Each morning he took a bowl of sweetcorn, kale, bread, grapes, blueberries, mealworms and ground oyster shells as well as other scraps, mostly of fruit that was on the cusp of going rotten, and scattered it around the run. There were two hen houses that their little brood used, and normally they produced anything up to six eggs. But today was a record!
Perhaps a good omen, he thought, placing them in the empty food bowl and taking them into the kitchen. Then he went back outside and took Humphrey for a brisk, thirty-minute jog across the fields. Thinking all the time about Guy Batchelor.
How had this hard-working, seemingly happily married detective gone so wrong? How did such a decent man as Guy turn into a monster?
Could it happen to any of us?
To me?
How much – or how little – did it take?
After the helicopter had brought Batchelor down, he’d accompanied him in the ambulance to the Royal Sussex County Hospital to be checked out. No bones were broken but he had a few bruises. Despite his discomfort, he wanted to be interviewed straight away.
Grace formally arrested him and took him to Worthing Custody Suite, where Batchelor wasn’t known. During the interview, in the presence of his solicitor and under caution, he’d opened up, as if all his guard had dropped, telling Grace about his affair with Lorna Belling. And then how she had turned on him when she discovered the truth.
He suspected the detective had left some details out. But it was clear Guy had acted in panic, his one thought in the aftermath of the row, ending up with Lorna dead, was to save his skin, regardless of the consequences to anyone else. He told Roy how he had tried to resuscitate Lorna after their fight, but had failed. And although he accepted his responsibility, he hadn’t been sure whether it was the head injury or the electrocution which had actually killed her.
A part of him did actually feel sorry for Batchelor, as a human being. But equally, he hated the idea of a rogue cop. The Sussex police force, to which he had dedicated his life, depended totally on trust. Officers who let the force down deserved all they got. And Guy Batchelor faced years of hell in prison.
Maybe they would meet again one day, when they were old men, and look back at what had been – and what might have been. All of us, he was so deeply aware, had the potential for both good and evil. Just how thin was that line between the two?
As he ran across a field, Humphrey came running towards him with a live pheasant in his mouth.
‘Drop!’ he yelled, aghast. ‘Humphrey, drop, drop, drop!’
Humphrey stood a few yards from him, defiant. The pheasant was flapping.
It was breeding time now for them.
‘Drop!’ he yelled.
Humphrey finally yielded the bird.
Grace ran over to it and picked it up. It gave him a look, out of one barely focusing eye, then it died as he held it.
‘Bad boy!’ he yelled. ‘Bad, bad boy!’
The dog gave him a quizzical look, and then ran off, disappearing into the tall green crop.
Roy Grace stood, holding the dead bird, feeling very upset for it. He laid it down under the hedgerow at the side of the field. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to it.
Then he continued on his run. But when he arrived back home, with Humphrey at his side, he was still feeling bad about the pheasant.
Upstairs in their bedroom, Cleo would still be asleep. Along the corridor, Noah would be asleep too. And up on the next floor, Bruno also.
Entering the kitchen, Humphrey nudged him, signalling he wanted his end-of-run treat. A chew stick.
‘You’re not having one, you’ve been a bad boy!’
Then he relented, and pulled a yellow one out of the pack, made him sit, then handed it to him.
The dog wolfed it down, greedily, in seconds.
Roy Grace went upstairs and showered with the water as hot as he could bear, helping to soothe his aching muscles. His whole body was sore from last night. Throughout his mostly sleepless night he’d thought constantly of Guy Batchelor.
What a mess.
He had not yet seen the video evidence against his colleague, ramming Weatherley’s car, but it sounded damning. The Super Recognizer had two broken ribs and severe bruising; the outcome could have been a lot worse. He was being kept in hospital for a few days, under observation. Batchelor could be facing an attempted murder charge – on top of any charge he would be facing over Lorna Belling’s death. Hopefully more would become clear after his computer and phone were examined, and maybe more would be revealed by the search of his home, which was already under way. Grace felt for Guy’s wife and their daughter.
A life ruined.
Jon Exton had been freed last night. Hopefully no mud would stick, and Roy Grace would do his best to make sure it didn’t. He would meet him at the office later this morning.
If Guy had somehow managed to get away with it, would he have let Exton go to trial on the evidence he had planted? Be convicted? Desperation was a dangerous spiral.
He dressed in a work suit, then ate a quick breakfast of cereal and fruit in the kitchen, with the television turned on, to see if there was anything about last night on the news. Then he stared wistfully at the empty glass tank on the end of the work surface, where until recently his companion of eleven years, his goldfish, Marlon, had lived. Neither he nor Cleo had had the heart to get rid of the tank, and they had talked, vaguely, about getting a replacement, maybe a selection of tropical fish. Cleo thought the boys might like them.
He went upstairs and she was still asleep. He kissed her on the cheek and she stirred, then winced suddenly.
‘Darling, what is it?’
‘My back,’ she said sleepily. ‘Must have slept awkwardly.’
‘That reminds me, I forgot to ask, how did it go with that new chair – weren’t you seeing someone about one?’
‘Really nice guy – he said he knows you!’
‘Oh?’
‘Played rugby against the police team once.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Ian – erm – someone. Erm – Fletcher-Price – owns a company called Posture something – Posturite.’
Grace thought for a moment. ‘Rings a faint bell.’ He kissed her again. ‘Got to dash.’
‘Busy day?’
‘Yep, I’ve got a lot to do. Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.’
‘Try and come home early, darling. Maybe we could sit out in the garden – have a barbecue later? And don’t forget we’re going to the concert tonight.’
‘Yes, where is it again?’
‘The Hope and Ruin – Queens Road. I’ve got Kaitlynn booked.’
‘I promise I’ll do what I can.’
She took his hand and held it. ‘I know you always do what you can. Try doing something you can’t for once!’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Time with us, your family. Me.’ She turned her head and looked at the clock radio, then back at him. ‘White rabbits, white rabbits!’ she said suddenly.
‘What?’
‘It’s the first of the month!’
‘You’re right, it is.’
‘I always say it first thing, if I remember. This is the first time I’ve remembered in ages! Done it ever since I was a child – it’s meant to bring good luck.’
‘The first of May.’
She ran a finger provocatively down his stomach, over his belt and down his flies and smiled very knowingly at him. ‘The first of May. Hmmmn. Know that saying? Hooray, hooray, the first of May – outdoor bonking starts today. I think you should come home just as soon as you can, don’t you?’
He kissed her on the lips, and she put her arms round his neck. ‘I think it’s a good plan, don’t you? Bruno’s going to spend the day with Stan Tingley and I don’t think Noah’s going to bother us too much. We have the house to ourselves until this evening. I think it would be a shame to waste it.’
‘I like your thinking,’ he said.
She stroked the front
of his trousers again, feeling him harden. ‘Mmmmm, Detective Superintendent, I think you’re liking it quite a lot.’
112
Sunday 1 May
At midday the conference room at the CID HQ was alive with shock and gossip as Grace informed his team of the developments. No police officer liked to hear of a colleague who had gone rogue.
Neil Fisher from the Media team had joined the briefing, to discuss the media strategy, as well as newly promoted Inspector Fiona Ashcroft from Professional Standards.
‘If anyone has doubts,’ Grace said, ‘then I’m afraid what Ray Packham has to say will, unfortunately, allay them.’ He signalled to the Digital Forensics expert to tell them his latest findings.
Packham yawned, looking exhausted. ‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘I’ve not yet been to bed. The search team recovered a pay-as-you-go mobile phone and a personal laptop from Guy’s home in the early hours of this morning, and I’ve been going through them. I’ve only had time, you’ll understand, for a cursory look, but I’m afraid what I’ve discovered already shows some damning evidence.’ He paused and took a sip from a mug of coffee.
‘The first thing is that there are a number of emails, under a Hotmail account in the name of “Greg Wilson”, to Lorna Belling – which tally with those on her laptop recovered from Shoreham Harbour. These go back approximately eighteen months.’
‘Greg Wilson?’ Norman Potting queried.
‘A false name, Norman,’ Packham replied.
‘Greg was the name of her lover she confided to her close friend, Kate Harmond, who you interviewed, Norman,’ Grace interjected.
The Detective Sergeant nodded.
‘Secondly,’ Packham continued, ‘the weekend following Lorna Belling’s death, his website history shows he looked at a number of sex sites. I’ve not had the time yet to check on them all, but the ones I’ve done so far tally exactly with the calls made on DS Exton’s work phone to sex workers.’ He looked at the team, and shrugged. ‘In my opinion that is too much to be a coincidence.’
‘He sneakily got hold of DS Exton’s phone somehow, and made these calls?’ Donald Dull said.
‘That’s the way it looks,’ Grace said.
‘What a devious bastard,’ Dull retorted.
There was a long silence.
‘Is there any other explanation, boss?’ Kevin Hall asked.
‘I’m all ears if you have one, Kevin,’ Grace replied.
Hall shook his head.
‘There’s something else the search team recovered from Guy’s home,’ Grace added, his tone grim. ‘Lorna Belling’s appointments diary for her hairdressing clients. It was still in an evidence bag, concealed under a case of wine in his garage.’
‘Stupid sod.’ Potting shook his head. ‘What a stupid sod.’
There was a long silence, finally broken by Jack Alexander.
‘Where’s DS Exton now, sir?’ he asked.
‘I saw him an hour ago. I’m happy to say that Dawn picked him up from here and has taken him home. Hopefully that is at least one good outcome from this sodding, sad mess.’
‘What will happen to Batchelor?’ Arnie Crown asked.
‘Not much!’ Potting quipped and turned to Velvet Wilde for approval.
But neither she nor any of the team was in any mood for laughter. Grace glared at the old sweat. Fond though he was of Norman Potting, there were times when he thought this dinosaur should be in a museum, not on his major enquiry team. But equally, he knew, there were other times when the man could be invaluable. As he had proved on this operation. ‘In answer to your question, Arnie,’ Grace said, ‘he will be taken to a police station outside of Sussex and Surrey – probably Hampshire again, for further questioning under caution. Following that he’ll be remanded in custody pending trial.’
‘What a stupid, bloody idiot,’ Potting murmured again, shaking his head as if bewildered by Batchelor’s actions.
Grace then read out Dr Frazer Theobald’s findings, which the pathologist had now produced in a formal report. It gave the cause of death as firstly a head injury causing a brain haemorrhage, and secondly, electrocution. He told his team that the head injury was a fatal blow from which Lorna Belling would have died, but the hair-dryer dropping in the bath had actually caused her heart to stop. Batchelor had of course been responsible for both events and the Crown Prosecution Service were looking at a charge of manslaughter in regard to Lorna, and attempted murder in respect of the police officer, Tim Weatherley.
Forty minutes later, after delegating evidence and paperwork duties, Grace thanked his team and told them to take the rest of the day off. They would meet again the following evening, at 6 p.m.
Then he went home. Despite being desperately upset about Guy, he looked forward to some time at home. May Day. A fine, sunny afternoon.
And he was on a promise . . .
113
Sunday 1 May
Jason Tingley dropped Bruno home shortly after 5 p.m. Roy Grace had the barbecue well alight, and cooked them all a supper of corn on the cob, chicken wings, sausages, burgers and baked potatoes, and Bruno came back for seconds.
He was pleased to see his appetite, taking it as a positive that he was feeling settled and as reasonably OK as a boy who had recently lost his mother could be. After eating, Bruno went up to his room, saying he was going to be playing another online game with Erik. Before he did so he reminded Grace of his promise to teach him shooting tactics. He told Bruno he had not forgotten.
Roy cooked some extra food for Kaitlynn, who arrived an hour later to babysit, then he and Cleo headed into Brighton for the concert.
He had temporarily parked the shadow of Guy Batchelor in another compartment and was feeling relaxed and happy. He was looking forward to his night out with Cleo and seeing the rock band again – they had been to see them at this same venue a year ago on the recommendation of friends, when they had played their first gig in Brighton, and both of them had really liked their music.
When they walked into the Hope and Ruin pub, near the bottom of Queens Road, there was a sign up saying that the concert was delayed, and would start in approximately one hour. Grace stood with Cleo just inside the entrance for some moments, glancing around the packed room, clocking every face. He couldn’t help it, he did it every time he entered a restaurant or a bar, like many coppers. He never wanted to find he had spent an hour in a room where there was a wanted villain he had missed, nor to enter a place that was about to kick off.
He bought a glass of Chardonnay for Cleo and a pint of Guinness for himself and they found a small, free table at the back of the packed downstairs bar. One chair was against the wall, the other facing it.
‘Which would you like, darling?’ he asked.
She took the one facing the wall. ‘I think you’re going to want the policeman’s chair, aren’t you?’
She was right, she knew him too well. He grinned, setting their glasses down and squeezing behind the table. He was never comfortable sitting with his back to a crowded room.
He raised his glass and chinked against hers. ‘Cheers, darling.’
‘Cheers. Quite a treat to have you for a whole afternoon and evening as well!’ She looked genuinely happy. ‘You haven’t told me how it was, climbing up that ladder. I don’t know how you did it.’
He shrugged.
‘Weren’t you scared? You hate heights.’
He sipped his beer. ‘You know, it’s a funny thing, I’ve talked to many colleagues over the years. At some point in their career, almost every police officer is going to be in a situation where his or her life is in danger. Your training just kicks in and you don’t think about it at the time. It’s only afterwards, when it’s over. That’s when you think, Shit, what the hell did I do that for? But you know what you did it for. You did it because that’s what you signed up to do.’
‘At some point in their career?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You’ve been in danger more than once, my love. Ever
y time you leave home I worry about you, wondering what your day will bring.’
‘Both of us do a tough job. You are dealing with dead bodies all day long. Some of them pretty gruesome. But you cope.’
‘There’s a big difference, Roy. I respect the dead, but they don’t pose any threat to me. You are dealing with dangerous people all the time. Even one of your most trusted colleagues turns out to be dangerous. You’ve got two children now, dependent on you. I know I’m never going to change you, and I wouldn’t ever want to. I understand you’re a decent man doing your best. I just don’t ever want you to be a dead hero. You know what would be my worst nightmare?’
‘No.’
‘You arriving in the mortuary for a postmortem.’
He tapped his chest. ‘Probably mine too.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
He raised his glass.
114
Sunday 1 May
Kaitlynn settled down in front of the television, with a small tub of pistachio ice cream Cleo had left her, and began channel surfing. An hour later, watching an old episode of Californication – one of her favourites – she heard Noah crying on the monitor. Then his cries turned to screams.
She paused the television and hurried upstairs, but the screams died down, almost as suddenly as they had started. Entering Noah’s bedroom, she was surprised to see Bruno in there, cradling his little half-brother in his arms. He turned and gave Kaitlynn a smile.
‘He’s OK! I think he was having a bad dream, perhaps. Do babies have bad dreams?’
‘I don’t remember,’ she said with a grin. ‘I was too young.’
He gave her a quizzical look, as if trying to work that one out. Then he said, looking very serious, ‘I think I was also too young to remember. But he is OK now.’ Looking down with a loving smile, he said, ‘You’re OK, Noah, aren’t you? Yes, yes you are!’
Noah giggled.
‘Want me to take him?’ she asked.
Bruno raised a finger to his lips. ‘I will put him back in his cot. Let’s see. Maybe he goes to sleep again.’
She stood and watched as Bruno laid him tenderly down, and pulled his knitted blanket over him. Noah put his thumb in his mouth and closed his eyes.