Want You Dead

  ‘What is it?’

  Branson shook his head. ‘It’s what cannibals in Papua New Guinea call white men. Apparently you taste like pork.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. And what do you taste of?’

  ‘They don’t eat black men.’

  The pair signed the scene guard’s log and ducked under the blue and white police crime scene tape. They then followed DI Hazeldine along the route that was marked by more tape, through the brambles to the edge of a ditch.

  And looked down.

  ‘Shit!’ Glenn Branson said.

  Roy Grace said nothing, absorbing the sheer horror of what he was staring at.

  ‘Did you ever see A Nightmare on Elm Street?’ Glenn asked, a touch irreverently.

  Grace knew what he meant. What lay in the ditch was like a prop from a horror movie.

  He so wished it was a prop.

  The body lay on mud, with burnt undergrowth all around, fists raised in the air as if about to punch some unseen adversary.

  With the blackened skin, hairless skull and empty eye sockets, it looked like some gruesome modern sculpture that had been stolen from an art gallery.

  Except for the smell of cooked meat. And the petrol can nearby.

  Bile rose up in Roy Grace’s throat and he took a step back. He’d not thrown up at the sight of a corpse since his very first post-mortem as a fledgling police constable at Brighton and Hove Mortuary. It had been when the mortician had held the rotary bandsaw, ground its teeth through the skullcap of the deceased lying on the steel table, severed the optic nerves with a Sabatier carving knife, and lifted out the brain.

  He’d done then what over half of police officers attending their first post-mortem do. Turned bright green and staggered out of the room. After a cup of sugary tea and a digestive biscuit he’d regained his composure and seen the rest of the post-mortem through. But that evening when he had gone home, he had gulped down three whiskies in a row, and when his then wife, Sandy, had arrived home, he’d looked at her with X-ray eyes, seeing her coiled intestines, as well as the rest of her internal organs. It had been a good two weeks before he had been able to make love to her again.

  In the ensuing years, he had got over it. But there were some homicide victims that still got to him. One had been the remains of a man in a burnt-out car on Ditchling Common – the victim of a gay hate crime. He had found it really hard to get his head around the knowledge that the twisted, charred, hairless sculpture had once been a living human being.

  Like this one below him now.

  He stared at one detail, the large wristwatch, charred and melted beyond recognition. Fixating on this inanimate possession as a way of avoiding looking at the body itself, he turned to Hazeldine. ‘Who found this person?’ he asked.

  ‘Some members playing a round of golf, Roy.’

  Grace had taken up golf some years back, but had not found it easy. Sandy had resented the amount of time it took on top of the long hours he worked and, in fairness to her, he had agreed and given up, deciding reluctantly that it wasn’t his game. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the clubhouse. I asked them to wait. They’re not too happy.’

  ‘The person in the ditch isn’t either,’ Grace retorted drily. He resisted the temptation to climb down and take a closer look, not wanting to contaminate the scene any further. And besides, what he could see confirmed what he had been told.

  Hazeldine’s radio crackled. He spoke into it, then turned to Roy Grace. ‘It seems like we’ve found a car half a mile up the road, which may be linked to the victim, although as yet we do not have any positive ID.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Apparently the keys are in the ignition and there’s a suicide note in the car. The Crime Scene Manager David Green’s at the vehicle,’ Hazeldine informed him. ‘He’s currently checking over the car. Crime Scene Investigator Claire Dennis had a brief look around the body, but hasn’t found anything to indicate foul play. There’s some petrol left in the can, and there is a search team on their way to see if we can find a match or a lighter.’

  Grace shook his head. ‘Christ, what a hell of a way to go. I think if I was going to top myself, I hope I’d have the presence of mind to find a less horrible way.’

  Hazeldine nodded. Glenn Branson did too.

  All the time, Grace’s mind was in overdrive. Suicide? Someone had once told him that barbiturates were the best way to kill yourself. You just went out feeling pleasantly woozy.

  Self-immolation in a muddy ditch?

  How agonizing would that have been? Shit.

  He turned away and said to DI Hazeldine, ‘Let’s go and see the car.’

  Grace and Branson followed the DI along a network of paths, passing a sign saying, BUGGIES THIS WAY, through a clearing in the woods, and arriving at a narrow country lane. An Audi estate, encircled in blue and white crime scene tape, was parked on the grass verge, with a uniformed PC scene guard in front. The tailgate was open and a figure in protective clothing was carefully inspecting the contents of the rear of the car. Another SOCO was taking photographs of the exterior of the car.

  ‘How are you doing, David?’ DI Hazeldine asked.

  The Crime Scene Manager turned and flipped back his hood as he saw Roy Grace. ‘Hi Roy!’ he said, with a broad smile. ‘Didn’t know you were a golfer! What’s your handicap?’

  ‘Not my game. Had a go a few times but I was rubbish.’

  ‘Me too – water hazards get me every time.’

  Grace gave him a wry smile. Humour was what got all coppers through the grimmest stuff. ‘So what do you have in the car?’

  ‘We’ve just had confirmation of the car’s owner from the PNC. A Dr Karl Murphy. Address in Brighton. There’s a golf bag and shoes in the back. And a suicide note on the front seat. Shit handwriting, but that’s doctors for you.’ He went around to the front, opened the driver’s door and pointed.

  Roy Grace saw a note inside a plastic evidence bag lying on the front seat. He snapped on a pair of gloves from his pocket, picked up the bag and studied the note. It was on lined paper, torn from what looked like a ringed notepad.

  I am so sorry. My will is with my executor, solicitor Maud Opfer of Opfer Dexter Associates. Life since Ingrid’s death is meaningless. I want to be united with her again. Please tell Dane and Ben I love them and will love them for ever and that their Daddy’s gone to take care of Mummy. Love you both so much. One day, when you are older, I hope you will find it in your hearts to forgive me. XX

  He felt moisture in his eyes. Could this ever be him? If something happened to Cleo, would Noah one day be handed a note telling him that his daddy had left him?

  God forbid.

  He read it through once more with a frown. Then he laid it back on the seat, pulled out his phone, took a photograph of it and also used his scanner app.

  He turned back to DI Hazeldine. ‘It does appear at the moment that this is a suicide, and not something for us. But I’d like you to get the note tested for prints. Get it copied and then send the original to the lab at Sussex House. I’ll leave DI Branson here, and send someone from Major Crime Team over to assist him with making enquiries, but my sense is it’s a divisional matter that you can deal with locally. But I’d like to have the car lifted and secured in case we need to do a fuller forensic examination of it after the PM findings.’

  ‘I appreciate you coming over, Roy. And good to see you again. We should have a beer sometime and catch up.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan,’ Grace replied. He was feeling relieved. If this had turned out to be a murder investigation, he would have had to cancel his boys’ poker game at home tonight, which would have meant he would have been eating the coq au vin that Cleo had prepared for several days to come.

  Thank God, he thought a tad irreverently, she had not decided to give his poker boys roast pork.

  But at the same time, something was bothering him.

  Before he’d left the scene, Roy Grace had got Dave Green to conduct a cu
rsory search of the body, which had resulted in the recovery of a charred mobile phone, which he’d had sent to the High Tech Crime Unit for analysis.

  Deep in thought, Roy headed back to Sussex House, leaving his colleagues at the scene. Something troubled him about the suicide note, but he could not put his finger on what it was exactly.

  13

  Thursday midday, 24 October

  ‘Take a card,’ Matt Wainwright said, knowing he needed to keep practising. ‘Any card, any one you like! Don’t let me see it!’ Then with a flick of his hand he fanned the entire deck out, presenting them to Bobby Bhogal, one of his fellow fire officers on the Blue Watch at Worthing Fire Station.

  ‘Remember it, okay?’

  Bhogal nodded.

  ‘Now put it back!’

  Bhogal slipped it back.

  Instantly, Wainwright flicked the fanned-out cards back into a neat stack. ‘All right, all right, now tap the top of the deck for me, will you?’

  Bhogal tapped the top of the deck.

  Moments later a card jumped out of the pack, flipped over a couple of times, and landed on the floor, face down.

  ‘Wait! Don’t touch it! Tell us all which card you took out, Bobby.’

  ‘The queen of hearts.’

  ‘Turn it over!’

  He leaned forward and turned the card over. It was the three of clubs.

  All ten of the fire officers in the room laughed. ‘Guess you screwed up, Matt!’ Darren Wickens, the Blue Watch Commander, said.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Unless you’re brain dead, Bobby here chose the queen of hearts. That’s the three of clubs. In case you’re blind!’

  Another roar of laughter.

  ‘Tap the deck again, Bobby!’ Matt said.

  Bobby Bhogal obliged. Another card jumped out of the pack and flipped over, again landing face down.

  ‘Turn it over.’

  Bobby Bhogal reached down, then held the card up for them all to see. It was the jack of spades.

  ‘You’re so full of shit, Matt!’ another colleague said.

  ‘Got any more tricks?’ said another. ‘Do that one you did last week where we all had to remember three of them?’

  Wainwright said nothing for some moments, then he turned to Bobby Bhogal. ‘What do you have in your pocket?’

  ‘Cigarettes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Bhogal patted his breast pocket. ‘Yeah, my wallet.’

  ‘Open it.’

  ‘Careful!’ someone shouted. ‘Watch the moths fly out!’

  There was another roar of laughter.

  Bobby Bhogal pulled out his wallet and held it up.

  ‘Tell us the time, Bobby,’ the magician said.

  Bhogal looked at his wrist. ‘Shit! Where’s my fucking watch?’

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  ‘It’s a Casio, with a brown leather strap.’

  Matt Wainwright held up his wrist. He was wearing a Casio with a brown strap. ‘Might this be it?’

  Bobby Bhogal glared at it, hating to be made a fool of.

  ‘Now, Bobby, look inside your wallet. Tell me what you see?’

  Bhogal pulled out a playing card and looked astonished. It was the queen of hearts. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Bloody hell! How did you do that, Matt?’

  ‘If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you!’

  Moments later the siren went off. Three lights flashed up on the wall above them. One light signalled one appliance was required – for something small such as a vehicle on fire. Two required both duty crews. Three meant the reserve appliance was also required. That only happened for major incidents. The reserve was manned by volunteers who lived and worked within four minutes’ drive or bike ride of the station.

  All of them instantly leapt to their feet, hurried out of the mess deck, past the sofas and armchairs, and the rarely used snooker table in the recreation room. The Watch Commander, who had gone first, opened the door to the pole hatch, then in turn they slid down into the muster room, and ran out to the huge garage where the fire engines – the big red toolboxes, as they called them – sat. At the start of the shift, they had each placed their uniforms and boots at their allotted stations outside the vehicles, their boots tucked into their trouser legs like children’s.

  Less than one minute and fifteen seconds after the alarm had first sounded, all of them except the drivers, because they could not drive in boots, had changed into their fire-fighting kit; the garage doors slid upwards and the first two engines, blue lights strobing, sirens wailing, pulled out onto the forecourt, and then, as the traffic stopped for them, out onto the road.

  14

  Thursday afternoon, 24 October

  ‘Shall we start upstairs?’ Red said, as brightly as she could. She’d been feeling terrible all day.

  The young couple nodded in unison.

  ‘I love these houses,’ Red said, as she led the way. ‘The Edwardians knew how to build solid homes that would last. And Portland Avenue is such a lovely street!’

  ‘Which are the local schools?’ asked the heavily pregnant woman as they reached the landing.

  ‘Well, the New Church Road area is really well served, Mrs Hovey. There are several schools including Deepdene, a private nursery school, and St Christopher’s, just five minutes’ walk away, which is also private and has a terrific reputation.’

  Her husband peered around with a dubious expression. ‘Rather a small landing, Sam,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Red replied. ‘The thing is, the architect clearly felt the size of the bedrooms was more important. I’ll begin with the smallest.’ She pushed open the door and waited for them both to enter. ‘It would make the most perfect room for your baby, don’t you think?’

  It was pleasant, with a south aspect onto the side wall of the neighbouring house.

  ‘It would!’ the pregnant woman exclaimed. ‘Delightful!’

  ‘Not much light,’ her husband said.

  He was a good-looking man, dressed in a nice suit. His wife was pretty and sparky. Red felt a pang of envy as she saw them hold hands, evidently much in love. They’d sold their flat and were cash buyers, and this was within their price range. She could see them setting up home here, in this semi-detached three-bedroom house just north of New Church Road, a quiet residential area of the city that was close to the sea and within walking distance of a large shopping area. She could see them pushing the buggy around these streets.

  She could happily live in a house like this herself. Up until yesterday, she could have imagined living here with Karl, and being pregnant with his child. How amazing might that have been? Her parents hadn’t met Karl, but she knew they would have really liked him. Her mother, a life coach, was an astute judge of people. She had disliked Bryce from the get-go, but back then Red had been totally smitten with him, and all her mother’s words of warning had fallen on deaf ears.

  She and her mother had fallen out big time over Bryce, and later he had blamed her parents for being behind their break-up.

  It wasn’t until her mother had showed her the evidence that she had finally been forced to realize the truth. That everything about Bryce was a lie.

  She had been a lot more careful with Karl, surreptitiously checking out his background – which had made her feel sneaky, but safe.

  ‘Now, this is a really nice size spare bedroom – with its own en suite bathroom,’ she said, saving the stunning master bedroom – one of the property’s best selling points – until last. She held the door open.

  ‘Yes!’ Mrs Hovey said.

  ‘Your parents would be happy with this room when they come to stay,’ her husband said.

  Promising, Red thought.

  Then she led them across the landing to the pièce de résistance. She opened the master bedroom door, waited until they had entered and were absorbed in looking around, then tapped the Sky News app on her phone, hoping desperately, forlornly, for some news of Karl.

  ‘Wow!’ Mrs Hovey said
. ‘You’re right, this is a stunning room!’

  ‘The bathroom’s a bit disappointing,’ her husband said.

  ‘We could change it, darling. It’s a fabulous bedroom!’

  Red wasn’t listening. She was staring at the news. Unable to take her eyes off the screen.

  15

  Thursday, late afternoon, 24 October

  The charred body lying in the ditch at Haywards Heath Golf Club looked even more eerie under the glare of the spotlights, if that were possible, thought Glenn Branson. He was standing with DS Bella Moy, who Roy Grace had dispatched from the Major Crime Team to join him. Both of them were feeling cold in the chilly autumnal air behind the screens that had been erected to enable the Home Office Pathologist, Dr Frazer Theobald, who was conveniently in the area for another postmortem, to view the body in situ. Although it looked very much like suicide, foul play had to be ruled out.

  A little earlier, he’d had to deal with an irate Club Secretary, James Birkett, who felt the police were being over the top in closing down the entire golf club, and demanded to know when his members could resume playing. He had been extremely unhappy when Glenn had told him, apologetically, that it would depend on whether or not the pathologist was satisfied there was no foul play. If he was not satisfied, it meant it could be several days before this part of the golf course at least could reopen.

  In an attempt to mollify him, and masking his irritation, Glenn Branson had asked the Secretary how he would feel if this man was a member of his family – would he not want the police to do everything possible to find the perpetrator, and not take the risk of golfers trampling a vital piece of evidence into the ground?

  Under the harsh lights the corpse seemed even more like a prop from a horror movie, and despite all his experience, Glenn found himself having to remember that this was a human being, someone’s son, and, more than likely, someone’s loved one. As the pathologist worked his painstakingly thorough, methodical, slow way around the body, Glenn tentatively put an arm around Bella’s shoulder. You had to be so careful in the police in this new politically correct age. One false move and you could find yourself up on a disciplinary charge of sexual harassment.