Love You Dead (48 page)

More and more people were appearing.

‘Back!’ he yelled at them. ‘Stay back, there might be another explosion!’

There were also people gathering on the far side of the car, but the heat was too intense to run past it. To his relief he saw strobing blue lights. The first siren came closer and he saw a
patrol car. He ran up to it as it halted, holding up his hands, and jabbered out a quick summary. As he finished, another patrol car, followed by an ambulance with a fire engine in its wake, were
all approaching.

He broke into a fast, lumbering run back towards Jodie’s house, down her steep drive and in through the open garage door. ‘Jodie!’ he yelled. ‘Jodie!’

She came down the stairs, looking pale, in her dressing gown. ‘What’s happened?’ she said. ‘Paul, what’s happened?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s happened, young lady.’ He strode over to her before she had a chance to move, grabbed her right wrist roughly, then swung her arm up behind her in a
half-Nelson hold. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder. That’s what’s happened.’ He was shaking like a leaf. But he wasn’t going to blow this by
putting a damned foot wrong, despite the state he was in. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely
on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Something valuable he had learned about over the years he had worked with Roy Grace was the psychology of the behaviour of suspects. Genuinely innocent people often tended to resist arrest
vociferously, and sometimes quite aggressively. But most guilty suspects became like putty in your hands, almost as if relieved the game was finally up. She felt like putty, now.

‘Attempted murder? What are you talking about?’

‘You wanted me to take your car, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So who just drove off in it?’

‘Someone drove off in it?

Who?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I’m sorry, Paul, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What was that noise just now, that explosion?’

He wrenched her arm further up her back, so hard she cried out in pain. ‘You little bitch,’ he replied.

His phone rang. He answered with one hand and heard Roy Grace’s voice. ‘Norman, where are you?’

‘In 191, holding my suspect.’

‘Can you open the front door, there are officers outside.’

Potting frogmarched her across and unlatched the door.

‘You’d better hurry, guys,’ Jodie said with a smirk. ‘One of your colleagues is upstairs and he doesn’t have very long to live – if he’s even still
alive.’

With Jodie’s hands cuffed behind her back, Potting was right behind, escorting her up the stairs and along the corridor, followed by several officers. She stopped beside
a door and turned to Potting.

‘There’s a wardrobe just inside, to the left. If you open the door you’ll find a remote. Press it.’

Potting did as he was told. Instantly the wall at the end of the corridor slid open to reveal the glass door behind it.

‘Holy shit!’ someone exclaimed in horror.

A small, shaven-headed man, in an anorak, jeans and trainers, his eyes bulging, lay on the floor, motionless, with an enormous brown-and-beige-patterned snake entwined round his body and neck.
Crawling about on the floor were several large black hairy spiders as well as some light brown scorpions, one of which was on the man’s neck.

‘Don’t go in!’ said a voice behind them.

They all turned to see Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, in a dark suit, shirt and tie, standing beside a man dressed like a bee-keeper in a hooded white protective suit, padded gloves and a
large glass mask. ‘This is Dr Rearden, a reptile expert from London Zoo. He’ll deal with this.’

Public Order officers were a tough bunch, used to dealing with anything. Norman Potting had never seen them step away with such relief on their faces as when the reptile expert moved
forward.

‘Be our guest!’ Potting said, as Rearden opened the glass door, went through and shut it rapidly behind him.

‘Well, look who’s in there! If it isn’t our friend, Mr Tooth!’ Grace said. ‘What a surprise! All wrapped up for me – and it isn’t even my
birthday!’

‘The time is 10.17 a.m., Sunday 15th March, interview with Jodie Carmichael in the presence of her solicitor, Clifford Orson,’ DS Guy Batchelor said clearly, for
the benefit of the video recorder above their heads. They were in the small interview room in Sussex House. Beside him, on another hard chair with little back support, sat DS Tanja Cale, who was
also a trained advanced interviewer. The first interview had taken place on Saturday afternoon to establish certain facts and the background of the defendant and for her to give an account. This
second interview was to challenge some of her previous answers in light of the information subsequently discovered by the police investigation.

Both Guy and Tanja were aware that Roy Grace was watching the live video feed in the tiny observation room next door. And they were also aware that they could only keep a suspect for thirty-six
hours. To keep Jodie any longer they would need to go before a magistrate and present good reasons for an extension. She had already been in custody now for just over twenty-four hours. They had
until ten o’clock this evening to charge her or else come up with grounds for seeking an extension.

Across the table, littered with glasses of water and mugs of coffee, sat Jodie Carmichael, quiet and sullen, dressed in a black top and blue jeans, toying repeatedly with the chain of the locket
round her neck. Beside her was her brief, a tough, sharp London solicitor from a leading criminal law practice, suited and booted and with freshly gelled hair. He spoke with a strong Brummie
accent.

The two police officers were expecting a fight.

‘This is the second interview with Jodie Carmichael, née Danforth, also known as Jodie Bentley and Jemma Smith, among other possible names.’

‘Other names?’ the lawyer interjected. ‘Would you care to specify them?’

‘Not at this stage. We are carrying out investigations into your client’s background and we believe she may have used other aliases in the past.’ Then Batchelor looked at
Jodie. ‘You married Christopher Bentley when you were twenty-two. Is that correct?’

She glanced at her solicitor before answering, ‘Yes.’

‘And am I correct in saying that some years into your marriage, your husband died after being bitten by a saw-scaled viper snake that he kept at home?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. It was terrible. He understood those snakes so well, and he knew their dangers.’

Batchelor went on. ‘Am I correct also that your second husband, Rowley Carmichael, died from venom from the same snake – the saw-scaled viper?’

‘According to the post-mortem report, yes.’

She pulled, theatrically, a handkerchief out of her bag.

‘Would I be correct also in saying that you currently keep several of these snakes in a room at your house in Roedean Crescent, Brighton?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Are you aware just how deadly these creatures are?’

‘Absolutely. You’d have to be a bit stupid not to be.’

‘Are you aware that a licence under the Dangerous Wild Animals Act is required to keep these creatures?’

‘I am.’

‘You told us yesterday in interview that your late husband, Christopher Bentley, had such a licence. Despite his death, you maintained the licence in his name at an unoccupied flat in
South Kensington, London. May I ask why you never transferred the licence to your own name and never notified any relevant authority that you had moved these reptiles to Brighton?’

She looked at her solicitor again, who nodded that it was OK for her to answer.

‘I’ve been busy,’ she said. ‘I suppose I just haven’t got round to it yet.’

‘Busy for all those years?’ Tanja Cale asked her, with a hint of sarcasm.

‘I thought that if it was a valid licence, it didn’t matter where they were actually housed.’

‘You certainly have been busy,’ Batchelor said. ‘Let’s go back in time a little. I understand that you were present when your older sister, Cassie, died. You outlined the
brief details in yesterday’s interview but could you tell us the circumstances in detail?’

‘No comment,’ her solicitor interjected.

‘No, it’s OK,’ Jodie said. ‘It was a terrible accident. Our parents had taken us over the October half-term to Cornwall. We were staying in Boscastle. Cassie and I went
for a clifftop walk. She asked me to take a photograph of her at a particular high point. She stepped back right to the cliff edge. I was really worried and told her to move away. She told me I was
being a wuss and instead she took a step further back. Then she stumbled and – she – she – suddenly—’ Jodie closed her eyes. ‘Oh God.’ She opened them
again. ‘I’ll never forget the terrible look on her face. One second she was there, then she – she—’ Tears filled her eyes. Her voice broke. ‘She just dropped out
of sight.’ She paused, apparently to compose herself, then sniffed. ‘I crawled to the edge and looked, and I could see her body down on rocks, way below. I don’t know how far. Two
or three hundred feet.’

Tanja Cale passed her a box of tissues. Jodie pulled one out and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her handkerchief still clutched in her hand.

‘How did you feel at that moment?’ DS Cale asked her, gently.

‘It was the worst moment–
the
worst moment of my life.’

Jodie then described what happened in the aftermath and the impact on her family.

Guy Batchelor pulled a sheaf of paper from his inside jacket pocket. He handed one sheet to Jodie, one to her solicitor and one to Tanja Cale. ‘Jodie, search officers found a diary from
your childhood in your house, yesterday. This is a photocopy of an entry from it. For the benefit of the tape it is marked exhibit GB/9, the first anniversary of your sister’s death, after
you had visited the grave with your parents. I’ll read you the last part of what you wrote:

‘
My family. My embarrassing family. The things they say. But this really made me laugh. Mum suddenly said she wanted to light a candle for Cassie, have it burning on the table with us
during our meal. So my dad went up to the bar and asked if they had a candle they could light for his daughter. Ten minutes later the chef and two other members of staff appeared with a small cake,
with a candle burning in the centre of it, and walked towards us, all smiling at me and singing “Happy Birthday to You”!

‘
I’m still laughing about that, even though it’s nearly midnight and I’ve got homework to do for tomorrow that I’ve not even started yet.

‘
But, honestly, I have to say, I’ve not felt so great in a long time!
’

He laid the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘That doesn’t sound much like a grieving sister to me.’

Jodie stared into his eyes as if she was looking right into his soul. ‘Really? Have you ever lost someone you loved? I had a year of hell living with the guilt that I was somehow
responsible. Sure, I remember that day with my parents, and the ridiculous mistake that pub made bringing a birthday cake. It did make me laugh, of course it did. The whole stupidity of it. It did
cheer me up; for the first time in a whole year I actually smiled.’

‘OK, Jodie, let’s move forward to Christopher Bentley. He was an experienced reptile handler – one of the world’s foremost experts in venomous snakes among other
creatures. Yet he allowed himself to be bitten by a deadly saw-scaled viper. Can you tell us how you think that might have happened?’

Jodie and her solicitor exchanged looks. She gave him a steady nod and turned back to the detectives. ‘I’m afraid that all experts get over-confident. To be honest, the way he
treated some of his venomous creatures really worried me and I warned him several times. From the way he acted with them, he was starting to believe that he had somehow tamed some of them, and he
was taking fewer and fewer precautions handling them.’

For the next fifteen minutes they asked a number of questions about the day it happened.

Batchelor studied his notes for some moments. ‘We’d now like to ask you some more questions about Walt Klein. When did you meet him exactly?’

‘In August, last year, in a hotel bar in Las Vegas – the Bellagio.’

‘Can you tell us what happened about a month ago?’

Without looking at her lawyer, she said, ‘Sure. We went skiing to Courchevel in the French Alps – he was a very keen skier.’

‘What was the nature of your relationship?’

‘We were engaged to be married.’

‘And what happened while you were there in Courchevel?’

‘Walt was a real – what we skiers call
powder hound.
He loved skiing fresh powder snow – they get a lot more in the US than we do in Europe. We’d been there
several days and there was finally a really great dump of snow overnight. But it was still snowing heavily in the morning. He woke, raring to get up on the slopes. I tried to dissuade him, as the
forecast was for the weather to improve later in the morning, but he was determined to get the fresh powder before it was skied out. So we went up together.’

She sniffed, and sipped some water. ‘We got to the top of the cable car and I told Walt to follow me – I’d skied there before and he hadn’t. I made several turns, then
stopped to wait for him – and he never appeared. I figured he must have taken a different run – I’d taken a blue – the easiest – because of the conditions – but
thought he might have taken a red or a black. After a while I realized he must have gone on, so I skied down to the bottom, to the place where we’d agreed to rendezvous if we lost each
other.’ She shrugged. ‘But he never showed up. And that evening . . .’ She again raised the tissue to her eyes, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it.

‘What happened that evening?’ Cale asked, gently again.

‘A police officer told me he had been found at the bottom of a sheer drop.’

‘You were engaged to be married,’ Batchelor said. ‘Did you know that Walt Klein had written you into his will?’