Need You Dead

  He was seated on a stool, in a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and white socks, wearing headphones, pounding away for all he was worth with the wooden sticks, and working the foot pedals for the bass drum and hi-hat cymbals. He was lost to the world, with a distant smile on his face as he nodded his head, vigorously and in deep concentration. A red and white football lay on the floor near him.

  Looking around the room, Cleo saw a ring-bound notebook lying open on his bed. On it were multi-coloured squares. Red, orange, blue, green, yellow. It was headed Week ‘A’, and just below, Week ‘B’. Divided into periods, blocked days down the left were marked 1–5. She read across some of the classes: Spanish; Science; Maths; Music.

  His school timetable. She was pleased and impressed he had already filled it in. Clearly he was meticulous with detail. Something he had inherited from his father, she wondered? Roy had that same methodical mind – something she realized that came with the territory of being a good detective.

  He didn’t notice her.

  She walked across to him, and tapped him gently.

  He lifted off his headphones.

  ‘Bruno, you forgot to put the soft pads on! It makes quite a noise downstairs – and you’d wake your brother if he was sleeping.’

  Bruno apologized and said he had forgotten and would put them on immediately.

  She slipped back out and closed the door, gently – not that he would probably have heard if she had slammed it. She went back downstairs and squatted on the floor with Noah, who now seemed oblivious to the din. Humphrey was looking up at the ceiling and growling.

  She stroked the dog’s head. ‘It’s OK, boy!’

  Humphrey growled again.

  As she played with Noah she was thinking about a book she had read, in translation, as part of her A-level literature studies at school, The Tin Drum, by the German writer Günter Grass. From what she could remember, the main character was an autistic boy called Oskar, who could only remember his childhood by getting himself into some kind of a trance by pounding on a toy tin drum.

  But Bruno didn’t seem like that at all. Maybe right now, up in his room, he was dreaming he was playing in a rock band. Of a future as a rock band drummer? She looked up at the ceiling. He was drumming again without the pads on, obviously ignoring her. Even though he was two floors above her, the sound was reverberating through the house. She was going to have to take this up with Roy.

  Noah put a plastic sheep into his mouth. As she pulled it out, he began to cry, then scream, reaching for it back. His screams almost drowned out the sound of the drums. Almost.

  Scooping up Noah in her arms, he screamed even louder, scrabbling his hands through the air, reaching out for the sheep again.

  Sitting there on the floor, with the stereo din of her son crying and her stepson above her making an increasingly demented sound with the drums, she found herself, very unmaternally, wishing she was back at work right now. She was missing what now seemed the blissful silence of the mortuary.

  82

  Thursday 28 April

  At a few minutes past 5 p.m. there was a faint knock on Roy Grace’s door.

  ‘Come in!’ he called out.

  Jon Exton entered. The black bags under his eyes seemed to have deepened further, and his stooped posture made him look as if he had shrunk. He smiled nervously. ‘Hi, boss.’

  Grace gestured him to sit down and stared hard across the table at him. ‘Jon, I need to know just what is going on with you. Is there something you want to say to me?’

  Exton’s hands were shaking as he spoke. ‘As I told you earlier, boss, just going through a bit of a bad patch with my beloved.’

  ‘With Dawn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Grace nodded. ‘I’m not here to judge you, but I need you to tell me the absolute truth.’ Watching his eyes intently, he went on. ‘I’ve been asked to speak to you by Professional Standards – or rather, let me put it another way, I persuaded them to give me the chance to speak to you before they do, OK? So I don’t want any bullshit from you.’

  ‘Professional Standards? What – what about, boss?’

  Looking at him even more intently, Grace asked, ‘Jon, have you been using the services of prostitutes?’

  The DS’s astonishment was real, Grace could see it in his eyes.

  ‘What? Prostitutes? Me?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘You heard what I just asked you. Have you been using your phone to look for sex?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I – I mean – sex has been the last thing on my mind these past weeks, Roy – boss – honestly. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Because it’s not what I’ve been told.’

  ‘Been told? Been told what? By who?’

  Grace pushed the printout that Superintendent Darke had given him across the table. ‘These are the records of all calls on your job phone over the past week. Have a look – take your time, have a very careful look through.’

  Exton looked over the page. Several phone numbers were ringed in blue ink. Then he looked back up at the Detective Superintendent and shook his head from side to side. ‘I don’t recognize any of these numbers.’

  ‘Jon,’ Grace said calmly. ‘These are the phone company records. All these numbers were dialled from your phone. Could anyone else have had access to it?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been Dawn?’

  Exton ran his eyes back over the page. ‘No, these were all made after Dawn and I split up – we haven’t seen each other since then.’ His voice was cracking and he took some moments to compose himself. ‘I haven’t called any sex workers, Roy. I nearly called the Samaritans, but I tell you – I just told you – sex is just not – not – on my mind. I just want to be back with Dawn.’

  Grace continued staring hard at him. ‘I need you to be absolutely truthful with me, Jon. Did you ever meet Lorna Belling?’

  ‘The deceased?’

  ‘Yes, the deceased.’

  ‘Meet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You didn’t contact her on a sex worker phone line?’

  Exton looked genuinely bewildered. ‘Boss, I’ve never called a sex worker in my life. I – I really haven’t.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, actually, hang on, there was one night when I was a bit drunk – I did make a few calls, but not on my job phone. Not long after Dawn threw me out.’

  ‘OK. Can you explain why you’ve been in the vicinity of the deceased’s flat in Vallance Mansions every night for the past six weeks, Jon? And in particular and most crucially, on the night she was murdered?’

  Exton blanched, looking cornered. ‘I – I –’

  ‘Yes?’

  Exton sat still, with a look of defeat on his face.

  ‘ANPR cameras recorded your BMW in the vicinity of Vallance Mansions on thirty-seven consecutive nights, Jon. The last occasion was the night she died – can you explain that?’

  Suddenly, from chalky white, Jon Exton’s complexion went to beetroot red. ‘I can explain, boss, yes.’ He fell silent.

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  After some moments the DS, deeply embarrassed and avoiding eye contact, said, ‘Dawn threw me out – she said I wasn’t committed enough – that I was more in love with my job than with her. I – I tried to explain that’s what being a Major Crime detective means, but—’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Shit, you know. You know better than anyone, boss.’

  Grace nodded. He did know. Painfully.

  ‘So for the past few weeks I’ve been sleeping rough in my car. There’s a decent-sized free car park behind the King Alfred. I’d been going in there in the morning when they open, and using the facilities.’ He shrugged again. ‘It’s just across the road from Vallance Mansions. But I had to move to a different location a week ago, because of all the police activity.’

  Grace nodded. From Exton’s eye movements he believed the detective was telling the truth. But equally, Exton knew his eye test and might have been f
aking it.

  ‘Jon,’ he said. ‘It’s one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘I – I suppose – yes – it looks that way. But I promise you . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Promise me what?’

  ‘That I’m telling you the truth. I’m a detective, Roy, I’m not a murderer, for God’s sake!’

  Grace was feeling sympathy for the man, who was clearly on the verge of a breakdown. But he couldn’t let that influence his treatment of him. ‘Have you looked in a mirror today, Jon?’

  ‘Yes – well – yes – I suppose – I must have done.’

  ‘You must have done? Your hair’s a mess, you haven’t shaved – unless you’re growing designer stubble – and without being too personal, you need a bath and some deodorant – and some fresh clothes. There’s no way you could go out to interview anyone looking how you do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, boss,’ he said, looking genuinely contrite. ‘I don’t want to let you down – and I am, aren’t I? That’s just what I am doing.’

  ‘Jon, I’m going to have to take your police phone off you and have it forensically tested. I’d also appreciate it if you handed over your personal phone and electronic communications devices voluntarily – will you do that?’

  Looking completely startled, Exton handed him his police phone. ‘Yes, of course. Please, boss, believe me.’

  ‘Jon, I believe you but the phone records show a different story – and I’m not the ultimate arbiter here. I should have you suspended for what has been found on your job phone; I don’t want to do that, but I’m very concerned about your behaviour. You seem under a lot of stress – relationship problems can cause that. If you get too low you reach a point where your judgement goes and you become unable to make good decisions. I want to help you – you’re a good detective and I like you, but I can’t risk members of my team making mistakes, and you’ve made a really stupid one. Is there anything else you’d like to say to me? I don’t like surprises. The team will support you, but you have to tell me the truth.’

  Exton gave him a helpless shrug.

  Grace thought hard for some moments. ‘Look, would you be willing to see the force doctor, Dr Bell? He’s nearby in Ringmer. He might sign you off for a few days. Perhaps send you to the Sussex Police Charitable Trust cottage down in Dorset for some R&R – how would you feel about that?’

  ‘Well – OK – I mean, sure. I’ll go and see him, I’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘I think it would be inappropriate for you to continue on this investigation, Jon, so I will move you to the trial preparation for Operation Spider, for the time being.’

  ‘I understand, boss, thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll go and get my phone and computer.’

  As the DS left his office, Ray Packham entered, looking animated. ‘Roy,’ he said. ‘Forgive me barging in – but I may have something for you!’

  83

  Thursday 28 April

  Ray Packham sat down opposite Grace and placed a tiny blue and black memory card, sealed inside a clear evidence bag, in front of him. Tapping the bag, he said, ‘That’s from a GoPro camera. I think it might well have images of Lorna Belling’s killer.’

  With almost every homicide case Grace had ever worked on, there would be hours, days, weeks, months even, of solid plodding graft. Then sometimes out of thin air, and when you were least expecting it, a eureka moment happened, which could lead to everything being unlocked. It might be a phone call out of the blue, an unexpected fingerprint or DNA match, a dog walker stumbling across a body. These were the moments that lifted him out of his seat, punching the air with his fist, that sent adrenaline surging through his veins, that made all the slog that had gone before it suddenly seem worthwhile.

  ‘You do, Ray? Images of her killer?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Grace raised a hand, signalling Packham to wait, then picked up his phone and called Batchelor. ‘Guy,’ he said, ‘can you come into my office right away?’

  With Batchelor’s office only two doors along the corridor, the DI was with them in moments, looking expectant.

  ‘Have a seat, Guy, Ray’s got something for us.’

  Batchelor glanced down at the evidence bag, then looked at the civilian from Digital Forensics.

  ‘As agreed earlier this week, I’ve been carrying out enquiries with DC Alexander, NotMuch and the house-to-house team,’ Packham said.

  ‘I think you mean Detective Crown from the FBI, Ray,’ Grace corrected him with a smile.

  ‘Sorry, chief – Arnie Crown – nice man,’ Packham said. ‘We’ve worked along the streets bordering Vallance Mansions, checking for occupants of houses, flats, offices and B&Bs who might have enterprise grade routers.’ Looking at both detectives, he said, ‘I explained previously that these high-level routers might have picked up people walking past in the street, through their phone Wi-Fi trying to communicate with these routers. It’s been harder than I thought because a lot of the buildings are divided into flats, and it’s taken us two days to cover every property – waiting for people to return from work, or who have been away. Anyhow, I think last night we may have got lucky.’ He tapped the plastic bag on the table.

  ‘What is it, Ray?’ Grace asked, looking down at it.

  ‘Well, it came from an address in Vallance Street, directly opposite the side entrance to Vallance Mansions. Now it may of course be nothing. But . . .’ He tugged a smartphone from his pocket, tapped it and squinted at the display.

  Grace waited patiently.

  ‘Flat 4, 38 Vallance Street. A young man by the name of Chris Diplock, who has a website management business, has one of these routers. It logged a mobile phone passing five times between 6 p.m. and 10.30 p.m. on the evening of Wednesday, April 20th.’

  ‘The night Lorna Belling died.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Packham had a triumphant smile.

  ‘Do you have the phone number?’ Batchelor asked.

  He gave it to him and both detectives wrote it down. Then he continued. ‘I’ve checked with the service provider, Vodafone, and it’s unfortunately a pay-as-you-go job. But we were able to look back and Mr Diplock’s router has picked up a signal from this phone on several occasions, mostly daytime and early evening. I requested a triangulation plot of the phone’s movements and – I’m not sure how helpful these might be.’ He laid his phone down and turned it so that Grace and Batchelor could see the screen.

  Mostly there were random locations in the vicinity of Vallance Mansions and around Brighton and Hove, but one in particular caught Grace’s attention. A Lewes location, very close to Malling House, the Police HQ, where they were now.

  His thoughts immediately went to Jon Exton. He dialled the Detective Sergeant.

  Before he could speak, Exton, panting and sounding out of breath, blurted, ‘I’m just on my way, boss, be with you in a tick.’

  ‘What’s the number of your private phone?’ Grace asked.

  Exton gave it to him and Grace wrote it down. It was different from the number Packham had found on the router log.

  ‘Fine.’ He hung up and focused back on Packham’s report, and the triangulation details. ‘Interesting to see this person has been in the vicinity both of Vallance Mansions and the Police HQ.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think we should read too much into it, boss – they could have been almost anywhere in Lewes,’ Batchelor said.

  ‘True, but – if this is another phone involved he’s not telling us about, it could be significant.’

  Batchelor nodded pensively, then drummed his fingers on the desk surface, looking down intently at the evidence bag.

  Grace turned to Packham. ‘Ray, could you give us a moment?’

  He stood up. ‘Sure, boss.’

  ‘Don’t go too far, Ray.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  After he had closed the door, Grace turned to Batchelor and said, ‘I don’t know what’s going on with Jon, but there are a number of things I’m not happy abo
ut. In strict confidence, we are very close to a formal interview, but there’s no way I’d want to do that to him – not unless we were a lot more certain, and we’re a long way from that.’

  The two detectives discussed the new information, and then asked Ray Packham to rejoin them.

  ‘So, Ray,’ Batchelor said as he sat back down. ‘We have someone walking repeatedly past Lorna Belling’s flat on the evening or night she died. But no way of tracing who it was?’

  ‘Well, not quite, Guy,’ he replied, and tapped the evidence bag again. ‘This man, Chris Diplock, owns a rather flash motor – a BMW M4. He’s had it vandalized twice when parked on this street in front of his home – all the body panels keyed, once, and on another occasion the tyres slashed. So he installed a GoPro camera concealed in a dummy headrest he made. He has it set on a time-lapse and runs it continually overnight every night, then checks the footage in the morning. He said that he arrived back from a client at around 7 p.m. on Wednesday, April 20th, and that on the morning of Thursday, April 21st, when he checked the camera footage he noticed someone behaving strangely, and furtively, who walked past his car several times.’

  ‘Did he describe him, Ray?’ Batchelor asked.

  ‘Yes, he said it’s not a good image – it was raining on and off so the windscreen was blurred. The man was wearing a baseball cap tugged low, and in the darkness he could only see part of the lower half of his face – part of his nose and chin. He said he was tall.’

  Exton was tall, Grace thought. So was Kipp Brown. So were a lot of people.

  ‘From the position of the camera,’ Packham continued, ‘he was able to see the man enter Vallance Mansions’ side entrance, and exit some time later. It was a while before he returned. Diplock said the times correlated to when the MAC address of the phone was logged on his router.’

  ‘That’s interesting indeed,’ Grace said.

  Batchelor nodded his concurrence.

  Grace picked up the evidence bag. ‘Guy, get someone to rush this over to Maria O’Brien at the Forensics Unit at Guildford. They’ve got video-enhancing capabilities there. Call her or Chris Gargan and alert them this is top priority. Can you do that right away?’