Love You Dead Page 23

  The man in the white shirt, with the faintest trace of a smile, said, ‘Very good.’

  Tooth squinted at him. Was the man CIA?

  ‘Wolverine,’ Tooth rambled. ‘One Thousand Mile Boots.’

  The man in the white shirt smiled again. ‘Very good!’

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Daniels?’ the one with the short hair, in scrubs, asked.

  He’d been trained to keep silent if ever captured. So, staring at the blue curtains all around him and the monitor showing his vital signs, he said nothing.

  He was in some kind of military hospital. American, he hoped.

  He closed his eyes and drifted off.

  The medical team remained around him for some moments, then stepped away and out through the curtains, safely out of earshot.

  ‘He’ll be confused for a while yet,’ the neurosurgeon said. ‘There are no abnormalities showing on his brain scan. There are a number of contusions consistent with this kind of accident, which will take a while to subside. I’ll come back and see him in a couple of days. If there’s any dramatic change in his condition either way please let me know immediately. The biggest danger is a cerebral haemorrhage from damaged blood vessels, and that’s something we cannot see from the current scans.’

  As they walked away across the ward, Tooth grappled with his mind. It felt like he was trying to grip a wriggling fish with a greasy hand.

  It slipped free.

  Everything went blank again.

  68

  Monday 9 March

  The wet weekend had only worsened Roy Grace’s sense of gloom and confusion. On Saturday, he’d tried hard to put his troubled thoughts away and focus on spending time with Noah who was now, at eight months, able to crawl at some speed. He’d also busied himself stripping the wallpaper off the spare room in their cottage, and exploring a new area of the surrounding countryside with Humphrey – and trying to train him – unsuccessfully so far – to ignore sheep in the neighbouring field. They’d also had a site meeting with a man from Sussex Oak Framers, who was going to quote for an extension they wanted to add to enlarge the kitchen – provided they could get planning permission.

  Planning permission was a dirty expression in the village at the moment, due to proposals, which everyone in the area thought were absurd, for an entire new town to be built nearby. It was being actively fought by a protest group, LAMBS, who had invited him to be their spokesperson. He’d had to decline, reluctantly, because of his position as a police officer, but he privately supported their aims.

  On Saturday night, leaving Noah in the care of Kaitlynn, Cleo and he had packed an overnight bag and gone to dinner at the Cat Inn at West Hoathly. Both of them had ended up drinking far too much, in an effort to relax, and had returned yesterday morning, with bad hangovers, to Noah screaming. He felt guilty that for much of yesterday Noah had been propped in front of the TV for his entertainment, whilst they had recovered.

  All he could really think about was Sandy. Lying right now in the Munich hospital. With her life slipping away?

  He had to see her again one more time before she was gone for good, either into a grave or a crematorium incinerator.

  Had to have closure for both himself and Cleo.

  Cleo had asked him, repeatedly, over the weekend what was wrong, and each time he’d fobbed her off by telling her he was fretting about Crisp.

  But the reality was he’d barely thought about the serial killer. And he’d hardly slept a wink over the weekend.

  Sandy.

  He’d simply not been able to pluck up the courage to talk to Cleo, unrealistically hoping it would all go away.

  But it wouldn’t. It would never go away. Not until they had closure. There was only one way to do that.

  He had to go to Munich and see her again.

  That scared the hell out of him. He remembered the saying, ‘And the truth shall set you free.’

  But would it?

  What if it was quite the reverse?

  He had a bad feeling, a really bad feeling.

  As he stood in the shower after his early-morning run, feeling as if he’d had no weekend at all, he knew what he had to do.

  But he really wasn’t sure how to do it.

  69

  Monday 9 March

  An hour later, in his office, Roy Grace began the week as he always did, by glancing through the serials of the past few days. He saw several dwelling burglaries, two Range Rover thefts and a missing vulnerable teenager who had last been seen heading towards Dukes Mound, a popular gay cruising area. A nasty bicycle accident on Friday, close to the pier, where an American visitor and two cyclists had been hospitalized, and a reported robbery at 5 a.m. on Sunday morning by two youths and a woman who had taken a mobile phone and wallet from a man in the city centre.

  Soon after making a start on the papers relating to Crisp, his phone pinged with a text from his sister asking when she could next come over to see her ‘favourite and only’ nephew – and spend some time with them all.

  He texted back with a photograph of a giggling Noah with a thumb raised in the air, looking like he was in agreement, and gave her some dates that worked for him and Cleo.

  At 10 a.m. he had a meeting in his office with financial investigators DS Peter Billin and Kelly Nicholls, who had been piecing together the complex paperwork relating to ownership of the house next door to Crisp’s home, where several of his murders appeared to have been carried out, and which clearly linked Crisp to the property.

  Then an unexpected call came from an Interpol detective in London, Tom Haynes, shortly after 11 a.m.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘formal arrangements have been made for two of your officers to travel to Lyon to liaise with French police over Edward Crisp.’

  As soon as he had finished speaking to the man, he informed ACC Cassian Pewe; then he called Glenn Branson and asked him to come to his office. Whilst waiting, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and lapsed back into his troubled thoughts.

  ‘Can’t take the pace at your age?’

  Grace looked up with a start to see the tall detective towering over him. ‘Ever heard of that basic courtesy, knocking?’

  ‘Yeah – didn’t want to wake you. Old people can die from sudden shocks.’

  Grace gave him a smile. ‘Haha.’ Then he looked him up and down. ‘Have you got a part-time job as a lighthouse?’

  ‘What?’

  Branson was attired at this moment in a slim-fit, shiny, chocolate-coloured suit and a yellow tie that looked luminous. Grace pointed at it. ‘Could be useful at night in a power cut.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted to see me – to be rude about my rig?’ Branson sat down on the chair in front of the desk, swinging it round, as was his custom, and sitting astride it, folding his arms over the back and staring quizzically at his boss.

  ‘Looks like your jolly to Lyon is happening,’ Grace told him.

  ‘That means I have to eat one of those stinky Andouillette sausage things? And frog’s legs and snails?’

  ‘If the French police offer you their hospitality and take you to a Lyon restaurant, it would be rude to refuse. Don’t want you messing up our entente & cordiale!’

  Branson wrinkled his face. ‘Yech.’

  ‘Don’t screw up this one, mate!’

  Glenn Branson stared back at him. ‘I’m not planning to screw up, yeah?’

  ‘Crisp is a twister. Don’t let him start sweet-talking you.’

  ‘I’m not planning to have sex with him.’

  Grace grinned. ‘You’re not his type, so I wouldn’t worry. And just to ensure you’re not there for any romance, I’m sending Norman Potting with you.’

  ‘Norman? He’s my date for this trip?’

  ‘I want two of you there. Norman’s still hurting badly from Bella’s death. I think it would do him good to have a break for twenty-four hours. Not that I’d wish your company on my worst enemy.’

  ‘You’re a bundle of laughs this morning. Rememb
er that night we watched The Last Detail at your place, when Ari had thrown me out?’

  Grace frowned. ‘Rings a bell.’

  ‘Jack Nicholson and Otis Young had to escort a young sailor – Randy Quaid – to jail. Yeah?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Yes, I seem to remember you said it was one of your favourite films. So what’s your point?’

  ‘It was about bringing a prisoner back.’

  ‘Nicholson and Young took Quaid to a brothel, didn’t they?’

  ‘See! Your memory’s still good. Not bad at all for an old man.’

  ‘Sod off ! And don’t come back telling me you took Crisp to a brothel because you felt sorry for him.’

  Branson raised his hands in the air. ‘Joking!’

  ‘I don’t find anything funny about a man who killed five, and probably a lot more, women. Just so you know.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘OK, speak to Tony Case and get him to sort out the travel arrangements. I’m told you can take a Eurostar train to Lille and then a train from there to Lyon.’

  His phone rang again. It was Marcel Kullen. It was the second of the calls he had been awaiting this morning.

  Asking him to hang on for a moment, then covering the receiver with his hand, he said to Branson, ‘OK? Alles ist klar?’

  The DI got the message and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Kullen said. ‘But I thought you must know that Sandy’s condition is improved a very little. Perhaps you would like to come over and talk to her?’

  Grace thought for some moments. ‘Yes, yes, I would like to. I – the next few days are difficult as I have to deal with something – but I’ll see how quickly I can do it.’

  ‘Jah. You let me know. She’s not in such a hurry to make her last journey.’

  Grace smiled at the German’s gallows humour. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I know.’

  ‘Good.’ Kullen paused for a moment and the silence was palpable. Roy Grace could sense his hesitation. Then he added, ‘Roy, I just want to say, I think you are making a good decision to come. It is the honourable thing to do.’

  ‘I hope so, Marcel.’

  He hung up, and called Glenn Branson again. ‘Glenn, I need to ask your advice on something – could you come back in?’

  As Glenn sat back down opposite him, Grace told him the news from Germany. ‘What the hell do you think I should do?’

  ‘Shit, mate! Oh, shit!’ He was silent for a few seconds. ‘Bloody hell. God. What does Cleo think?’

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘What?’ Branson was silent again, thinking. ‘You’ve always known in your heart, haven’t you? That she’s still alive?’

  ‘Have I?’

  The detective inspector stood up, walked around the desk and gave him a hug. As Grace breathed in his pungent aftershave, Glenn said, ‘Yes. You know you have. You’ve got to tell Cleo.’

  ‘What the hell do I tell her?’

  Branson went back round, sat down in front of him and leaned forward so they were eyeball to eyeball. ‘How about the truth?’

  Grace stared back at him. ‘I’m scared of losing everything.’

  ‘Cleo’s a smart lady. I’m sure she also believes in her heart that Sandy is still alive, out there somewhere. Look, you can see how much she loves you, everyone can. But I can also see fear in her eyes sometimes. The fear that it might not last. The fear of what would happen if Sandy suddenly walked back into your life.’

  ‘I’ve told her many times that it wouldn’t make any difference. That I love her more than I now realize I ever loved Sandy.’

  ‘And she believes you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘OK, so now’s your chance to show her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Glenn Branson raised his hands in the air. ‘Look, shit, what do I really know? I loused up big time with my marriage. I’m not really a good person to give advice. But I’m going to give you some anyway.’

  Grace smiled at him. ‘OK?’

  ‘You go home today and you tell Cleo. You need to tell her immediately. And, mate, you offer to take her with you to Germany, to meet Sandy.’

  An email pinged on Grace’s screen, but he ignored it. ‘Are you off your rocker? Take Cleo to meet Sandy?’

  ‘It’s like so many things, mate. What you have in your imagination is worse than the reality, nothing we see can ever be as scary as what we imagine. Like that scene in Psycho with Janet Leigh being slashed to death behind the shower curtain. Hitchcock was clever. You don’t actually see very much at all. You see the dagger striking again and again. You see blood. But you don’t see her naked body being slashed to ribbons – that’s all in your mind.’

  Grace looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Ever since Cleo and you became an item, from her point of view there were three of you – you, her and the ghost of Sandy. She’s probably lain in bed with you every night since you fell in love imagining what would happen if Sandy returned. Show her the truth. Take her to meet the monster.’

  ‘What if it backfires on me?’

  ‘There’s only one way it could backfire on you. And that’s if you stood over Sandy’s hospital bed and realized you were with the wrong person. Is that going to happen?’

  ‘No,’ Grace said, emphatically. ‘Not in a million years.’

  ‘So you have a golden opportunity. If you truly love Cleo, as I know you do, this is the only chance you might ever have. Slay your demon.’

  ‘What if Cleo—?’

  ‘Trust me. She won’t. She won’t say no.’

  As Branson departed again, closing Grace’s office door, leaving him in turmoil, his phone rang.

  ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

  It was the Coroner’s Officer, Michelle Websdale.

  ‘Ah, Detective Superintendent?’

  ‘Yes, hi, Michelle. I was told you’d be calling.’

  ‘Well – ah – yes, sir – but actually I’m not calling about Shelby Stonor, it’s another matter. It’s regarding an elderly Brighton resident, a Mr Rowley Burnett Carmichael, who has died after being taken ill on a cruise ship. The circumstances of his death are regarded as suspicious.’

  ‘Oh? Do you have the cause of death?’

  ‘Well, yes, this is why I thought you might be interested. He became ill, apparently, after a shore visit to a nature reserve near Mumbai in India. The doctor on board suspected initially he’d either caught a bug that had been going round the ship or possibly had food poisoning, but then became very concerned when Carmichael developed further symptoms, and wondered if they could be related to what in his opinion looked like a puncture mark on his leg from a bite – although there was none of the localized swelling that would normally have been present. As soon as they docked in Goa, he was transferred to a local hospital but he died en route. The subsequent post-mortem examination indicated that he died from a venomous snake bite, the symptoms of which are consistent with that of a saw-scaled viper, but they are awaiting confirmation from toxicology tests.’

  ‘A saw-scaled viper?’ Grace said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The same venom that we believe killed Shelby Stonor?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Grace considered this carefully. Today was Monday 9 March. Shelby Stonor had died a week ago from the venom of a saw-scaled viper. ‘That’s a bit of a coincidence. Two Brighton residents dying from the same thing in one week – and – about what – four thousand miles apart – don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re the detective, sir,’ Michelle Websdale said, breezily. ‘What do you think?’

  Remembering Potting’s nugget of information, he said, ‘I understand that saw-scaled vipers kill thousands of people a year in India alone.’

  ‘And how many in Sussex?’

  ‘Rather fewer, I would imagine,’ Grace replied, drily.

  ‘I’ve checked deaths in Sussex by poisonous bites as far back as r
ecords go,’ the Coroner’s Officer said. ‘There have been none. Now two Sussex residents in one week. Let’s hope it is, as you say, just coincidence. Do you have any possible reason to believe it’s not coincidence?’

  Grace hesitated, thinking hard, wary of falling into the trap he so often warned about, of making assumptions. But he didn’t like what he had just heard. ‘I think we need to know more about the circumstances. Do we need a second post-mortem here, Michelle?’

  ‘Our laws require a repatriated body to be embalmed first.’

  Grace cursed under his breath. Although being embalmed didn’t make a second post-mortem impossible, it would be less likely they would find anything of evidential value.

  ‘Did the pathologist in Goa give an exact cause of death?’

  ‘Yes, he confirmed cause of death as being a snake bite, almost certainly from an Echis carinatus – that’s the Latin name, sir, for the saw-scaled viper.’

  ‘Thanks for the biology lesson! What information do you have on the victim?’

  ‘Well, only scant information so far, supplied by the ship’s Purser. Rowley Carmichael’s a retired art dealer. I googled him and looked him up on Wikipedia. He was a very prominent figure in the art world. The tragedy is that he got married on board a week ago – last Monday – to a very beautiful and apparently much younger lady. She’s understandably distraught.’

  ‘So they were on their honeymoon?’

  ‘It seems so. She’s also a Brighton resident.’

  ‘Has she been interviewed?’

  ‘She accompanied her husband ashore, and gave a statement to the police in Goa. I’m having a scan of it sent to me – I’ll email it to you as soon as I receive it.’

  ‘When will Carmichael’s body be repatriated to England?’

  ‘I’m liaising with the Goan police on this now, Detective Superintendent. Within the next few days. I believe his widow intends to accompany it home.’

  ‘What information do you have on her?’ he asked.

  ‘So far only what she put on the form: her name, Jodie Carmichael, née Danforth, and an address in Brighton, in Alexandra Villas.’