘Roy? Roy? Roy?’

  ‘Urrr?’

  ‘Are you OK? You’re so restless.’

  ‘Wassertime?’

  ‘Two fifteen. You keep tossing and turning and shouting out. What is it? Is your leg hurting?’

  Grace rolled over in bed and touched Cleo’s face with his nose. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Were you having a bad dream?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry I woke you.’

  They lay still for a moment.

  ‘Want to tell me?’

  He did want to tell her, so badly. They’d always promised each other they would have no secrets. Yet how could he tell her? The taboo subject. Sandy.

  So often over the time that they’d been together, Cleo had tried to get him to move on from his first wife. She’d been understanding, yet in bad moments had told him that at times she felt she wasn’t married only to him, but to him and a ghost.

  Sandy.

  Back in January Roy had looked at the woman lying in her hospital bed. Sandy. He had denied to himself that it was her, but he knew the truth and had been suppressing it. At some point it was going to have to come out, and how on earth was he ever going to start that conversation? And deal with the fallout that would follow? It was something that would take many hours, maybe days, to work through with Cleo – if she would accept the situation at all – and with all the authorities.

  The information he had, to date, was that for a time she had been a heroin addict – and had then gone clean. And she had a son.

  Whatever.

  He and Sandy had tried repeatedly for a child, with no success.

  So now this woman had a child.

  And there was too much at stake with his new life. The past was the past. So the woman in the bed at the Klinikum was Sandy. But she was no longer his Sandy. She had made the decision, whatever had been going on in her mind at the time, to walk out on him and fabricate her disappearance – and cause him ten years of hell. He wasn’t about to disrupt his life now, however unfortunate her circumstances were.

  But for the last two nights he had been unable to sleep properly.

  Ever since that phone call from Kullen. Grace had met him for the first time a few years ago. Since then Kullen had helped him through a possible reported sighting of Sandy in the past, when he had gone to Munich on what turned out to be a wild goose chase.

  ‘Roy,’ he had said this time. ‘All is good?’ His voice had sounded strangely hesitant.

  ‘Very good. You? Still driving crazily, like Lewis Hamilton?’

  ‘Yah! I have a new car, a Scirocco Storm. It is fast! I take you for a drive sometime!’

  Grace remembered his friend’s driving on his first visit to Germany. He loved fast cars himself, but at 160 mph on the autobahn, with Kullen constantly taking his eyes off the road to talk to him, he had been somewhat nervous. ‘Look forward to it!’ he had replied, with bravado.

  ‘So, this woman you came to see in January, in the Klinikum Schwabing? To make sure she was not your former wife, Sandy?’

  ‘Yes? How is she doing?’

  ‘Not good, Roy. Her condition is unstable. The prognosis is bad. But there is something you need to know.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I sent the hairbrush you mailed me to the DNA laboratory. I just got the results back this morning. The match is conclusive. This woman is Sandy.’ />
  64

  Friday 6 March

  Tooth watched a man, in his sixties, warmly wrapped up, who appeared at the same time every day, so regularly he could set his watch by him. He was walking along the street towards him now, reading a novel, holding it so high he had to tilt his head upwards to read it.

  Some days Tooth walked the round trip of several miles here and back to the hotel for exercise, and being on foot gave him a good opportunity to look carefully around. Also, and importantly, there were Neighbourhood Watch signs displayed in the windows of several of the houses. Someone vigilant would be likely to report seeing a car in the area, for several days running, with a lone occupant. He was less noticeable on foot.

  As he strolled around the vicinity of Jodie’s house, he noticed some of the other regulars, too. The sad-looking man who pushed his wife along in a wheelchair, their fat dog waddling along beside it. The mad-haired woman in a white SUV who drove to the end of her drive and then spent a good sixty seconds checking in both directions before pulling out into the deserted street. The school-run mums. The newsagent in his little Mazda stopping outside houses and running in, then out again. The postman, in his red van, at 9.30, doing his delivery round.

  The postman had only delivered three items to Jodie’s house all week. Tooth entered after it was dark to check them. All of them were circulars addressed ‘To the Occupier’.

  He kept an eye on the house each day from eight in the morning until it grew dark, around 6 p.m. The weather had been good to him all week until this morning, when it had rained hard. That was fine, it meant fewer people were out walking around. But now it was dry a gain and there were patches of blue sky. He wondered how she was enjoying her cruise on the Organza, paid for out of the counterfeit $200,000 she had stolen, perhaps?

  At 10 a.m., a grimy white van turned in through the gates of No. 191 Roedean Crescent and went down the steep drive.