A Twist of the Knife

  ‘It’s really too soon to say – we need more information. We have to establish whether this was a terrible accident, murder or possibly suicide.’

  ‘Well now you mention it, Richard did mention suicide occasionally, but only in the way many people do when things are bad – you know. I never thought he – you know – he would actually do it. He’s not the type.’

  ‘What do you think might have happened to your husband?’ Grace pressed.

  ‘I don’t have an explanation,’ she said and began sobbing. The detectives waited for her to regain her composure. ‘He was highly experienced, and even if his main chute didn’t open, his reserve should have done, for sure.’

  ‘Accidents do occur,’ Grace said, ‘from what I’ve read up today.’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, I packed his parachutes immaculately. I know I did.’

  Grace nodded. ‘OK, well, we have the British Parachute Association team coming down tomorrow, so hopefully we will be able to establish exactly what happened. I won’t trouble you any more until we have all the facts.’

  As she closed the front door on them, Potting gave him curious look. ‘That was a bit short, Chief.’

  Grace patted the bonnet of the Audi, which was icy cold. ‘Nice cars, these,’ he said. Then he touched the bonnet of the BMW and could feel the heat from it. ‘I like Beemers. Always have.’ He made a mental note of the registration number.

  ‘Know what BMW stands for, Chief?’ Potting said as they climbed back into the car.

  Grace stared at him, knowing it was going to be something rude. ‘Don’t go there,’ he warned. He started the engine, drove a short distance from the house, then pulled over and radioed for a PNC check on the BMW, reading out its index number to the controller.

  *

  Roy Grace delayed the Sunday morning briefing to the afternoon, to give the parachute investigation team a chance to carry out their work. Meanwhile his own officers were still trying, urgently, to trace Sidney Carp. At 10 a.m. Roy held a press conference at which he gave public reassurance about the numbers of officers on the case, leave being cancelled, and his enquiry team working through the holiday period to establish what had happened and make the city safe.

  In the early afternoon, just as his briefing was about to commence, Norman Potting came hurrying in. ‘We’ve netted our suspect, Sidney Carp!’

  ‘Brilliant work, Norman!’ Grace said.

  Then Potting looked gloomy and shook his head. ‘Not good news, I’m afraid, chief, he’s going to be the fish that got away.’

  There was another loud groan from the team.

  Potting continued. ‘He was arrested at Victoria Station in the early hours of Sunday morning, in a drunken state, with a holdall containing a chainsaw, and is still in custody, having refused to give any details or explain why he was carrying a chainsaw.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily eliminate him,’ Grace said, ‘but he’s no longer our best suspect. I think I have a better one.’

  *

  An hour later, Grace was armed with the preliminary, but fairly conclusive, information about why both parachutes had failed. The two detectives returned to Woodland Drive. As they climbed out into the sub-zero air and walked to the front door, Grace noted that both the Audi convertible and the BMW were coated in frost.

  This time, slightly to Potting’s surprise, Roy Grace enthusiastically accepted Zoe Walker’s invitation for coffee. She sat them on the large sofa in the sitting room, and proudly pointed out the two cabinets filled with Richard Walker’s sky-diving trophies.

  ‘There is something I’ve remembered, Detective Superintendent. When I was at Shoreham Airport yesterday, I’m sure I saw a man sitting in a car on the perimeter road who I recognized – he was one of the men who had been threatening my husband.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll just go and get the coffee.’

  The moment she had left the room Grace said, ‘Norman, I want you to go outside, slam the front door loudly behind you, get in the car and drive off.’

  The DS frowned at his boss. ‘You do?’

  ‘Come back when I call you,’ Grace said. ‘Go!’ He could see all kinds of doubts in Potting’s face. ‘Go!’ he said again.

  Potting shambled off, and a moment later, Grace heard the door slam, even louder than he had intended. Then he heard the sound of his car starting.

  A few moments later, just as Zoe Walker came back in, holding a laden tray, a gruff male voice called down from upstairs, ‘Was that those coppers again, darling? What did they want this time?’

  She turned sheet white and froze in the doorway. The tray slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor. Roy Grace leapt to his feet, ignoring the mess. ‘You always packed your husband’s parachutes, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. Well, almost always.’

  ‘Well the reason his parachutes failed is fairly clear. The lines on both the main and reserve chutes had been cut clean through. You’ve got your husband’s former business partner, Jim Brenner, upstairs in your bed. And your husband had a two-million-pound life-insurance policy. More than enough to cover his debts and for you to start a new life.’

  She said nothing. He could see her eyes darting around nervously.

  ‘Not smart to let your lover leave his car on your driveway with a warm engine when your husband’s body’s not even cold, Mrs Walker.’

  ‘It’s not like you think it is,’ she said.

  ‘Oh it is, trust me. It’s all too often exactly how I think it is, sad to say.’

  He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. ‘Zoe Walker, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of your husband Richard.’ Then he read her out the formal caution.

  ‘What . . . what . . . do you mean?’

  He snapped the cuffs on her wrists. ‘I’m also arresting your bedfellow on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. The one bit of good news I can give you, as it’s Christmas, is that in prison you get an excellent turkey dinner, with all the trimmings. Some local villains have themselves banged up deliberately every December so they can enjoy it. There’ll be plum pud and crackers. You’ll have a lovely time. A much nicer Christmas than your husband will in the mortuary.’

  *

  It was almost midnight by the time Roy Grace left the custody centre and drove home. Although Zoe Walker had broken down and confessed, he would have to appear in court tomorrow in front of a magistrate, to get an extension to keep her and her lover in custody whilst enquiries continued. In addition to this, he would have a morass of paperwork to wade through.

  She thought she could blame the people her husband owed money to, but there was one flaw in her plan – she didn’t know he had already paid off his debts a week earlier, after a huge win at the casino. He’d been planning to tell her the good news as a Christmas present.

  Then, as Grace stepped out of the shower, his phone rang.

  Dreading news of another homicide, he picked it up with trepidation. But it was the Chief Constable again.

  ‘Well done on your fast work, Roy,’ he said. ‘I understand you have two in custody.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘There’s one problem the arrests haven’t solved though: all the kids who now think Santa Claus is dead. I’m particularly concerned about the children at Chestnut Tree House hospice – for some of them, sadly, it might be their last Christmas. You’re a resourceful man, Roy, and a father yourself. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Leave it with me, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll come up with something.’

  *

  A life-size wooden reindeer stood in the gazebo-style porch of the sprawling mansion, Chestnut Tree House, along with a huge inflatable snowman. Fairy lights twinkled all around in the late afternoon darkness. Snow was falling and there was a sense of the magic of Christmas in the air. A crowd of fifty adults and youngsters, all wearing Santa hats, were outside, singing a carol. In the front row were children in pushchairs or wheelchairs, and one small boy on a wooden chair playing a trombone larger t
han himself.

  Out of the darkness came a loud, ‘Ho-ho-ho! Hello boys and girls!’ Santa Claus, in his full costume and thick beard, staggered towards them under the weight of a huge, laden sack. For twenty minutes he chatted animatedly to each child in turn, before handing them a beautifully wrapped gift with their name on the tag.

  When he had finished, the director of the hospice called out, ‘Let’s all say, ‘Bye, Bye, Santa!’

  All the kids shouted out in unison, ‘BYE BYE, SANTA!’

  Roy Grace fought back tears as he trudged back down the driveway to his car, safely out of sight of the house. He wiped snow off the windows and mirrors and climbed in, desperate to remove the beard and moustache, which were itching like hell. It was 6 p.m., he realized with a heavy heart. It had taken him all afternoon, since leaving court, to get the kit sorted out and buy the presents, ticking each off the list he had been given by the hospice, paying for them himself, then wrapping and labelling them. He had been determined to show all the kids that Santa was alive and well.

  But the shops would all be shut now, and it was too late to get to The Lanes to buy that bracelet. Cleo was going to be disappointed in the morning at not getting a proper present, and he felt lousy about that.

  A shadow fell and there was a sudden rap on the window, momentarily startling him. He saw a man he recognized in a smart overcoat – one of the parents he’d seen in the crowd – standing by his door. Grace wound down the window.

  ‘I just wanted to say, Detective Superintendent, how grateful all of us parents are for what you did. If there’s ever a way any of us can repay your kindness, please let me know. I hope you get all you wish for this Christmas.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you,’ Grace said. He grinned. ‘I have only one wish. If you could get Stanley Rosen, the jeweller, to open up his shop in Brighton tonight for just five minutes that would really make my Christmas!’

  The man smiled. ‘I think that could be arranged.’

  ‘You do?’ Grace said, surprised.

  ‘I am Stanley Rosen.’

  An hour and a half later, Roy Grace drove out of the underground car park and turned left onto the seafront, towards the pier. Heading home to Cleo. It was 8.30 p.m., and Christmas, for him, was really beginning. He’d phoned her to say he was on his way, and she’d told him Champagne was in the fridge, waiting.

  On the seat beside him was the blue velvet box with the name ‘Stanley Rosen’ monogrammed in gold on the lid. He couldn’t believe his luck! They truly were going to have a great Christmas after all. His and Cleo’s first Christmas together, and Noah’s first Christmas ever. He felt a surge of deep happiness.

  Then his phone rang.

  CROSSED LINES

  At five o’clock, Henry Henry got up from his typewriter and walked quietly to his window. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d jumped there in hobnail boots, there was no one to hear him, but this was his ritual and he stuck to it. Rituals marked his day like punctuation on a printed page.

  He peered nervously at the row of terraced houses the other side of the street. It was impossible to tell the quality of the residences inside. Some were elegant flats, some were bedsits, like his own.

  He found the window straight away, out of habit. Damn. She was not there. He muttered to himself, as if he had been deprived of something that was rightfully his. And then he saw a flicker of movement – or had he imagined it?

  Suddenly she came into view, clutching a drink and a paperback. She was completely naked, as usual; only now it was summer and her body was brown, with slim white bands around her breasts and bum. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes, placed her buttocks on the pink chaise longue, leaned back and swung her long legs onto it. She took a sip of her drink, put down the glass and opened her book.

  What was the drink, he wondered? What was the book? Why did she keep a bikini on whilst sunbathing when she clearly liked to be nude? So many questions, he thought. So much he would like to know about her. All last autumn, he had seen her tan fading; now the bands were back, appearing whiter every week. There were surely things she would like to know, too? Not, perhaps, the fact that he watched her every night, no. But would she be pleased that she was the heroine of the book he was currently writing? Would she care for that type of book – the romantic novel? Perhaps not, he thought wistfully. It seemed to him that the people who cared for his romances were a dying breed. Old hat, people called them. Old hat – and he was only thirty-two!

  A wave of panic squeezed his stomach like a tourniquet. What had he forgotten? Something important? Damn. He stared at the long brown legs longingly. He remembered, and tore his eyes away reluctantly, like sticking plaster from an old wound. He looked up the telephone number and dialled with short, timid stabs of his index finger, as though he were testing the warmth of a soup.

  He was surprised to hear a squawk, instead of the ringing tone, followed by a woman’s voice, then a series of clicks.

  ‘Hallo,’ he ventured timidly.

  ‘Hallo,’ came the reply.

  Silence.

  ‘I believe we have a crossed line,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘I believe we do.’

  His eyes were transfixed across the road once more. She was on the phone too!

  ‘I was just dialling,’ she said, there was humour in her voice. It was a nice voice, someone who had learned to cope with the world and was still young enough to be full of hope. Across the road she had stopped speaking and was listening. She looked puzzled. Was it really possible this was her?

  ‘I was here first,’ he said, and then winced. He was doing it again. His wife had always told him he could never argue without attacking; now he was attacking the nice voice.

  ‘OK,’ she said, her tone unaltered, the lips of the girl across the road moving once more. ‘I’ll hang up.’

  The lips stopped moving.

  ‘No – no, don’t do that. I’ll hang up. It wasn’t an important call. I was trying to get the weather you see.’

  Her lips moved again. ‘You must be an optimist, to spend money on a weather report.’ The lips stopped again.

  The coincidence was too great now. It had to be her! Then a cloud moved in front of the sun. Optimist, he thought. No. She did not know him at all. Optimism was something that eluded him like a butterfly in a summer field.

  In a moment, she would be gone. He could not bear that, not now, not having got so close.

  ‘Meet me!’ he blurted out. ‘For a drink? You know – a coffee, perhaps. Or lunch?’ He looked across at her. She was smiling; her eyes lit up! ‘Are you free for lunch one day?’ She was thumbing through something, turning pages. A diary? Where had his courage come from, he wondered? She was searching, searching with her long naked arm. Say yes, please say yes.

  ‘How about Thursday?’

  He gobbled her words down greedily, like a starving man eating a stew.

  ‘Yes, Thursday is good for me. It’s the only day I have clear this week,’ he lied, and immediately was annoyed with himself for lying. But he knew she would not have been impressed with the truth: that all his days were free, stretching out ahead like the blank white sheets in the box of A4 paper he had to fill with words – of love, bravery, heroism, desire and, ultimately, success.

  ‘You do live in London?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, conscious that his voice was blurting; it was as though his mouth had become a brass horn and his voice a rubber bulb; he kept squeezing it at the wrong pressure.

  ‘Where do you work?’ he said. ‘I mean, which part of London? I’m not trying to be nosey, it’s just important to choose somewhere – er – convenient.’

  The good humour stayed with her voice, without effort. ‘I don’t mind coming over to where you work.’

  ‘No,’ he said, and realized that he had nearly shouted.

  ‘What I mean is that I couldn’t inconvenience you. I work in Oxford Circus.’

  ‘That’s perfect. I have a meeting in Bond
Street on Thursday morning,’ he said, selecting Bond Street because he felt it sounded smart. His mind raced. Where could he suggest? Bond Street? What names. Claridge’s? Classy, but he had never been in; he wouldn’t know where the bar was, where the restaurant was. He could do a recce; it was only Monday today. But no, Claridge’s seemed too formal. Somewhere romantic – Italian? Yes, the hero and heroine of Sweetness and Light, his new book, fell in love with each other in an Italian restaurant, while a mandolin player serenaded them.

  ‘Do you like Italian food?’ he blurted again, wondering what the hell had happened to his voice.

  ‘Oh yes, I adore it,’ she replied.

  ‘Me too. Have you a favourite restaurant? I’ll leave the choice up to you.’ He began to flounder. ‘I . . .’ he said, ‘I . . .’ He searched for words, like a man rummaging through a key ring.

  ‘It’s been a while since I was around that area.’

  ‘What about Fifty-Five?’ she said.

  ‘Fifty-Five?’ He paused. ‘Fifty-five which street?’ he said, feeling slightly foolish.

  She laughed. ‘No, that’s the name of the restaurant. On the corner of Bond Street and Maddox Street.’ He found a laugh, too, from somewhere within him, easier than he had thought he would. ‘Oh yes, I know it,’ he said. ‘Very nice. Yes, I’ll book – what time?’

  ‘Will your meeting be over by one?’ He delayed replying, trusting this implied that he was pondering the agenda. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘It should be. And if not,’ he added, with bravado, ‘it will just have to go on without me.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you there at one. How will we recognize each other?’

  She was practical, he thought.

  ‘Just ask for my table.’ He paused, like a dry bather at the edge of a pool.

  ‘I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Henry,’ he said.

  ‘Henry what?’ she said.

  He stuck a toe in the water and watched the ripple. ‘Henry Henry – surname and Christian name.’ Don’t laugh, he said to himself, please don’t laugh. He remembered his wife laughing the first time they met. The name had annoyed and embarrassed her throughout the eight years they were married.