A woman was screaming. Standing, holding on to the door of her purple Honda Jazz, shaking, screeching like a banshee.
Two men were climbing out of the Lamborghini, which had a dented bonnet and cracked windscreen. The front of the roof was buckled.
Pulling himself together, Grace’s professional training kicked in. He took out his phone, requested an ambulance and to be put through to the Ops-1 Inspector, informing him what had happened and requesting urgent police backup. Then, with the woman standing by the Honda still screeching, a piercing, terrible sound, he ran towards Belling.
And as he reached the body he had to swallow hard to avoid throwing up himself. He was looking down at a partially clad, legless torso. The head was split open, brain and blood leaking out. One leg, still covered by part of the grey suit trousers he had been wearing, was on the grass verge to his right; the other, bare, severed just above the knee, lay on the other side of the road, close to the cyclist.
A big, thuggish bloke of around thirty, in an anorak and baggy jeans, was walking towards the body, calmly filming with his phone.
In fury, Grace pulled out his warrant card. ‘Police! Put that away and step back!’
God, he felt sick. How long would it take for the first backup car to get here?
What a bloody mess.
The thug, as if in defiance, was now filming one of the severed legs.
Grace stepped up to him, grabbed the phone and said, ‘The taking of pictures is inappropriate.’
‘Hey! Hey!’ the man shouted. ‘You can’t take that!’
‘I just did. You’ll get it back when we’re finished at the scene with the photos wiped. You’re not Jake Gyllenhaal in Nightcrawler.’
Leaving the man open-mouthed, Grace turned away, pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket, slipped the phone in and sealed it. At least, he thought, grimly, this made leaving Guy Batchelor in charge of the crime scene less important. Their prime suspect was dead. The fact that he’d bolted said volumes. Innocent men didn’t run away from the police. But a bully like Corin Belling might well have done – because bullies were often cowards.
Looking all around him again at this strange – almost surreal – scene, he realized just how far out of his comfort zone – and depth – he was.
The driver, a young, ashen-faced guy, wearing expensive-looking casual clothes and sporting a large gold medallion and several flashy rings, came slowly towards him, as if sleepwalking, followed by a man in his thirties in a smart suit. ‘Police? Are you police?’ the first man said.
‘Yes.’
‘I – I – oh God – he just came out in front of me. I – didn’t have a chance.’
‘No,’ Grace corrected him. ‘I saw it. It wasn’t you who didn’t have a chance, it was him. OK? What’s your name?’
‘Stavros. Stavros Karrass.’
‘OK, Stavros Karrass, I’m arresting you on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Now stay here with me.’ He turned to the older man standing behind.
‘Who are you?’
‘I was the passenger – I’m Chris Bayross, the owner of Bayross Supercars.’
‘OK, go and stand by the car and wait there until I come back to you. Don’t get in the vehicle, and don’t touch anything on it, understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The driver, shaking badly, asked, ‘Can – can – can I call my girlfriend – she’s waiting – you know – in the dealership. She chose the car – she liked the colour, you see.’
‘No phone calls, you’ve been arrested.’
Phone her, Grace thought, bitterly. Tell her you like it, tell her it goes like a bat out of hell. Tell her it’s a real head-turner.
28
Thursday 21 April
A whole mix of thoughts was tumbling through Roy Grace’s spinning mind as Exton ran up to join him.
‘Shit, Roy,’ he said.
Grace pointed at the Lamborghini’s driver, standing beside him. ‘I’ve arrested this man – stay with him until backup arrives.’
He was thinking fast. He needed to protect the scene, that was the first and most important thing. He needed to get names and addresses of witnesses before they left. To his relief he heard the wail of the first siren, rapidly getting louder and closer. Then an engine started. A young woman in a grey and white Mini was about to drive away.
He sprinted over and stood in front of her car, his hands raised. She lowered her window, looking in complete shock. ‘I – I’ve got to go, I’m late for a doctor’s appointment.’
‘I need your name and address, please.’
‘I didn’t really see anything.’
‘Your name and address!’ he said, abruptly. She immediately turned off the engine, startled.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a liveried police BMW estate pull up. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded the woman, then ran over to the traffic car as the two Road Policing Unit officers climbed out.
He briefed them on what had happened and left them to secure the scene. One of the officers, PC David Puddle, whom he knew, told him he had blood running from his nose, and he wiped it away, gratefully. More sirens were now approaching. He ran back to the Mini and told the driver he was sorry, but she wasn’t going anywhere for some time yet.
Puddle and his colleague, PC Simon Rogan, were hauling ROAD CLOSED signs out of the BMW’s tailgate.
Twenty minutes later, with Belling’s body and each leg covered with a small tent, an ambulance and more police cars had arrived, one belonging to the on-call RPU inspector, James Biggs, who took over command as the SIO. Officers were busily taking names and addresses of all witnesses.
Finally, satisfied the scene was now under control, Roy Grace gave Biggs a quick summary of what had happened, including the fact that he had arrested the driver of the Lamborghini, and told him he would be in touch later to give him a detailed statement. Then, with Exton, who had been relieved by a traffic officer, he walked back towards South Downs IT Solutions. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do, hours of bureaucracy ahead to satisfy the Independent Police Complaints Commission, who would automatically investigate. He was already thinking about the questions he’d be asked. Did you need to give chase? Did you shout any warnings? Could you see you were chasing him in a dangerous location? Did you need to chase him at all?
But that was for the future.
For now he had declined the offer of a PIM – a Post-Incident Manager – and had made arrangements to give an initial account about the circumstances of the arrest, chase and fatal accident. On his return from Germany he would present himself to give his detailed account. All officers were required to do this in any situation where death or serious injury followed police contact – known as a DSI. But that was the least of his worries at this moment.
Shaken to the core, he was having to make an effort to keep his focus. Why had Belling run? He’d said something about an argument – but he would have to deal with all of this later. His big worry at this moment was Munich. He was booked on an evening flight. Bruno was all packed and ready to come to England. Cleo had decorated the spare room for his arrival. Coming to England to live. Coming to England to bury his mother.
And for him to bury his former wife.
His own emotions were all over the place right now. Somehow he was going to have to deal with all this and still go.
He had to go.
And meet a ten-year-old boy, for the first time, who was the son he had never known he had. He was more nervous about that than anything. Wondering how the little boy would be, what they would talk about. His son. A virtual stranger.
He called Puddle and Rogan to check they had everything they needed and left them to it.
He climbed into the car, planning to drive back to Police HQ where he had parked his Alfa earlier, with his packed sui
tcase in the boot, and then head up to the airport. But his hand was shaking so much he struggled to get the key into the ignition.
The general public assume police officers are immune to horror. But that wasn’t his experience. Several officers he knew who had attended the recent Shoreham air disaster, when a vintage Hawker Hunter plane had crashed killing eleven people on the ground, had suffered severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Officers often needed counselling after attending cot deaths, or horrific murders, or traffic collisions. Anything.
How could you prepare any human being for what they might feel looking at a battered torso lying on a road?
He remembered the words of the Head of the Ambulance Service at a recent fund-raising dinner he’d attended with Cleo, in aid of the Sussex Police Charitable Trust. ‘Wearing a uniform does not protect you from trauma.’
He’d be fine, he knew – somehow. He wouldn’t need counselling. But he sure as hell was going to need a very stiff drink later, on the plane – or before he boarded. He was going to stay tonight at the home of the Munich Landeskriminalamt detective, Marcel Kullen, and one of the many things he liked about the guy and his wife was the copious quantities of alcohol they enjoyed when Kullen was off duty. He was sure going to need dosing up tonight, to get over the shock of what he had just seen – and all that awaited him tomorrow. Meeting with Sandy’s lawyer, then meeting his son for the first time and flying back to England with him tomorrow evening for the start of his completely new, and alien, life – and his mother’s funeral next week.
As he headed up the A23 he took a few deep breaths to calm himself down, before dialling Cassian Pewe’s number on his hands-free. Retaliate first was one of his maxims. The ACC would have a field day over Belling’s death if he heard about it second-hand. To his slight relief the phone was answered by Pewe’s assistant, Allison Lawes. He gave her the details of what had happened and asked her to inform her boss that he would be out of the country for the following twenty-four hours.
Next he phoned Batchelor, who was still at Lorna Belling’s rented flat.
The Home Office pathologist, Dr Theobald, had arrived, Batchelor informed him, and was carrying out his initial, painstaking examination of the scene.
‘I’m not sure whether what I have to say is good or bad news for you on Operation Bantam, Guy,’ Grace said, and brought him up to speed.
‘God, Roy, I’m sorry. But to be honest, I don’t think anyone’s going to miss that vile creep.’
‘I’m with you on that one, Guy. But let’s hold off celebrating until we get the DNA and postmortem results.’
‘I’ll put the Champagne on ice, so it’s ready.’
‘I like your style!’
‘Thanks, boss – and hey – I’m sorry you had to witness it, but it sounds like karma to me.’
‘One thing Belling said to me was about an argument – can you find out what he meant by that?’
‘I just heard from an NPT officer – apparently the bastard threw all the little puppies Lorna was breeding out into the street when he came home yesterday evening. A neighbour managed to rescue them before any were run over – they’ve been taken along with their mum to an animal welfare centre called Raystede for the moment until we establish if they’re all spoken for or need to have new homes found for them – and the mother.’
‘Good to know there are still some decent people in the world, Guy.’
‘And it looks like one low-life has removed himself from the gene pool.’
‘It does indeed. But let’s wait for Frazer’s confirmation before cracking the bottle, OK?’
‘Yes, O Wise One!’
At least no smart-arsed lawyer was going to be getting Corin Belling off this one, Grace thought. He’d had that happen to him too often over the years. Equally, convictions had to be safe. If you locked up the wrong person on a murder charge, that meant the real killer was still at large – and might kill again.
Grace ended the call with a thin smile.
29
Thursday 21 April
The Akashic Records. He’d been thinking about them since last night, amid all the other stuff that was going on inside his head. The Akashic Records were meant to be like a 24/7 video recording of every thought you had, every emotion that you felt and deed that you did during your time on earth. When you died you had to sit in a room with a representative of Big Goddy and talk through every moment of your life – and explain.
He hadn’t been inside a church to pray since he was a child and had been dragged along to Assemblies by his Plymouth Brethren parents, who believed literally in every word of the Bible. The reward for their religious devotion was to be wiped out in their car by a tired French lorry driver who’d come off the Dieppe–Newhaven Channel ferry and had driven on the wrong side of the A26 a few miles north of the port, forgetting he was no longer in France.
His uncle and aunt, also members of the Brethren, had told him they were such good people that God had recalled them early. They were lucky.
Of course! How lucky was that? What could be luckier than for the front bumper of a fully-laden eighteen-wheeler, weighing thirty-six tons, to come crashing through your Ford Escort’s front windscreen and punch both your heads out through the rear window and fifty yards up the road?
He should have been in the car that day, en route to a prayer group. But God had given him mumps, so he was home in bed.
Mr Lucky.
Maybe he’d get lucky with those Akashic Records, too.
Awfully sorry, we had a technical glitch, your tapes got wiped. You’ve arrived here tabula rasa. We don’t know your whereabouts on the afternoon and evening of Wednesday, 20th April. Are you OK with that? Have we missed anything significant?
Just like his parents, he had to hope luck ran in the family. Cling to that thought.
He was clinging to it tightly.
The one thing that worried him – slightly – was how easy he had found it to lie. To now believe completely in his innocence.
He needed to talk to someone, to explain. Someone who would understand, tell him it was OK, that under the circumstances he had done the right thing. Done what anyone would have done.
Perhaps he should talk to a shrink. But were they bound by the Hippocratic oath these days or had that changed? It used to be that if you fessed-up to a shrink, they had to keep it a secret. But did that still apply, or were they now obliged to report it? He was pretty sure the latter.
Maybe a priest would be better? The secrets of the confessional?
30
Friday 22 April
Shite. Roy Grace’s head was pounding. For some moments he could not figure out where on earth he was. The hideously bright green digits of a clock radio, inches from his face, read 4.53 a.m. A child was crying. Noah?
It didn’t sound like Noah.
His mouth was parched and his head felt like someone had spent several hours poking red-hot wires through his skull.
Slowly it came back to him. He was in the guest room of Marcel Kullen’s house, somewhere in the Munich suburbs. Just how much had they drunk last night?
The child cried again.
The Kullens had three young children; the youngest was two years old. He had originally intended to stay in a hotel but Marcel would not hear of it, and in truth, arriving at the airport a total bag of nerves about what awaited him in the morning, and still having flashbacks to the horrendous accident earlier in the day, he had been grateful for his hospitality. He liked Kullen and his pretty wife, Liese, and their small house had a cosy, welcoming feel. But, boy, did they pour drinks down his throat. Weissbier, followed by a local white wine, then a stonkingly powerful Italian red. Then a clear schnapps, followed by another. Then possibly a third. He’d gulped everything down, grateful for the calming effect of the booze, and the feeling of confidence it gave him about the next day.
But now, as he rummaged through his overnight bag, desperately hoping he had some paracetamol in there, somewhere, he wonder
ed just what it was about the human brain which told you that if you had just one more digestif late at night, you’d feel a lot better in the morning than if you didn’t have it?
To his relief he found the small blue packet. Just two tablets left. He popped them out of the blister pack and downed them with an entire glass of water, then climbed back into bed and double-checked the time on his phone. And saw a text message from Cleo.
Miss you. Love you. Hope it’s all going OK. Sleep tight my darling. XXXX
Shit. It had been sent at 10.30. Was that UK or German time – and how come he hadn’t seen it? He wondered whether to reply but decided against, not wanting the ping to wake her. An hour ahead here, it was only coming up to 4 a.m. in England. He’d call her at 7 a.m., her time, hoping he’d catch her before she left for work.
Switching off the light, he lay back on the soft pillow, beneath the heavy duvet, and closed his eyes, hoping the pills would kick in quickly. Outside he heard the first tweets of the dawn chorus. A big day today. Massive. Meeting his son and taking him to England. To his new home, new life.
And it sounded like he had a major charm offensive ahead. Bruno was currently staying with his best friend, Erik Lippert. Yesterday evening, when he had landed in Munich, Grace had spoken on the phone to the friend’s mother, Anette, about today’s arrangements. She’d warned him that Bruno was, understandably, very distressed by his mother’s death, and not at all happy at the prospect of being taken away from his homeland.
Just how great was it going to be today to meet his son with a hangover, breath stinking of alcohol, and a developing bruise, thanks to Corin Belling, on one cheek?
He wished he’d thought to bring his jogging kit, so he could have gone for a run and got the booze out of his system and cleared his head. He lay tossing and turning, desperate for another hour or so of sleep, but just felt increasingly wide awake, watching the minutes tick away. Then the crying began again.