Need You Dead

  ‘Huh!’ interjected David Watkinson. ‘You should see my wife’s hairdressing bill. The bloke she goes to could afford to rent Buckingham Palace!’

  ‘Not as much as our young DC here spends on his barnet!’ Norman Potting said, ruffling Jack Alexander’s hair, much to his irritation.

  ‘Well,’ Dull said. ‘That’s not exactly my point. If she rented a bolthole to escape from her husband, she’d have done a runner there a long time ago. I think we might be making a dangerous assumption here.’

  ‘OK, Donald, so what do you think?’ Batchelor said.

  ‘Maybe it’s not a bolthole but a secret love nest, boss. A year and a half on, something’s gone wrong. They had a lovers’ tiff that turned violent?’

  Batchelor nodded. ‘It’s a possibility, but don’t dismiss the DNA evidence from the beer cans and cigarette butts. We need to find out if any neighbours heard arguing or a fight. I will make it one of our lines of enquiry.’

  The Crime Scene Manager, Georgie English, raised her arm. ‘Sir, I’ve a number of concerns about what we haven’t been able to find. The first is any laptop belonging to Lorna. We found a Mac charger plugged into a wall in the kitchen of the home she shared with her husband. We know he was a PC user – from the laptop that was recovered from his office. Also, we found her mobile phone on the kitchen table in the house. Isn’t it a bit strange for anyone to leave home without their phone these days? Unless of course they’ve forgotten it?’

  ‘Good thinking, Georgie,’ Batchelor said. ‘That would explain why there was no mobile phone at the flat.’

  ‘But not the computer, right?’ Arnie Crown said.

  ‘If we work on the hypothesis that the husband murdered her,’ Batchelor said, ‘perhaps he took the computer because he was worried it might contain something incriminating him. Maybe she had been keeping a log of his abuse? Does he have anywhere he might have hidden it? The other possibility is he dumped it somewhere. The phone has been sent to Digital Forensics – let’s see what their analysis and interrogation of it brings.’

  She nodded, satisfied, and then continued to give the team an overview of the forensic search of the flat to date. ‘There is some evidence to suggest many of the surfaces have been wiped clean, possibly with a disinfectant; there are a number of marks that we have developed for fingerprint assessment; we have taken multiple swabs and we have seized a number of items that will be subject to further forensic examination. I hope we will have finished our work there in the next twenty-four hours.’

  Batchelor jotted a reminder in his Investigator’s Notebook to update his Policy File after the briefing, then continued. ‘If we recap, we have a known abusive relationship; we have fingerprint and DNA evidence putting Lorna’s husband, Corin, at her flat; we have the fact that he did a runner when approached by Detective Superintendent Grace; we have the fact that he assaulted Roy when apprehended, and ran on. If we get a positive result back from the lab on the DNA from the semen in Lorna’s vagina, confirming it’s her husband – then things wouldn’t be looking too good for him.’

  ‘I’d say they’re not looking too good for him right now,’ Arnie Crown said. ‘He’s in a mortuary fridge minus his legs, with his head cracked open like a coconut.’

  ‘Yep,’ Jack Alexander said. ‘If you think you’re having a bad day, you know what? His is probably worse.’

  38

  Friday 22 April

  Roy Grace, accompanying Bruno, limped across the short-term airport car park. It was just gone 8 p.m. His right leg was in agony after his cramped seat on the flight. Despite his coaxing, the boy had eaten nothing during the journey, although he had at least drunk a small Coke on the plane. Bruno had his rucksack on his back and Grace carried his son’s two suitcases as well as his own overnight bag. They had with them all his worldly belongings, except for his drum kit, which had been sent on by road and should arrive early next week.

  So far nearly all his efforts to engage Bruno in conversation had failed. He seemed very distressed and had spent almost the entire journey concentrating on a game on his phone. Grace had asked him about school, about what sports other than football he liked, what were his favourite foods, what he liked to watch on television, what computer games he liked to play. To every question the only responses had been short and distracted.

  As they approached his black Alfa, and he pressed the key fob, unlocking it and making its tail lights flash, he saw a sudden flicker of interest in Bruno’s face.

  ‘Do you like cars?’ Grace asked, hoping the idea of a ride to his new home in a sports car might cheer the boy up.

  ‘My mother had a Porsche Cayman Carrera. Its top speed was two hundred and ninety-two kilometres per hour. How fast does this go?’

  ‘Fast, but not that fast.’

  ‘How fast?’

  ‘I’m not sure of its top speed. We’re restricted in England to seventy miles per hour – that’s about one hundred and twelve kilometres.’

  ‘In Germany we have no speed limits on the autobahns.’

  ‘Yup, I know.’ Roy Grace opened the boot and hefted the cases in. ‘Fun, eh?’

  ‘Ja.’

  Bruno walked round to the driver’s door and opened it.

  ‘You going to drive?’ Grace asked him.

  ‘Your wheel’s on the wrong side,’ Bruno said.

  ‘That’s the side we drive on here.’

  ‘Why do you drive on the wrong side?’

  ‘Well, about a quarter of the world drives on this side – on the left.’

  ‘Why do they do that? What happens if they meet on a bridge between two countries? One driving on the right and one on the left? There could be a big accident!’

  ‘I don’t think there are any places where they drive on opposite sides where they could just go over a bridge, Bruno.’

  ‘But it’s so stupid. Why doesn’t everyone drive on the same side as we do?’

  ‘It goes back a long time in history – to the days before cars when there were just horses. Most people are right-handed, so people rode on the left and had their swords on the right so that they could draw them and fight off any highway robbers.’

  ‘Are we going to be attacked by highway robbers now?’

  ‘Hopefully not!’ Grace grinned. ‘If we are, I’ll rely on you to protect us. OK?’

  ‘Ja, sure!’ Bruno grinned back.

  He opened the passenger door for his son. Bruno climbed in. Grace reached across to help him with the seat belt and Bruno brushed away his hand, dismissively. ‘I know how to put on a seat belt. So why does not everyone drive on the left in every country?’

  ‘I think it has something to do with the Americans – from the days of the stage coach drivers.’

  ‘So they didn’t have highway robbers in America?’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe not.’

  Bruno pulled out his iPhone and began tapping the keypad. Grace saw he was on Snapchat. He made a note in his mind to get him a British phone, or at least a UK SIM card.

  ‘When will my drums arrive?’ Bruno asked, suddenly.

  ‘They’re on their way – they’ll be with us in a few days,’ Grace said. ‘I’m sure we can make space for them in your new room.’

  Anette Lippert had previously told Roy about Bruno’s passion for drums, and he and Cleo had been worried about what they were going to do to accommodate a full acoustic drum kit – and the effect the noise might have on them, let alone little Noah. But then Anette had reassured him that soft pads and earphones made the noise minimal.

  He remembered she had also mentioned the memory box that Bruno had started making with mementoes of his mother.

  ‘You have your memory box with you, Bruno?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Do you have a favourite photograph you’d like us to get framed to have in your room?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  They drove out through the ticket barrier in silence. Grace thought about the phone update Guy Batchelor had giv
en him as soon as they had landed. Everything seemed to be stacking up nicely against Corin Belling. The case could be closed by early next week. Apart from the hours of questioning that lay ahead for him about Belling’s death. But he was confident he could answer, satisfactorily, any of the criticism he knew would be levelled at him. Especially if the DNA on the semen came back positive.

  He turned his focus back to his newly found son, who was now on Instagram on his phone. ‘Have you ever lived in the countryside, Bruno?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘We have a dog called Humphrey, he’s a little bit mad. Do you like dogs?’

  ‘Erik had a dog, a schnauzer. It was called Adini.’

  ‘Schnauzers are lovely. They’re one of Cleo’s favourite dogs.’

  ‘He doesn’t have it any more,’ he said, flatly.

  Grace glanced at him. ‘I’m sorry. How old was it?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘Two? What happened?’

  ‘It disappeared.’

  ‘Ran off?’

  ‘It disappeared.’

  ‘That’s sad. Was he very upset?’

  ‘Very. The Lipperts looked for her everywhere. They posted on Twitter and Facebook.’

  ‘But never found her again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  He shrugged. ‘A few weeks.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll turn up.’

  ‘No, I don’t think she will turn up.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘She bit me.’

  ‘The schnauzer bit you?’

  ‘On my hand. I don’t think she was such a nice dog.’

  ‘You’ll like Humphrey, he’s crazy and loves everyone. We also have twelve chickens.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We like to have our own eggs.’

  ‘Can’t you buy eggs in England?’

  Grace grinned. ‘Yes, in lots of places. But we like to eat our own eggs, we know what the hens have been fed on, and that there aren’t any chemicals in the eggs.’

  Bruno fell silent for several minutes. Then, suddenly, he asked, ‘Why did my mother do it? Why did she die? Why did she?’

  Grace thought carefully, as he drove, before answering. ‘I don’t know, Bruno, that’s the honest truth. There is so much I don’t know about your mother and your life with her. But I did love her very much and I do know that she loved you very deeply.’

  ‘Do you think she was ashamed of me?’

  ‘Hey!’ He put a hand on his son’s shoulder, but felt him stiffen beneath the touch. He put it back on the steering wheel. ‘Don’t ever think that.’

  ‘What should I think?’

  The rush-hour traffic had thinned out, and the motorway was quiet. They’d be home in around an hour. He’d known, all along, before flying to Germany, from everything that Anette Lippert had told him, that it was not going to be easy for this boy to adapt to an entirely new life. But he felt that they had started to bond.

  How did he reply? What had Sandy told him about her past? What did Bruno, who was clearly highly perceptive, know about his mother? Had she ever told him the truth about why she had disappeared when she knew she was pregnant? Become for a short while a Scientologist? Then joined another sect and bigamously married its wealthy leader? Divorced him before he later died in a car accident? Then became a heroin addict? Got cleaned up and went into therapy? Hit by a taxi crossing a Munich street, leaving her crippled and permanently disfigured?

  What a disastrous waste of a life Sandy had led since leaving him. Just what did Bruno know, what would he be prepared to talk about – and how much had her erratic existence affected him? Maybe he would know all of it in the fullness of time, but not now. Glancing at him, he said, ‘Right now, Bruno, I don’t have answers. What I can promise you is that my wife, Cleo, and I will love and take care of you, and do everything we can for you. Cleo is not a replacement for your mother and never can be, but we will love you every bit as much as we love Noah. Noah’s too young at the moment to understand what has happened, but I’m sure you will be an amazing big brother and role model to him as he grows older.’

  Bruno did not respond.

  ‘Oh, and Cleo loves fast cars – she has an Audi TT.’

  ‘Will I have any friends?’

  ‘The son of a friend of mine – his name is Stan Tingley – is looking forward to meeting you. He’s a really nice boy. And when you go to school there’ll be loads of other kids your age. I’m sure you’ll be making a lot of friends, very quickly.’

  ‘Can Erik come and stay?’

  ‘We can invite Erik over to stay once you are settled in. Absolutely.’

  ‘What football team does Stan – support?’

  ‘Crystal Palace.’

  ‘I think Crystal Palace do not like the Brighton Albion team, the Seagulls.’

  ‘You know your football teams!’

  ‘Kayla the Eagle is the Crystal Palace symbol. The eagle is on my country’s flag. It is our national emblem of Germany.’

  ‘OK, so, what does that mean to you?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing. It is not my country any more.’

  Grace took that as a positive.

  39

  Saturday 23 April

  Guy Batchelor had an early-morning coffee and cigarette outside, then went in, out of the chilly wind, to his temporary SIO office on the ground floor, and sat down with his back to the window thinking hard about the day ahead on Operation Bantam. He read through the notes he had taken during yesterday evening’s briefing, and also what he had written in his Policy Book, so he could bring Roy Grace, who was due in shortly, up to speed. His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

  No caller ID showed on the display.

  ‘Guy Batchelor,’ he answered.

  It was Julian Raven from Digital Forensics. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Regarding Operation Bantam, we’ve come up with some information on the deceased Lorna Belling’s iPhone we were asked to look at. It was passcode protected, but we’ve managed to get into it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, how?’ He was mindful of recent press publicity where the FBI in the US had failed with court orders to get Apple to unlock seized phones.

  ‘It had fingerprint security activated. We have Surrey and Sussex Forensics to thank. They took it to the mortuary – they’ve developed some fancy new technology to use the finger of a deceased to work on the button.’

  ‘Brilliant!’

  ‘Yep, pretty impressive. So, in the week before Lorna died there were forty-seven calls from one number. And fifteen messages, many of them abusive.’

  ‘Really – what do the messages say?’ Batchelor said, his hopes rising again.

  ‘They appear to relate to an MX5 sports car advertised for sale on eBay by Lorna Belling. The bidder had offered £2,800 which she accepted. He made payment via PayPal, but she then appears to have denied receiving the money. He had been accusing her in his messages of stealing his money.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s been threatening her with dire consequences if she doesn’t either give him the car or his money back. He’s particularly angry because he wanted this car for a surprise for his wife’s birthday – he’s explained that in his messages. We’ve done a triangulation survey and cell-site analysis with his mobile phone service provider, O2, which puts him in the vicinity of the deceased’s flat, Vallance Mansions, on several separate occasions. The most recent was last night.’

  Batchelor felt a buzz of excitement. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘His name is Seymour Darling. He’s logged as having made a complaint to Sussex Police on Saturday, 16th April, about a fraud. The complaint is being investigated by DC Hilary Bennison from the Economic Crime Unit. I’ve spoken to her and it seems Darling might be the victim of an online scam that’s currently pretty widespread.’

  ‘What kind of scam, Julian?’

  ‘It’s one of a number, where people get sent an email with payment instructions.
It looks like the sender’s address but there is a subtle change. The moment the money’s paid over, it’s gone.’

  Batchelor thought hard. ‘Seymour Darling? Why’s that name ringing a bell?’

  ‘He’s got three previous convictions, the first in 1997 for shoplifting, for which he got a fine and community service order. The next was 2003 for demanding money with menace – for which he got two years suspended. The third was in 2005 for GBH, when he permanently blinded a woman in one eye in an assault in a pub – for which he got four years. I have his address; 29 Hangleton Rise.’

  ‘Well, he sounds quite the charmer. Let me have his number and any details you’ve got – and I’ll also get a full background check on him.’

  As he ended the call, Roy Grace came into his office. Seeing the big grin on the Acting SIO’s face, the Detective Superintendent said, ‘What’s up?’

  Batchelor told him.

  Grace pulled up a chair at the empty desk opposite him and sat down, absorbing the information. ‘Interesting form,’ he said.

  ‘Very.’

  Grace entered Seymour Darling’s name on the computer and studied the man’s criminal record for some moments. ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘Darling seems to be a man who likes getting into disputes. BHIMS have been involved with him twice – once sorting out a boundary dispute with a neighbour, and another time some issue with a dog.’

  ‘BHIMS?’ Batchelor queried.

  ‘It stands for Brighton and Hove Independent Mediation Service.’ Then switching subjects, he asked, ‘When are we expecting the semen DNA results from the lab, Guy?’

  ‘They only went off yesterday afternoon, so probably sometime tomorrow, with luck, boss.’

  Grace nodded, thinking. Rape was often an escalation from minor crimes. And it was often more about anger and power over a woman than sexual gratification. A classic scenario for a rapist was a burglar foiled by the owner of a property he had entered, deciding that next time if it was a female he would incapacitate and rape her, almost to show her who was boss. Darling’s criminal history showed just such a scale of progressive escalation.