‘She’s in there!’ Potting shouted. ‘Oh my God, Bella is in there. Let me go and find her. Let me find her. I have to get her out!’
Grace reached them. Potting looked like a crazed animal, his eyes bulging, his whole pallid face pulsing.
‘Norman! Let them do their job. If she’s in there, they’ll find her.’
‘I’ll find her! She’s in there, I’ll find her. I know she’s all right! She’s my Bella. I love her. She’s all right. She’s safe, I know she is. BELLA!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘I’M HERE! IT’S NORMAN! I’M COMING TO GET YOU OUT!’
Then he collapsed in tears in Roy’s arms. ‘Oh God, Roy, please don’t let anything have happened to her. I love this woman. She’s made me realize I’ve never truly loved anyone before in my life.’ His voice was choked with sobs. ‘Please don’t let her be taken away from me. We’ve only just found each other. Please don’t. Please, please, please, let me go in and rescue her. She’s okay, I know she is. She has to be. Please let me, let me, let me go in. I won’t be a moment.’
‘Norman,’ Grace said gently. ‘Listen. Let the firemen find her, they have the equipment. If she’s OK, they’ll find her. That’s what they’re trained to do.’
Norman hugged Roy Grace, clinging to him as if he were a life raft in a storm-tossed ocean. ‘I love her, Roy. I do, I truly do. Please don’t let anything have happened to her. They said the dog came out. She must be okay. If the fucking dog has survived, she must have done, too.’
92
Monday, 4 November
Ever since the phone call on Saturday from Rob Spofford telling her they had a suspect in custody, Red had been feeling uneasy. It just didn’t sound right, but she figured the police must know what they were doing, and would not arrest someone unless they had some strong evidence, surely? They were still looking for Bryce, and Rob told her it was not certain that the suspect was involved. In her heart she remained convinced that it was Bryce who was behind all this.
It had to be.
She drove the Mishon Mackay Mini along Tongdean Avenue as fast as she could, conscious that she was nearly ten minutes late. The couple who’d made an appointment to view the house in Coleman Avenue had turned up twenty minutes late, having gone to the wrong street first. To ensure each of the sales team could achieve his or her daily target of fifteen viewings, for most appointments the agency allowed a quarter-of-an-hour viewing slot. But she’d made sure she had nothing booked in after this Tongdean house, because she figured that someone contemplating spending three and a half million pounds might just want a little bit longer than fifteen minutes.
A moment later she was forced to a halt by a learner driver under instruction in a driving-school car, practising his three-point turn. There was another just beyond this one, doing the same. God, it must drive the residents of this exclusive street bananas that every driving school in the city chose to come here – although she could understand why. It was a wide, tree-lined road, with very little traffic normally. She looked at the car clock, then double-checked against her watch. Twelve minutes late.
The instructor at least had the courtesy to wave her past, but just as she started the manoeuvre, the idiot learner suddenly shot forward. How she missed a collision she did not know, and in her anger she raised her hand, giving two fingers. Not a good advert for the company, she knew, with its logo emblazoned all over her car, but she didn’t care. She needed to get to the house, and was already perspiring with anxiety. Please don’t give up and leave, she thought.
She saw the high brick wall ahead, instantly recognizable from the photographs on the glossy brochure on the seat beside her, and the gates, open. She had to stop again, for another full agonizing minute as another learner stalled in the middle of the road ahead of her. The woman driver started, jerked forward a few inches, then stalled again.
Sod you! Red put two wheels over the pavement and drove around, bumping back onto the road, then finally reached the house. The smart gold and black sign by the open gates confirmed its name. Tongdean Lodge. She turned in, and drove up the drive, passing the garage block to her left, and reached the top, where the drive became circular, and she could now see the magnificent house to her right. And she breathed out a massive sigh of relief. The client wasn’t here yet, she had beaten him to it!
She glanced down at the list of nine names on the lined paper on her clipboard with today’s earlier viewings to remind herself of his name. Andrew Austin.
The only sign of life was a small white van, parked on the far side of the drive. Probably the gardener, or someone doing maintenance on the property, she assumed. She rummaged through the assortment of keys and found the one for Tongdean Lodge, which also had the gate entry code and alarm code written on its tag. Thoughtful of the gardener, or whoever, to have left the gates open for her, she thought, as she climbed out of the car, closed the door, and walked up to the front door.
She waited there for some moments, and then had a prick of doubt. Andrew Austin was going to turn up, wasn’t he? She glanced at her watch. He was now fifteen minutes late. She had his mobile number on her list. Give him another five minutes and she would call him. In the meantime, she thought it would be a good idea to take a walk around the property, to familiarize herself with it a little.
She turned and looked at the stunning view over the rooftops of the houses on the south side of the avenue, right across Hove and down to the English Channel, which sparkled beneath the bright sunshine. It was a perfect day for a viewing – everything looking at its best. There weren’t going to be many days like this at this time of the year. Oh, please turn up, Mr Austin!
There was a brick archway through into the gardens, with a mature laurel bush beside it. She stepped through it, entranced by the magnificence of the gardens that lay beyond, as if she had entered a secret world. She stared at the neatly manicured, terraced lawns; the swimming pool with a Roman arch at one end; the tennis court further on.
To her left was a wide, magnificent terrace, with a twelve- or even fourteen-seater wrought-iron table in front of French windows. What a glorious spot to eat out on a fine summer’s day or evening, she thought, making a mental note to ensure she mentioned this.
She was startled by a sudden soft footfall behind her, and instantly a shadow fell over her. But before she could react, she felt a strong blow on the side of her head, as if she had been struck by a flying brick. A searing flash of white light inside her skull, as if a firework had been set off.
Her legs were collapsing. Her body swaying, her brain spinning her into darkness.
From behind, Bryce put his arms around her, gripping her unconscious body, preventing her from falling to the ground. He did not want her to hurt herself.
He wanted to do all the hurting.
93
Monday, 4 November
It wasn’t until shortly after 3 p.m. that the fire at the Royal Regent had been extinguished for sufficient time for the building to be deemed safe for firemen to re-enter.
Two went in while Roy Grace and a numb Norman Potting stayed outside, along with the Chief Constable and Cassian Pewe, watching all that was happening and barely exchanging a word between them. Grace badly needed to get back to the office, but he could not leave Norman Potting in his current state. Instead he called Glenn Branson who came over and updated him and Pewe and the Chief Constable on the events of this morning’s briefing.
Glenn had been instructed to step up the manhunt for Bryce Laurent with renewed urgency, and to ensure that Red Westwood was protected.
Both the Chief Constable and Cassian Pewe were being supportive to Grace, neither of his bosses levelling any blame. To his surprise certainly today, at any rate, given their history, Pewe appeared to hold no grudge. Perhaps because his skin was too thick.
Suddenly, Tom Martinson put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Roy,’ he said in his kindly voice. ‘Sometimes in every police officer’s career a really terrible thing happens. When it does, that i
s the moment we wonder why the hell we are doing this job. But if we are able to be mentally strong enough, it’s also the moment when we realize that’s why we chose to do this job. Because all our training kicks in. Not many people phone the police because they are happy. We’re not here to serve happy people. We’re here to make a difference. Occasionally, however tragic it might be, we give up our lives to do that. Human lifespans are not predictable. Don’t ever make the mistake of measuring someone by the length of their life. Measure them by the difference they made to this world.’
Roy Grace looked at him and nodded, blinking through his tears. ‘I’ll try to remember that, sir. Thank you.’
Five minutes later the two firefighters, in their breathing apparatus, came back out. They walked like a pair of spacemen, their expressions invisible behind their masks, over to a fire engine, opened a locker in its side, then returned to the building with a quantity of lighting equipment.
Norman Potting let out a low, keening wail, then collapsed, weeping, onto the pavement.
Roy Grace knelt beside him with an arm around him, and wept also. He tried desperately to find some words to comfort the old detective, but could find nothing.
They knelt together, two grown men sobbing, oblivious to all around them.
94
Monday, 4 November
Gounod’s Faust was playing on the radio as Bryce Laurent drove the van across the rough cart track. An idiot rabbit sat upright dead ahead, staring, mesmerized by his headlights. He felt it bump under his front wheel. Then a more violent bump as they jolted through a rut.
He’d holed up in the Brighton station car park until dusk, wanting his approach to his factory to be in the dark, to give the minimum chance of being spotted. He’d spent a highly enjoyable few hours just sitting in the van, reading out loud to Red, in the back, all the texts she had sent him in the months of their courtship. There were some gems, some absolute gems! Too bad he couldn’t hear her reaction, because he didn’t dare remove the gag in case she tried screaming.
Now they were on their way! He hummed to himself in tune to the music. Opera! He’d never got the damned stuff when he was young. It was only when he’d worked on the runway inspection team at Gatwick Airport that one of his colleagues had explained it to him. Or, rather, unexplained it.
Opera, he had said, is raw emotion. Forget trying to intellectualize it, just let the emotion carry you along.
Yep. He had been right. So now, as he drove, he let the raw emotion flood through him, raising his arms from the wheel, humming, then singing out loud, ‘Rumtitumtitumtity.’ He was so happy. He had Red back. Yesssss!
Raw emotion!
He glanced over his shoulder as they jolted over another rut. ‘Soon be there, my baby! Rumtitumtitumtity!’
He sang loudly, his lungs close to bursting. They were almost a mile from the nearest dwelling. His factory was right ahead, just a hundred yards to go. He burst into song again. Copying the French libretto. He had no idea what the words meant, but he sounded good. His mother had once told him he had a beautiful voice, that he could have been an opera singer.
And now he was one!
He looked over his shoulder again to see whether Red was appreciating it. But it was difficult to tell with the gag duct-taped in her mouth and the blindfold duct-taped around her forehead.
‘So good to see you again, Red, my angel!’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea how good this makes me feel! You and I, with the rest of our lives ahead of us. How good is that?’
95
Monday, 4 November
The Monday evening briefing was a sombre event. The death of any police officer in any force throughout the UK was felt with a level of sadness by every serving officer, regardless of where they were. But when it was a member of their own team, the impact was totally devastating. As an indication of how seriously the whole of Sussex Police took this, Cassian Pewe was sitting in on the meeting with them.
Roy Grace had, fortunately, never lost an officer before, and the fact that Bella Moy had been such a long-standing member of his team, someone he had greatly respected and grown fond of, made it all far worse. Norman Potting, bravely, was attending, red-eyed and hunched over the table looking lost. He had wanted to be there, he told Roy, as he couldn’t face the alternative of going home and sitting all alone. And besides, this was now personal. Roy agreed he could attend the briefing, but they both decided that he should no longer be part of the investigation.
It was too early for the investigators to tell the cause of the fire that had gutted the Royal Regent, but the coincidence of it being the place Red Westwood had been planning to move to was deeply suspicious to all the team. And the fact that there had been two hoax calls, sending the nearest fire appliances away in opposite directions to the fire, was too coincidental to be ignored.
The investigation into the cause of the fire would begin in earnest tomorrow morning, by which time the building should have cooled down sufficiently to enable structural engineers to enter and make it safe.
‘I want to start this evening,’ Roy Grace said, ‘with one minute’s silence in honour of our fallen colleague, Detective Sergeant Bella Moy, one of the very best and nicest officers I have ever worked with. She gave her life to save a small girl.’
He looked at his watch, then closed his eyes. Throughout the ensuing long minute, he could hear Norman Potting sobbing. When he opened his eyes, counting down silently the last few seconds, hardly any of the team had a dry eye.
‘Can I suggest Bella be put forward for a medal for bravery, Roy?’ Guy Batchelor said.
He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m going to talk to the Chief about it.’
Dave Green, the Crime Scene Manager, said grimly, ‘So damned tragic.’
Roy Grace said firmly, but gently, ‘She saved a child’s life.’
‘So why didn’t Bella come out after doing that?’ Green said. ‘She must have stayed on to try to get the dog.’
‘We don’t know that,’ Grace said. ‘We don’t know what happened in there.’
‘If it’s any consolation,’ Haydn Kelly said, ‘the sculptor Giacometti was once asked, if he was in a burning house and had the choice of saving a Rembrandt or a cat, which would he save? He replied the cat. He said that in any choice between art or life, he would choose life every time.’
Potting, his face buried in his hands, sobbed even more loudly. Roy Grace stood up, walked over to him, and put his arms around him. ‘She did something very brave, Norman,’ he said. ‘What’s happened is terrible and there are no words to describe how we are all feeling – and especially how you must be feeling. She did something that any of us might have done – and might one day have to do. That’s why we are police officers, and not clerks sitting behind desks, spending our lives pushing paper around, living in a sterile cocoon of sodding health and safety. Every time we go out, we potentially face a life-threatening situation. I would hope that in the same situation that Bella found herself in, any of us would have the courage to do the same thing, to take that same risk she did.’
He squeezed the Detective Sergeant’s shoulders. ‘The best possible way we can honour Bella is to ensure she did not die in vain – and that means catching this bastard before he can put any more lives at risk.’ He leaned down, kissed Norman Potting on the cheek, then returned to his chair, and looked down at his notes through eyes blurred with tears.
He paused for a moment to dab them with his handkerchief. ‘Okay, the first and most urgent item concerns Red Westwood, who has not been seen since she left her office at 10 a.m. today for a number of viewings of residential properties in the Brighton area. Her mother has been trying to get hold of her for several hours. Her last confirmed sighting was at a house in Coleman Avenue, Hove, where she showed a couple around. Then she had an appointment with a client to view a house in Tongdean Avenue.’ He looked at DS Exton. ‘Jon, you went there. Can you tell us your findings?’
‘Yes, sir. I attended with DC Davies. The gates t
o the property were open, and I found a Mini with the Mishon Mackay logo on it apparently abandoned there. There was no answer when we rang, so we forced entry and searched the house and surrounding grounds, but there was no sign of Red Westwood. I’ve requested ANPR and all CCTV sightings of her car prior to her arriving at the house, and what I have to date confirms her journey from the previous address to Tongdean Avenue. The surveillance team saw her enter the property, but don’t know what happened after that. She just disappeared. They couldn’t get too close in such a quiet area, but they did say no one followed her into the grounds of the house. When they were able to move forward safely they found her Mishon Mackay Mini still at the premises, but she was nowhere to be found. Subsequently, on searching the gardens at the rear of the property, officers discovered that a six-foot-wide piece of panelling that fenced the property off from the road on the other side had been removed, and there were tyre marks over the ground. It appeared that a vehicle had left the property by this makeshift exit.’
Grace nodded, annoyed about the loss, but knew from his own past experience that surveillance work could never be one hundred per cent. ‘I’ve taken the step of having Red Westwood’s parents temporarily removed from their hotel in Eastbourne, where they’ve been staying because of their house being torched. I’ve also ordered a round-the-clock police guard on her best friend, Raquel Evans, and her husband. We’ve put out an alert to find Ms Westwood and that operation is being run by the Duty Gold, Superintendent Jackson, alongside this investigation.’
As this was now a formal Sussex Police operation, the Gold, Silver and Bronze command structure was in place. Gold had set the strategy, Silver was implementing the strategy, and the Bronze commanders each had their own areas of responsibility, such as investigations, firearms or search.
He looked at DS Batchelor. ‘You’ve checked on her flat, Guy?’