100
Cassandra Jones hated Monday mornings. And today was a particularly bad one. She had a piercing hangover from the wine she had drunk last night, and she had an important early morning meeting in London with a new client. Why the hell had she had that fourth glass? What, she wondered, was that strange logic alcohol instilled in your brain that insisted you would feel better the next day if you had yet another glass of wine, instead of politely declining, or having a glass of water instead?
She showered, dressed, drank a glass of Emergen-C vitamin booster and forced down a bowl of porridge, then opened her front door and wheeled out her bicycle for the short ride to the station. At least the storm that had raged all night had died, and it was a fine late summer – or early autumnal, depending on your perspective – day.
She closed her front door behind her, then noticed the huddled, contorted figure lying on the cobblestones a short distance in front of her. For an instant she felt a flash of indignant anger. What the hell was one of Brighton’s drunk street people doing in here, in this private courtyard?
Then, as she wheeled her bike nearer, she saw the dark stain that lay around the figure’s head. The crimson colour of blood.
She stopped in horror at the totally bizarre sight. A small man, dressed in black, with streaks of black mingled with congealed blood on his face. A black bathing cap lay a short distance from him, and a strange-looking pair of goggles were around his chin. Was he some kind of a Peeping Tom?
She dropped her bike, her eyes darting around the houses. Where had he come from? Had anyone else seen him? Then she took several steps closer, trying to remember a First Aid training course she had done a few years ago. But when she got a clearer view of his face, she saw the top of his forehead was split open, like a coconut, and a brown-grey mass had leaked from it, along with the blood. His eyes stared ahead, sightless, like eyes on a fishmonger’s slab.
Shaking, she swung her backpack off her shoulders, pulled her mobile phone out of it and stabbed out 999.
101
Roy Grace had set his alarm for 5 a.m., but he need not have bothered. He woke at 3 a.m., feeling totally alert. It was 8 a.m. in the UK, where he would have been up for two hours at this point, and probably completed a run of at least three miles.
Cleo was probably awake, and he was tempted to call her. But in case she was sleeping after a feed, he decided to leave it a while. And, he knew, he needed to try to sleep some more, and get rested before what was likely to be a long and hard day ahead.
He swapped his pillows around and lay back. But after a few minutes, he turned onto his right side. Then his left. Then onto his back again. He was fretting about Eamonn Pollock giving them the slip. He was convinced the man was the key, and that at some point he would have the watch in his possession. And then they would have him.
Detective Aaron Cobb worried him increasingly, and he did not want to leave things to him. He wanted to get to Pollock’s hotel himself and find all the possible exit routes – because he was damned sure that Pollock had already established them. With so much at stake, it was highly unlikely the man would be taking any risks.
There was no going back to sleep; he was totally awake, his brain racing. Grace slipped out of bed, showered then shaved. Then he scanned his thirty or so new emails, but there was nothing of any significance. A couple related to the autumn fixtures of the Police Rugby Club, which he ran, and another to a refresher course on Cognitive Suspect Interviewing at Slaugham Manor, the police training and conference centre in Sussex.
He pulled on a T-shirt, tracksuit and trainers, zipped his hotel room card into a pocket, then took the elevator down, emerging into the deserted lobby. A solitary figure stood behind the reception desk, and a tall black security guard, wearing a coiled earpiece, gave him a solemn nod.
He strode along 42nd Street in the darkness for some while, then broke into a jog, turned right and headed up towards Central Park. The traffic was light; just an occasional car or taxi drove past. The sidewalks were deserted. He did not bother stopping at red lights, but just carried on crossing street after street, until he reached the Plaza, where he turned left.
A few minutes later he reached the front entrance of the Marriott Essex House Hotel. He carried on past it, turned left on Seventh Avenue, then left again onto 56th Street and stopped when he reached the rear entrance to the hotel. He tried the door, and to his slight surprise, it opened. He walked down a long corridor, lined with window displays of expensive-looking clothes and jewellery, then reached a bank of elevators.
An alert man-mountain stood guard, eyeing him with curiosity. Next to him, seated on chairs and both fast asleep, were two uniformed cops.
Quietly, not wanting to wake them, Grace showed the guard his UK police warrant card. ‘These guys on watch for Eamonn Pollock, suite 1406?’
‘Yeah.’ He grinned. ‘Not much stamina, right?’
Grace raised his iPhone, took a photograph of them, then emailed it to Pat Lanigan with a terse note.
‘How many entrances and exits do you have here?’ he asked the security guard.
‘Two this floor. Two down below. Then we have the fire escapes.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Six of them.’
Ten exits, Grace thought. Two cops covering them – both of whom were asleep. How great was that?
‘Can you show me them?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, boss, not allowed to leave this station.’
‘Mind if I help myself?’
‘Be my guest.’
102
Back in his hotel room, shortly after 4 a.m., Roy Grace suddenly felt dog-tired. He undressed and climbed back into bed, and set his alarm for half an hour’s time. Almost instantly he fell asleep, only to be woken, what seemed like seconds later, by his phone ringing.
It was Glenn Branson. ‘Yo, old timer, you awake?’
‘I wasn’t but I am now. What’s happening?’ he said, checking the time. It was 4.20 a.m; 9.20 a.m. in Brighton, he calculated.
‘Quite a lot while you’ve been zizzing away.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, I can’t be sure, but it looks like someone might have been trying to break into your house last night.’
‘Which house?’
‘Cleo’s.’
Grace sat bolt upright, fear surging through him. ‘What do you mean? What happened?’
‘I’m standing outside the house right now. We’ve got a dead body – looks like he fell from the roof. Got his face blackened; he’s all kitted out in black, with night-vision goggles, and a whole set of house-breaking tools on him.’ Glenn deliberately omitted the barber’s razor, not wanting to worry his friend further.
Grace felt sudden deep dread grip him. ‘Is Cleo okay? Have you checked on her and Noah?’
‘They’re fine.’
‘Fell from the roof? Do you have an ID on him?’
‘Not yet. He’s not carrying a wallet or any other ID.’
‘He’s definitely dead?’
‘Certified by the paramedic. The Coroner’s Officer’s just arrived.’
‘Why do you think he might have been trying to break in, Glenn?’
‘He’s six feet in front of her house. If he isn’t a burglar, then he’s come from a fancy-dress party dressed as one.’
‘I need to speak to Cleo,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll bell you back.’
His finger shaking, he dialled Cleo’s house phone, but it was busy. He tried her mobile but that went straight to voicemail. He redialled the house number and finally she answered, sounding terrible.
‘I was trying to call you,’ she said. ‘It must have been the noise I heard last night – when the television went all fuzzy – someone sliding down the roof. What was he doing up there on our roof, Roy? What the hell was someone doing on our roof?’
His phone was beeping. Caller waiting was flashing on his display. ‘Darling, hold one sec, okay? I’m just putting you on hold, in case this is urgent.’
 
; It was Glenn Branson. ‘Roy, the Coroner’s Officer, Philip Keay, says he recognizes the dead man from some years back. I’m not sure you’re going to like this much – it’s Amis Smallbone.’
Sitting on the edge of his bed, the news was almost surreal. It took a moment for it to sink in. ‘Amis Smallbone? Is he sure?’
‘Yes, absolutely certain.’
‘I’ll call you back in a minute.’ He switched to Cleo. ‘I’m coming straight home – as soon as I can get a flight, darling. I won’t be able to get one until this evening – the earliest I’ll get back is tomorrow morning. But I’m putting a police officer in the house with you until I’m back. I’ll get a Family Liaison Officer.’
‘Please come back quickly,’ she said, her voice cracking.
‘I love you, darling,’ he said. ‘You’re fine, you and Noah. But I don’t want you leaving the house until I get back and find out what’s going on, okay?’
He could barely decipher her reply through her sobbing. And he was shaking himself. Just what the hell had the little shit been up to?
103
Roy Grace sat on the edge of his bed, shivering from the air-con, his face in his hands, thinking. Amis Smallbone with house-breaking kit. There was no alternative scenario, no other possible hypothesis. Smallbone had been there to break into the house. Period. The unanswered question was, what had he planned to do?
Harm Cleo or Noah, or both? He thought back to the vile, chilling words carved with a chisel on Cleo’s car, back in June: COPPER’S TART. UR BABY IS NEXT. Smallbone had vigorously denied it was his handiwork. That had been followed by an obituary notice placed anonymously in the Argus, shortly after Noah had been born. The person who had done that had still not been identified, but Grace had a pretty shrewd idea it was Amis Smallbone who had been responsible for both.
Did he have an accomplice? Grace thought that unlikely. If Smallbone had wanted something taken from the house, he would have hired someone to do that. No. Whatever he’d planned, he had intended doing it himself. And now he was dead. One less piece of vermin on this planet. He doubted many people would be mourning him. A nasty, futile, squandered gift of life.
His phone pinged with an incoming text. He looked at the display and saw it was from Pat Lanigan.
They’re awake now, pal, with pepper up their asses!
He grinned, then phoned Glenn Branson back. ‘Has anyone checked Cleo’s house for signs of forced entry?’
‘We’ve done that and it’s all secure.’
‘She’s very shaken, Glenn. Can you get someone to stay with her?’
‘I’m on it. I’m organizing an FLO to be with her until you get back.’
‘Thanks. I thought you weren’t going to be at work today – isn’t Ari’s funeral this week? Wednesday?’
‘I wasn’t, then I saw the address of the incident on the serial and I came over. I have Ari’s sister staying at the house to help with the kids, so it’s okay.’
‘I really appreciate it. Thanks, matey.’
‘I’ll phone you with any updates. How’s it going there?’
‘For half four on a Monday morning, quite lively, so far,’ Grace said, wryly. He gave him a quick update, ended the call, then immediately phoned Tony Case, the Senior Support Officer, who was responsible for travel arrangements. He explained the circumstances and asked Case if he could get him an emergency ticket home.
‘Hmm, that’s going to cost,’ Tony Case said. A former police officer himself, he could be a bit of a curmudgeon. ‘I got you all a good deal on return tickets, but they’re non-refundable.’
‘I’ll pay it out of my own pocket.’
That seemed to cheer Case a little. ‘Well, leave it with me, Roy. May not be necessary. You’re on your mobile?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give me half an hour or so.’
With no interest in – or prospect of – any more sleep, he ordered a pot of coffee, then stepped into the hard, hot jets of the shower, making a mental note to check with Cleo that she had arranged for flowers to be sent to Ari Branson’s funeral.
*
Twenty minutes later, invigorated from the shower and from his second cup of coffee, Roy Grace checked his emails. But there were no further updates so far regarding Cleo’s house, beyond the information Glenn Branson had already given him.
It was 5.10 a.m. His eyes felt tired, but his brain was wired. In three-quarters of an hour he was due to meet Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander down in the lobby, and then head up to Central Park South and Eamonn Pollock’s hotel.
He called MIR-1 and asked Bella Moy for an update. There were no significant developments, she told him. Then as he ended the call, Glenn Branson rang again.
‘You’re not going to like this at all,’ he said.
‘I’m not liking it already!’ Grace replied.
104
‘I thought in our last session you were going to talk more about the father of your son,’ Dr Eberstark said. ‘You told me you were having an affair with one of your husband’s work colleagues. Do you believe this man is the father?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sandy said.
‘And how do you feel about that? About not knowing?’
She was silent for some moments, then she shrugged. ‘It’s difficult. I’m not sure if I would prefer to know that Roy is Bruno’s father, or that he isn’t.’
‘And if he is, do you not think he has a right to know?’
‘I thought I was paying you to help me, not to interrogate me.’
The psychiatrist smiled. ‘You keep so much inside you, Sandy. Do you not know that expression, The truth will set you free?’
‘So how do you suppose I will find the truth? I can hardly ask Roy, or the man I had the affair with, to send me samples for DNA testing.’
‘In my experience, most women know,’ he said. ‘You are a very instinctive person. What do your instincts tell you?’
‘Can we change the subject?’
‘Why does it make you so uncomfortable to talk about it?’
‘Because . . .’ She shrugged again, and lapsed into silence.
After several minutes, Dr Eberstark asked, ‘Did you think any more about the house in Brighton that you are planning to buy?’
‘It’s in Hove, actually.’
‘Hove?’
‘I guess the equivalent here would be Schwabing.’
‘A smart area?’
‘There used to be a big snobbery between Brighton and Hove residents. Brighton was brash and racy; Hove was more sedate and genteel.’
‘Ah.’
There was another long silence.
Dr Eberstark, after checking his watch and seeing they only had a few minutes left, prompted her. ‘So, the house in Hove, did you make any decision?’
She said nothing, and stared at him with an expression he could not read.
*
As Sandy left the front door of Dr Eberstark’s building, and stepped onto the pavement of Widenmayerstrasse, she stopped, staring at the wide, grass bank of the Isar river across the busy street, collecting her thoughts. She had lied to the psychiatrist. She did know who the real father was.
As the traffic roared past in front of her, she wondered whether it was time, finally, to tell Roy about her son. Their son. She knew now, for sure, that he was the father. On her visit to the house, two months ago, when she had been taken round by the estate agent, she had sneaked an old toothbrush and a hairbrush from his bathroom into her handbag. From the DNA provided by them, a firm in Berlin had confirmed the paternity of her son, Bruno Roy Lohmann, beyond doubt. It had not been Cassian Pewe’s child. She’d had a fling with him, over several months, after meeting him when Roy had attended a crime course he was running, but it had fizzled out.
She was agonizing, too, over the house. She could afford to buy it, but was going back like that the right thing?
Then, suddenly, for the first time in a long time, she smiled, and thought to herself, I know where I am g
oing now and what I want to do.
With a spring in her step she took two paces forward and hailed a cab.
105
The same man-mountain was still on night duty in the lobby, beside the bank of elevators in the Marriott Essex House Hotel, when the three British detectives arrived, shortly after 6.15 a.m. To Roy Grace’s relief, the two police officers who had been fast asleep when he had been here earlier were now wide awake and nervously eager to give him information. Not that they had anything of significance to report. Last night, at 7.30 p.m., Eamonn Pollock had had a meal delivered to his room. According to the room service waiter, he also had a male visitor. Sometime later, Pollock had pushed his tray out into the corridor. He’d been silent since then, and they presumed he was now still asleep.
Grace asked if he could speak to the waiter about Pollock’s visitor. The man-mountain made a call on his radio, and reported back that the waiter had gone off duty and would not be here again until midday.
Leaving the hotel security guard in situ, Grace took his colleagues and the American police officers down to the two basement exits, leaving Batchelor covering one and Jack Alexander the other. He sent one officer up to stand outside Pollock’s door and the other to remain down here. Grace went into the front lobby and up to the reception desk, keeping an eye on the main entrance, and asked to speak to the duty manager.
He was finding it really hard to focus on anything since the last phone call he had received earlier from Glenn Branson, telling him that Amis Smallbone had rented the house next door to Cleo’s. The little scumbag had been the other side of their party wall. With an electronic eavesdropping device. How had he been able to do that? Surely to God his Probation Officer . . .
But it wasn’t the Probation Officer’s fault. All he – or she – had to do was to check the address was suitable, and that their charge could afford it. They weren’t to know it was next door to where he was living.