Love You Dead (34 page)

He looked down at his notes. ‘The next task we have is to set up a family tree for our mystery lady. Jodie Danforth; Jodie Bentley; Jodie Carmichael; and where do Jemma Smith and Judith
Forshaw fit in? She has detailed knowledge of venomous reptiles. And it’s likely she has a house in the Roedean area of this city in addition to this Alexandra Villas flat. Jack and Alec,
I’m giving you the action of finding her. See where the flat in Brighton leads us. Is there a connection with Roedean?’

He paused, then went on. ‘Let’s see if we can trace her through her mobile phone – hopefully she’ll still have the one that we have the number for with her. Perhaps we
can flush her out using Michelle Websdale – see if she can arrange a meeting with Jodie, which might make finding her a lot quicker. At the same time we have to find this woman’s
hunting ground. One place to look is internet dating sites – particularly those for people seeking wealthy partners. I’m told there are a number of sites where rich partners can be
targeted. OK? We also need to find out where she met her previous conquests.’

Then he turned to Tanja Cale. ‘Keep me updated on any addresses within the Brighton area which have been supplied with saw-scaled viper delicacies. You might find something for your supper
tonight.’

‘Thanks, boss, I’ll stick to Waitrose for that.’

After the briefing ended, Roy Grace, feeling drained, went back to his office. He closed the door, sat in his chair and stared through the darkness at the glow of lights from
the Asda superstore car park and the city beyond. Chilly air blew through the window onto his face. From time to time throughout criminal history, ‘black widow’ female characters
cropped up. He’d dealt with one earlier in his career, who’d knowingly left her husband-to-be to die trapped in a coffin.

Did he now have another?

His phone rang. It was Kelly Nicholls again. ‘Sir,’ she said. ‘There’s some new information come to light which might be significant.’

Grace listened. ‘Bloody hell, Kelly! Well done!’

Few police officers liked entering a prison on any kind of business. There was always the lurking fear that if you were unlucky enough to be inside the locked compound when a
riot kicked off, you would rate even higher than the nonces and the prison officers as the biggest object of hatred and the No. 1 target.

Both Glenn Branson and Norman Potting, in the back of the French police car, were thinking this as they were driven through the tall gates into the wire-mesh enclosed outer perimeter of the
Centre Pénitentiaire de Saint-Quentin-Fallavier some kilometres from the city, shortly after 7 a.m. on a damp, chilly morning. To the two Englishmen, the utilitarian modern building looked
more like a factory on an industrial estate than a prison. Their driver, who had picked them up from the hotel earlier, was friendly enough, attempting to converse in his very limited English, and
they had tried to respond in their even more limited French. But neither Potting nor Branson was in a chatty mood; they were both suffering badly from the previous evening.

Knowing they had to be up at sparrows, they should have been sensible and had an early night. Instead, at a restaurant close to their hotel which their French hosts had suggested, they had
downed beers, followed by a bottle of cheap red wine, then a second, as Potting had poured his heart out over the recent loss of his fiancée, and Branson, in turn, had reminisced on his
failed marriage and the subsequent death of Ari. Then when they’d returned to their hotel they’d stayed up well past midnight downing cognacs, while Potting confided his fears to
Branson about his recent prostate cancer diagnosis, and of having surgery.

Branson had at least eaten fairly sensibly last night: fish soup t hen steak and chips. Potting had gone for escargots in garlic butter and then what he had thought was akin to an English
banger, after looking it up on Google Translate, forgetting Grace’s warning to Branson about Andouillette. He had nearly gagged from the stench that had risen from the plate when it had been
presented to him. But, hungry, and numbed by the alcohol, he had dutifully consumed it. Now it was all repeating on him, and his stomach felt like it had turned into a tumble dryer.

The plan, in as much as they had been able to understand from their driver, was to witness the collection, by three officers from the UK Extradition Unit, of Edward Crisp from his cell in the
hospital wing, accompanied by the prison doctor because of Crisp’s broken arm from his skiing accident. The doctor would accompany Crisp in the prison van, which was waiting in front of them,
to the nearby Lyon-Saint-Exupéry Airport, where they would escort him back to England aboard a British Airways flight at 10 a.m.

Both British detectives were chewing gum to mask the reek of alcohol on their breath. They followed the Extradition Unit members and a prison officer in a black uniform and sturdy boots,
clutching a bunch of keys, through a series of double doors, each being locked behind them as they entered the prison’s interior.

Glenn Branson’s main experience of prisons had been the grim Victorian one just outside Brighton, in Lewes. This one, despite being more modern, had the same claustrophobic feel, with
bars, grilles and bare walls, the same slightly rank smell. Potting, who had mumbled about badly needing a toilet, ambled a few steps behind him along a corridor lined on both sides with cell
doors. There was a smell of cigarette smoke. A male voice shouted out something in French, which was ignored.

They stopped outside a door. The prison officer slid back an inspection hatch and peered in, then indicated to Branson and Potting to take a look too.

Despite his pounding head, Glenn Branson felt a beat of excitement as he peered at the motionless, slumbering man inside, facing the wall, his head obscured with a blanket.

Two other prison officers materialized from the far end of the corridor. The one they had followed in turned to them and said, ‘
Attendez!
’

He unlocked the door and went in, accompanied by the other two officers and the doctor, and approached the bed.

‘Got to find a toilet,’ Potting whispered to Branson. ‘Bloomin’ stomach’s on fire.’

‘We’ll stop on the way out, Norman.’

Then they heard a shout from inside the cell. ‘
Non! Non! Ce n’est pas possible!
’

Branson stepped in and saw the first officer pull the blanket back. Then he stood stock-still, staring in disbelief. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

Roy Grace was not sleeping properly. His mind was still working overtime and, in addition, Noah was teething and cried almost continuously, despite his and Cleo’s efforts
to soothe him.

Each time Noah was quiet and asleep again, Grace had gone back to bed and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of his son’s breathing. Terrible memories of several cot deaths which he
had attended when he’d been a uniformed officer still haunted him. He knew that now Noah could turn himself over in bed, there was less danger of him overheating. But there was still a risk,
nonetheless.

As he lay awake, an endless succession of names presented themselves to him in sequence, like newsflash footage.
Jodie Danforth
;
Jodie Bentley
;
Jodie Carmichael
;
Jemma Smith
;
Judith Forshaw.
And now from his late phone call with Kelly Nicholls he had added another name,
Cassie Danforth
. Jodie’s sister who had died in a cliff
fall when Jodie had been out for a walk with her on a family holiday.

Her sister dead in a cliff fall. Her fiancé dead in a fall from a precipice. Her first husband dead from a snake bite. Her second husband dead from a snake bite. A string of names, some
real, some fake.

He’d googled Christopher Bentley and learned he was an eminent herpetologist, and the author of books on venomous and poisonous creatures. His wife, Jodie, was mentioned but there was no
photograph. Bentley also had an elaborate website, but it was basically an information-sharing forum for other herpetologists, and there had been no posts on it, other than a few condolence
messages, for several years.

His search also revealed a wide range of obituaries, including
The Times
,
Telegraph
,
Guardian
and
Independent
, as well as a humorous and slightly cynical
article in the
Spectator
, talking about the irony of a man who had met many of the world’s most dangerous snakes, scorpions and spiders in their natural habitat, yet had died from a
bite at his own home. The article went on to warn people of the danger of
experts
. It quoted the late Peter Ustinov as saying that if the world was to explode, the last words anyone would
hear would be an expert explaining why it couldn’t happen.

Despite all the coverage on her first husband, Grace could find nothing at all, other than a few brief mentions, about the earlier life of Jodie Bentley. But in the past few weeks there was
plenty on her in relation to the tragic death of Walt Klein and the financial shenanigans surrounding him.

Through the night that was both long and far too short at the same time, a course of action steadily began to take shape in his mind.

Finally, he’d lapsed into deep sleep. It seemed almost moments later that his alarm was buzzing beside his face. It was 5.00 a.m. He tapped the off button, instantly awake. Had to be
awake. Snoozing wasn’t an option. And he was feeling strangely energized.

He rolled over in the darkness and kissed Cleo’s cheek. She did not stir. Then, very gently and slowly, trying not to wake her, he slid out of bed into the chilly air. He gulped down the
glass of water on the table beside him, then went through into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, switched on the light and peered blearily into the mirror. He looked ragged, he thought. He
looked like shit. Yet he felt positive.

His master plan was a gamble; Cassian Pewe might reject it out of hand. But he was fired with excitement. He squeezed toothpaste onto his electric toothbrush and worked around his mouth for the
next two minutes, feeling even more sure of what he needed to do.

He went through to Noah’s room in his dressing gown and slippers and gently placed his hand on his son’s back, checking that his breathing felt fine; then, careful not to wake him,
went downstairs. Humphrey came bounding up to him.

Grace knelt and stroked him. ‘I’ll take you out, Humph, but I’m afraid no run today. Make it up to you tomorrow, OK?’

He opened the back door and walked out into the streaky dawn light with a torch. The smell of wet grass and the silence of the countryside gave him an intense feeling of calm. He loved it here.
This little piece of paradise. The moon was low in the sky. He felt just how insignificant he was in the universe. A tiny speck. Here for a fleeting moment in time.

Humphrey squatted and did a dump, then ran towards him, looking pleased as punch.

‘Good boy!’ He knelt and patted him. He walked over to the hen coop and, in the beam of his torch, saw all five sitting on the roof, not yet ready to start their day.

‘Hi, girls! What are your plans today? Maybe lay a few eggs? Rob a bank? Get up to some internet fraud? Help me lock up some villains?’

He went back inside and microwaved a bowl of porridge. While the machine was whirring he took six red grapes from the fridge. Cleo had read somewhere that six red grapes a day warded off ageing
and all kinds of disease. He loved how she took such a keen interest in health matters.

Then he made the first of several phone calls, apologizing for the early hour, brimming inside with excitement. It was a gamble. A massive gamble. But he was convinced it was the right thing to
try.

When he had finished, he ate his porridge, which was now tepid, but in his eagerness to get to the office, he barely noticed. He hurried upstairs. Cleo was sitting up in bed, checking messages
on her iPhone.

‘Lots on at work today?’ he asked.

‘Five post-mortems,’ she said. ‘You?’

He told her quickly about his plan.

‘I like it!’ she replied. ‘But could you really do that?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m going to give it a go!’

He showered and shaved, and dressed quickly, then & left & the house shortly after 6 a.m. As he pulled into his parking slot outside Sussex House at 6.20 a.m., his phone rang.

It was Glenn Branson. Grace did a quick calculation – he would be an hour ahead of UK time in France.

‘
Bonjour!
’ he said. ‘
Ça va?
’

‘
Merde!
’ Branson replied, grimly. ‘I think that’s the right word for it.’

‘Tell me.’

Grace listened for some moments in almost stunned silence. ‘Disappeared? Escaped?’

‘Looks like he used that old Ted Bundy trick of faking a broken arm. Lured a prison officer into his cell in the hospital wing to help him remove his T-shirt for bed, overpowered him,
whacked him unconscious, tied and gagged him and put him on his bunk, facing the wall, with a blanket over his head. Left the two halves of the plaster cast in the bed with him.’

‘Didn’t anyone check his bloody arm when he was booked into custody?’

‘Clearly not. He was taken straight to the prison hospital.’

‘Even so, how did he get out of there – surely it was secure?’

‘Nobody knows at this stage. Perhaps through the sewers or drains.’

‘Shit!’ Grace responded when he had finished. ‘Shit!’ he repeated. ‘That seems to be his MO. He’s a cunning bastard – I’ve heard of wanted people
using a prop to steer attention away from their faces when they travel through airports. That’s what he must have done. But how the hell did the French authorities let this happen? He’s
got away twice, he must be having a right bloody laugh on us.’ God, even though it wasn’t his fault, how on earth was he going to explain this to Pewe? he wondered.

‘Let’s hope he had to wade through plenty of
merde
,’ Branson replied.