Love You Dead (24 page)

The moment any human being died, their body became, in law, the property of the Coroner. If someone, already ill, had died of natural causes and their doctor was happy to sign off the death, the
body could go straight to the funeral director.

In most circumstances where the cause of death was not suspicious, such as when someone in poor health had died more than twenty-eight days since they last saw a doctor or as the result of an
accident, one of the team of three local pathologists would perform the post-mortem. But on deaths where the Coroner had reason to believe there were suspicious circumstances, then a highly trained
Home Office pathologist – of which there were just thirty-two covering the whole of the UK – would be called in. A standard post-mortem took less than an hour. A Home Office one could
sometimes take all day – or even longer.

Roy always found it hard to see Cleo when she was at work, with the constantly grim duties she carried out every day, in contrast to her home life. And he admired her all the more for it.
She’d often told him her greatest satisfaction came from helping bereaved loved ones through one of the most difficult tasks they ever had to face in their lives.

He knew all too well from some of the narrow escapes he’d had in his own career – and the dangers which all police officers faced – that there was the constant possibility that
one day he could end up on one of those post-mortem tables himself.

It was something Cleo knew only too well, also. The elephant in the room that they rarely talked about. Regardless of the size of its shadow. He respected her enormously for her work, and her
attitude.

He hurriedly showered and shaved, and went down to the kitchen. He put some porridge into the microwave, then went over to Marlon’s tank and dropped in some food flakes. ‘Morning, old
chap, had a good night? What you been up to?’

The goldfish’s response was the same as ever. It opened and shut its mouth a few times, then swam to the surface and gulped down some of the food. Strange to think, Grace considered, but
this was probably the highlight of Marlon’s day.

He carried his porridge over to the breakfast table, sat down and began to eat, flipping through the pages of
Sussex Life
magazine. But after only a few moments, his mobile phone
rang.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

‘Good morning, Roy.’

He recognized instantly the voice of the Coroner of Brighton and Hove. ‘Good morning,’ he replied. ‘Inspector Anakin said you would be calling.’ All their conversations
were straight down to business; she was not one, normally, for pleasantries or small talk.

‘Roy, I’ve been informed about a Brighton resident, Mr Shelby Stonor, who died following a road traffic accident in Marine Parade in Brighton. There are serious concerns about the
nature of his death.’

‘Yes, I have questions about his death, too.’

‘As you know, those who treated him don’t believe the injuries he sustained in the accident were sufficient to be fatal. They think he might have been poisoned – possibly
bitten by a venomous snake – or he had a tropical disease. One of the paramedics worked in Africa some years back – she says that Stonor had puncture marks on his right ankle that could
have been a snake bite. We need to bring in a Home Office pathologist who has experience in this field. There’s one, Dr Nick Best. I’ve contacted him and he could be available later
today or tomorrow. They’re going to carry out toxicology tests – I will have more information later, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up.’

‘Thank you,’ Grace said. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘I’m off on holiday later today,’ she said. ‘I’m short-staffed at the moment, so West Sussex Coroner, Penny Schofield, has seconded one of her officers to me,
Michelle Websdale. She’ll liaise with you.’

‘I’ll wait to hear from her. In the meantime, I’m contacting London Zoo, as soon as they’re open, to see if they could send down an expert in snakes to accompany a search
team to Stonor’s home, as a precaution. I’ve just established he lived with his girlfriend, a woman called Angi Bunsen, who has no criminal record.’

Roy ended the call and returned to his now lukewarm porridge. Too often with murder enquiries he felt deep empathy for the victims. But it would be harder to feel much for such a vile shitbag as
Shelby Stonor, as many of his past victims had been old and vulnerable.

So often, people like Stonor, who blighted the lives of decent folk, got away with it for decades, thanks to the injustices of the legal system. Equally, he recognized that he was a human being
who, regardless of his criminal past, deserved the same in-depth enquiry he would give anyone. Undoubtedly, as was the case with most villains, Stonor’s past would turn out to be a tragic
one: a broken home, or alcoholic or abusive parents, who had never given him much of a chance in life, never set any kind of example or moral boundary for him. A sad victim of life and robbed of
any future by an early death. Grace knew now that Stonor had had a girlfriend and probably a family, and they, too, deserved his best efforts.

Tooth arrived back in his hotel room soon after 11 a.m., having walked the few miles there and back to Roedean Crescent. He’d talked to two builders who were Polish and
they had trouble understanding him. He explained he was a private detective working for a car insurance company, and that the occupant of the house, Jodie Bentley, whom he was trying to find, had
given her name as a witness at an accident. But he got very little from them.

They worked for a London property management company engaged by the house’s owner, and were currently fitting new guttering. There had been a break-in last week, which was why they’d
boarded up that particular window – it was the one where the intruder had entered. They seemed pretty glad the window was boarded up, because of the reptiles in the room, which neither of
them had liked the look of. They’d seen the woman – she’d asked them to board up the window, but they were not able to tell him anything about her, or when she was due back.

At this moment there seemed only one way to find out. And that was to keep watch on her house until she returned. However long that took. Which was fine.

Back in his days as a sniper, he’d once sat for three weeks in the shell of a building, in blistering heat, permanently thirsty and hungry, with scorpions, spiders and the occasional
curious snake as his only visitors, waiting for his target to appear in the cross-hairs of his sight. The spray of crimson from the exploding enemy head, when he’d finally pulled the trigger,
had made it all worthwhile.

Sitting in a rental car, for however long it took for Jodie Bentley to return home, would be relative luxury.

‘What are you reading, my angel?’

Luxuriating on a blue-cushioned lounger on the open-air pool deck of the
Organza
, with her third Mimosa of the afternoon in a champagne glass beside her, Jodie Carmichael tilted up her
straw hat and turned, with a smile, to her husband of just twenty-six hours, who had an art magazine folded across his plump, reddening stomach.

They were protected from the wind by tall windows all around, and there was a round Jacuzzi at the far end. A row of wheelchairs, mobility scooters and Zimmer frames were lined up beyond it.

‘I’ve just finished the Simon Toyne. I’m now reading a book on Mumbai I got from the ship’s library. I’m so excited – I’ve never been to
India.’

‘Crazy place, Mumbai,’ he said. ‘I went to a cricket match there a few years ago. It’s their national game – almost their unifying religion. Ever watched a
game?’

She shook her head. ‘Never really understood it. Have you played much, yourself?’

‘I was quite a useful spin bowler in my youth,’ he said, digging his fingers into a bowl of nuts beside him. Then he snapped his fingers at a passing steward and barked an order for
a pink gin for himself and another Mimosa for his bride. Jodie cringed at his rude treatment of the sweet, young Filipino.

She continued reading. It was the four pages on the crocodile farm that she was focused on and studying intently. Sizing up the opportunities. There was plenty of wild terrain that visitors had
to walk through, and that was good. That was exactly what she’d hoped.

Wild terrain.

The perfect home for the kind of cold-blooded creatures she was fond of, and understood.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘there’s cricket on in Mumbai when we arrive there – they have a magnificent stadium. I think you’d find it quite something! But, of
course, if you’d still prefer the crocodile farm . . .?’ His voice was full of hope and she didn’t want to dash that.

‘My darling, of course, if you’d rather we do that?’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, my angel,’ he said. ‘If my beautiful bride has set her heart on the crocodile farm, that’s what we’ll do. Hell, I can see cricket any
time.’

‘Are you really sure?’

He took her hand and held it. His palm felt sweaty, repulsing her. ‘Being with you is all that matters. I couldn’t possibly concentrate on a cricket match – my mind would be on
far more naughty thoughts!’

‘I love your naughtiness!’

‘And I love yours. Fancy going back to the cabin – you know – get out of the sun for a bit?’

‘Haven’t you just ordered more drinks, my love?’

‘Ah – yes – ah – good point.’

She slipped her free hand across and down the front of his orange trunks, which had dollar signs all over them, and gently stroked him. ‘Now this is what I call a
good
point
,’ she said, feeling him stiffen in her hand.

He let out a gasp of pleasure.

Then, as the steward arrived with their drinks, she hastily removed her hand and returned to her book. To the photographs of the crocodile farm.

How lucky she was, she thought, to have such a sweet, understanding husband.

How sad that it would only be for a short while longer, if all went to plan.

So sad she almost shed a crocodile tear.

Haydn Kelly had positively identified the woman from the footage DC Alexander had obtained, entering the arrivals hall at Heathrow Terminal Three on Friday 20 February, and
heading towards the exit.

But, so far, none of the taxi drivers or limousine companies had come up with anyone remotely matching her description.

Shortly before 9 a.m. Roy Grace drove past the black and gold sign which read
BRIGHTON AND HOVE CITY MORTUARY
. As he pulled into a parking space at the rear, Glenn
Branson drew up alongside him. There was no sign of the Home Office pathologist, who was due to start the examination of Shelby Stonor’s body at 10 a.m. after travelling down from
Birmingham.

‘Morning,’ Branson greeted him, then, as his self-appointed style guru, eyed him up and down as usual, to Grace’s annoyance. Grace was dressed for work in a dark suit, white
shirt, plain tie and polished black shoes. ‘Expected to see you in tweeds and muddy wellies, chewing straw – you know – with your move to the country and all.’

‘Haha. How’s Siobhan?’

‘Yeah, all right. We took the kids to a farm shop place at the weekend to see the animals – they have chickens, rabbits, guinea pigs roaming around. Noah would love it. If you need
any chickens, they sell them.’

Grace grinned. ‘I usually get mine from the butcher in Henfield.’

‘Very funny. Listen, we came back along the coast and the kids had brilliant burgers in a place in Peacehaven. Big Mouths – know it?’

Grace shook his head. ‘How were the kids with Siobhan?’

‘Yeah.’ Branson smiled, and Grace caught a glimpse of something wistful in his expression. ‘It’s hard for them, you know. But Siobhan’s finding ways to their hearts
– mostly by spoiling them! And they’re really taking to her, which is a good thing cos there’s going to be times when she’s going to have to look after them without me
there. At least she understands about working round the clock, you know, with her own job. She’s not like Ari, she gets what we do and the crazy hours we have to work. But she’s finding
being a journalist much more demanding than she’d expected whilst she was a student.’

‘Where did she study?’

‘Here in the city at a place called Brighton Journalist Works.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A specialist college. They train journalists – they work closely with the
Argus
.’

‘Let’s hope they trained her better than her predecessor – bloody Spinella,’ Grace retorted.

Part of the reason Glenn Branson’s marriage had broken up was the long and frequently unsociable hours that he worked. Ari had taken up with a new man who had started to act as a father to
their son, Sammy, and their daughter, Remi. Branson had taken back that role as soon as Ari had died. Grace was relieved he was now with someone who understood his world.

To be a homicide detective meant putting work above your family. You could be called out at a moment’s notice, any time of the day or night and any day of the year. If the phone rang
during Christmas lunch or in the middle of your daughter’s birthday party or while you were out at dinner celebrating your wedding anniversary, that was it. You just grabbed your go-bag, that
was always packed with essentials as you might need to sleep in the office, working very long hours for days on end.

‘Does she want kids of her own?’

Branson nodded, then shrugged. ‘That could be a problem.’

‘You don’t want any more?’

He shrugged again. ‘This job – you know? When I was a nightclub bouncer at least I worked regular hours, even if I was out most nights. Everyone knew when I’d be home and when
I wouldn’t be. I was able to be a decent father to them then. Even when I first joined the police it was OK. All that changed when I moved to Major Crime – and no longer had a proper
home life.’

Grace put his arm round his friend’s massive, powerful shoulders and squeezed. ‘It’s what it is.’

‘Yeah. I know. And it’s always going to be.’

‘Unless you apply for a transfer to another department or transfer back to division.’