Authors: Peter James
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Police Procedurals, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Murder, #Crime Fiction, #Thrillers
Love You Dead (51 page)
‘Thanks, that is brilliant news! I’ll try to track down the trousers.’
‘As always, I will send you a full report outlining my findings in due course. But I will email you something you can use now.’
As soon as he ended the call, Roy Grace updated Pewe, the CPS and his team, and instructed Norman Potting to prepare a murder charge against Jodie Carmichael.
His good mood stayed with him throughout the day. He arrived home earlier than normal, shortly after 5.30 p.m., with a beautiful bouquet of stargazer lilies for Cleo.
It seemed that even Noah sensed his good mood, and slept through most of the night. But Roy lay awake for much of it, running on adrenalin, thinking about the incredible turn of events this past
day had brought. With Norman Potting’s discovery of the vial and the subsequent identification of the contents, and the conclusive match of Jodie’s snake fang and the wound to
Carmichael’s leg, they now had the evidence to nail this bitch. Tooth, whose disappearance had long been a thorn in his side, was now under police guard. Almost certainly, if he survived, he
would be permanently brain-damaged. And tomorrow the Extradition Team, who had travelled back to France this afternoon, would be bringing Crisp home in custody, to face the overwhelming mass of
evidence against him.
An added bonus was the phone call he’d received shortly before leaving the office from Pat Lanigan, who was close to ecstatic. The contents of the USB memory stick recovered from Tooth
were pure dynamite, Lanigan said. It gave them names, links and associations that the entire NYPD Mafia-busting team had been working a long time to find.
Grace asked him if he would do him a favour and email his arsehole boss ACC Pewe, to tell him of their gratitude.
‘You got it, pal, right away!’ Lanigan had replied.
Finally, an hour of dreamless sleep claimed him before the alarm beeped.
Cleo had not stirred. But he was wide awake again. He went through to Noah’s room and, without disturbing his son, sat in the rocking chair beside his cot, where Cleo sat when she was
feeding him, thinking about the day ahead. And the weeks and months of paperwork that now lay in front of him to ensure, as best he could, the successful prosecutions of Crisp, Jodie and Tooth. On
top of the rest of his workload of previous cases coming to trial. It would be months of pen-pushing, he thought gloomily, before he would be back as a fully operational homicide detective.
He slipped back to their bedroom, brushed his teeth, then pulled on his jogging gear, went downstairs, grabbed Humphrey’s lead and took him out into the early-morning dark, misty
drizzle.
Forty-five minutes later, invigorated by exercise and a shower, he dressed and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for Cleo, and to feed Humphrey. He entered the kitchen, switching the
light on, and said his usual, ‘Morning, Marlon!’ to his goldfish. Then as he looked at the square tank on the work surface his heart sank.
‘No!’
He ran across and peered in. The goldfish was floating, motionless, on the surface. ‘Marlon! Marlon!’
He dipped his cupped hand in the cold water and lifted the fish out. ‘Marlon. Hey, old chap. Hey!’
As the water drained from his palm the small fish lay there, eyes glazed and motionless.
His heart heaved. ‘Fellow!’ he said. ‘Hey, fella?’ He blew on the creature, but there was no sign of any movement. ‘Hey, come on!’
He slipped him gently back into the water. ‘Come on, chap, swim! Come on!’
Then his mobile phone rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
It was Marcel. His voice was sombre. ‘Roy, I am sorry for calling you so early.’
‘No, it’s fine, I’m up.’
‘I thought you would want to know. I’m afraid I don’t have good news. I’ve just had a phone call from the clinic. Sandy was found dead in her room a short while ago at
around 4 a.m. this morning.’
‘Dead?’
Roy Grace felt as if the floor was sinking beneath his feet. As if he was in a lift that was plunging downward. ‘Dead?’ he repeated.
‘I’m sorry to give you this sad news.’
‘How – I mean – what – what happened?’
The German detective hesitated. ‘Well, I’m sorry if this information is going to distress you. She was found by a nurse. I just went to the hospital to see for myself. She had hanged
herself from a cord she attached to a light fitting.’
‘Jesus,’ he said.
The floor was still sinking and the whole kitchen seemed to be swaying. He gripped hold of the oak refectory table with one hand to steady himself. ‘Oh God, Marcel, that’s awful.
Thank you – thank you – for – for telling me.’
‘Roy, there is some more information I have for you. Sandy – her son, Bruno, yes?’
‘Bruno. Yes, Bruno,’ he said in a daze.
‘Sandy left a letter in her bedside cabinet. It was sealed, but on the front was written, “To be opened in the event of my death.”’
Grace said nothing. Kullen continued.
‘I just opened it. Inside is a laboratory DNA report on Bruno, confirming from DNA samples from him, yourself and from Sandy that you are the father. And there is a letter, written to you,
in her handwriting. Do you want me to read it to you? Or I can scan it and email it to your private address.’
Upstairs, he heard Noah crying. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Please scan it and email it, and I’ll call you back later this morning.’
‘You will have it in a few minutes.’
Roy sat down bleakly at the kitchen table, staring at the tank, willing Marlon to suddenly start moving. But the fish remained motionless. He looked at his phone, waiting. Moments later, the
email arrived from Kullen.
He opened the attachment and looked at the words, written in Sandy’s familiar handwriting. It was less neat than it used to be, but still clearly legible. Clearly hers.
Dearest Roy,
If you are reading this then you will know that I am gone. Where, eh? We used to talk about that, didn’t we? All those long discussions about whether we just faded to black,
oblivion, or whatever. Guess I’ll find out now – or not.
I know you came to see me looking for answers, I’ll do my best here in this letter. I made a mess of things, that’s for sure, but I don’t blame you for anything,
and I don’t want you blaming yourself. But your suddenly coming back into my life is too much. I’ve been happy, being anonymous. Now I’ve got a whole shitload of stuff
dumped on me. All the people I’d have to tell – my parents, friends, authorities – I just can’t cope with this – the shame and the embarrassment. I don’t
know how to start or where to go. I certainly didn’t want you back in my life, I can’t deal with it. I don’t really think I can face anything, it’s all too much.
Like I’ve been living this past decade in some kind of a cocoon – some huge bubble – and suddenly the bubble’s burst. We all make choices in life, constantly, every
day, and sometimes they are the right choices and sometimes the wrong ones. I did a bad thing in the way I left you, but back then I really didn’t want a future with a man married to
his work. I didn’t want to be the third party in that triangle. I discovered I was pregnant and I had some fast decisions to make. Either I stayed, in which case I would have been
trapped by this child into remaining with you – for a while, at least. Or I had an abortion. But I didn’t like that option, not after trying all those years to get pregnant, all
the infertility treatments we endured. I was scared about my biological clock ticking – stupid, I know, because I was still young, but I was afraid that if I had an abortion, would I
ever get a second chance? So the other option was that I leave, without you ever knowing I was expecting our child.
I don’t really understand what was going through my mind at that time. You know I had never been happy about the hours you worked. I think it was that day, your thirtieth
birthday, when we had planned a lovely, romantic dinner together, and then I got your call that yet again you were on a case and would be late. Something snapped inside me, and I made my
escape – I’d been planning the possibility for some time, sitting on the fence, wondering if I would have the courage to actually do it. Simple as that. I don’t expect you
to forgive me. But I hope this, in particular, will help ease your pain rather than worsen it:
You need to know I wasn’t a saint, I wasn’t the good person you always believed I was. This may hurt to read, but you need to know that I wasn’t always faithful to
you – I had some one-night stands. I’m not making any excuses – nor am I going to name names. I’ve been in a dark place for years. Since long before you and I ever
met. I thought being with such a strong, stable man would help me, that you would be my rock. But it didn’t, not really. I hid things from you, like the medication I took for anxiety.
You never knew that I was hooked on valium for quite a while – I managed to keep that from you. I kept a lot from you. I’m not a nice person, I never have been. I’m just a
mess. My depression spirals. A guy I was going out with a few years ago got me into drugs and I spent two years, maybe longer, I don’t remember exactly, hooked on heroin. I tried to
clean up as much for Bruno’s sake as anything. There’s so much I wanted to tell you – and ask you – when you came here last. I don’t know why I didn’t. I
was so shocked to see you, my head was all over the place. I guess I knew then I couldn’t see any future. My face is going to be permanently scarred. I’ve got motor-control
problems – the consultant neurosurgeon just told me that my head hit the road at a bad angle – the worst bloody angle it could have hit – all my grey matter is jumbled up
inside the box that’s meant to protect it. But hey, I’m rambling.
I never wanted you back, but seeing you and Cleo – that was pretty hard. It drove it home that for me, you’re gone forever.
The thing is, Roy, I just see the future as a long, dark tunnel with no end. There’s no hope, no future. Especially now everyone knows the truth. I just can’t cope, I
don’t want to go on. Many people could cope with that, but I’m not strong enough to.
There, you have it. You are well shot of me. But just one thing I ask you, and I know I don’t really have the right to ask you anything – but this is not his fault. So
please, when I am gone, take care of our son, Bruno. He worries me; you’ll see what I mean. Don’t give him to my parents, they’d never cope and it would be hell for him.
I’m leaving you plenty of money for him, to pay for his education and set him up in life. I’ve also left you DNA proof that you are his father. You won’t know this but I
took some samples from our house when I visited Brighton last year.
I do still love you, even though it might not have seemed that way to you for all these years. Sorry, but this is really the end for me. I know I’m a coward, but then maybe I
always have been.
Sandy
Tuesday 17 March
‘Darling, I’m so late, I’ve got to fly.’ Cleo ran into the kitchen, then stopped. ‘Oh God,’ she said as she saw Grace sitting at the table
with his face in his hands, then noticed the goldfish.
She walked across to the tank and peered in for some moments, frowning. ‘No!’ she said. ‘Marlon!’ She dipped her hand in the water and gently lifted the fish out,
studying it intently. ‘Awwww, Marlon. You poor little thing.’
She shot a glance back at Roy, lowered Marlon back into the tank, rinsed her hand under the tap and dried it. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She walked over to Grace, stood behind him and put
her arms round his shoulders, giving him a squeeze. ‘He lived to a pretty good age. He’s outlived a lot of goldfish by years, and he had a nice life.’
Grace nodded.
‘He won the jackpot having you as his dad!’
He gave a bleak smile. ‘Thanks.’ There was someone else who now had him as their dad. He needed to break the news to her, but now was not the moment as she was dashing off. He would
do it later – and that would give him time to think. Time he very badly needed. He needed to compose himself and sort this mess out.
On top of the shock of having it confirmed he had a ten-year-old son, he was still reeling from the news of Sandy’s suicide. Shouldn’t he have spotted the danger signals all those
years ago? But what were the danger signals? Leaving him the way she had had made his life hell. By disappearing off the face of the earth, there were plenty of people, he knew, including Cassian
Pewe, who had harboured sneaking suspicions that he had murdered her.
Another dark thought swirled through him. ‘I wasn’t always faithful to you.’
So who were you unfaithful with? How many times, how many people? Is there someone I know who you once slept with, who secretly smirks every time he sees me?
And what did you mean when you said about Bruno
–
‘He worries me, you’ll see what I mean’?
Cleo hurried over to the door, glancing up at the kitchen clock then at her watch as if for confirmation. ‘Shit, I can’t believe the time! I’m so late – we’ve four
post-mortems this morning and we’re one short on the team. Look, darling, why don’t we find something nice to put Marlon in and bury him this evening?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, good idea.’ He could hardly speak. In a way he was relieved by Cleo rushing out, it bought him more time to think. He heard the front door close, a car door slam,
followed by the familiar sound of her Audi’s engine firing up and being revved far too hard while it was still cold.
Kaitlynn arrived a few minutes later. He found a small plastic sandwich box in a cupboard, put Marlon in, wrapped in a folded bed of kitchen roll, and placed him on a high shelf. Then he left
without eating anything; he had no appetite.
Somehow, Roy got through the morning at work. But he was unable to concentrate. He kept pulling out his phone and reading and rereading Sandy’s letter. Even a call from
an uncharacteristically friendly Cassian Pewe, congratulating him, failed to lift his mood.
It was ironic, he kept thinking. For almost all of the time he’d been with Sandy they’d been trying for a child. After she had vanished, for almost another decade he hoped
desperately she would come back. Then when he and Cleo began seeing each other, all that changed. But there had always been the spectre of Sandy somewhere in the background. And he had always felt
something would happen one day; something that would shake him to the core.