Want You Dead (37 page)

Grace nodded, blinking away tears, and his voice choked; he could barely get out the word. ‘Yes.’ Then with difficulty he added, ‘sir.’

‘Terrible news,’ the Chief Constable said, also shaking Roy’s hand.

‘It is, sir.’

‘Let’s not be formal, Roy,’ Pewe said, giving Tom Martinson a sideways glance. ‘We’ve had our issues in the past, but let’s look forward now, shall we?’

‘Good idea,’ Grace replied warily. He wondered what bombshell was coming next.

But instead, Pewe said, ‘This is one hell of a start to my first day here.’

‘And to my honeymoon.’

Pewe nodded. ‘It’s good of you to come. That must be bloody hard.’

‘Not as hard as losing an officer, sir. But are we absolutely sure we have?’

Pewe pointed at the building, then shot a glance at his watch. ‘I’m told that Detective Sergeant Bella Moy entered the building to try to save a child around eight this morning. She hasn’t come back out, although she saved the child. It is now five to eleven. The Fire Chief has told me no one could survive in there for even just one minute without breathing apparatus.’

‘She’s smart,’ Roy Grace said. ‘Maybe she’s found an air pocket.’ He knew he was clutching at straws. ‘Has anyone searched the place?’

Pewe pointed at the building. ‘Fire officers have searched as much as they can, with breathing apparatus and with remote cameras. The stairs have all gone. They’ve been up on the ladders and their opinion is—’

There was a sudden commotion behind them. Both men turned. A man was shouting. ‘Let me through! I’m a police officer, let me fucking through, you halfwits. That’s my fiancée in there. LET ME THROUGH!’

It was Norman Potting, his face sheet-white, holding up his warrant card, shaking off the hands of a uniformed police officer as he ducked under the tape and began running towards the smoking front door.

‘Norman!’ Grace shouted, alarmed, then sprinted after him. Two firefighters got there first, restraining the Detective Sergeant by his arms.

‘She’s in there!’ Potting shouted. ‘Oh my God, Bella is in there. Let me go and find her. Let me find her. I have to get her out!’

Grace reached them. Potting looked like a crazed animal, his eyes bulging, his whole pallid face pulsing.

‘Norman! Let them do their job. If she’s in there, they’ll find her.’

‘I’ll find her! She’s in there, I’ll find her. I know she’s all right! She’s my Bella. I love her. She’s all right. She’s safe, I know she is. BELLA!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘I’M HERE! IT’S NORMAN! I’M COMING TO GET YOU OUT!’

Then he collapsed in tears in Roy’s arms. ‘Oh God, Roy, please don’t let anything have happened to her. I love this woman. She’s made me realize I’ve never truly loved anyone before in my life.’ His voice was choked with sobs. ‘Please don’t let her be taken away from me. We’ve only just found each other. Please don’t. Please, please, please, let me go in and rescue her. She’s okay, I know she is. She has to be. Please let me, let me, let me go in. I won’t be a moment.’

‘Norman,’ Grace said gently. ‘Listen. Let the firemen find her, they have the equipment. If she’s OK, they’ll find her. That’s what they’re trained to do.’

Norman hugged Roy Grace, clinging to him as if he were a life raft in a storm-tossed ocean. ‘I love her, Roy. I do, I truly do. Please don’t let anything have happened to her. They said the dog came out. She must be okay. If the fucking dog has survived, she must have done, too.’

92

Monday, 4 November

Ever since the phone call on Saturday from Rob Spofford telling her they had a suspect in custody, Red had been feeling uneasy. It just didn’t sound right, but she figured the police must know what they were doing, and would not arrest someone unless they had some strong evidence, surely? They were still looking for Bryce, and Rob told her it was not certain that the suspect was involved. In her heart she remained convinced that it was Bryce who was behind all this.

It had to be.

She drove the Mishon Mackay Mini along Tongdean Avenue as fast as she could, conscious that she was nearly ten minutes late. The couple who’d made an appointment to view the house in Coleman Avenue had turned up twenty minutes late, having gone to the wrong street first. To ensure each of the sales team could achieve his or her daily target of fifteen viewings, for most appointments the agency allowed a quarter-of-an-hour viewing slot. But she’d made sure she had nothing booked in after this Tongdean house, because she figured that someone contemplating spending three and a half million pounds might just want a little bit longer than fifteen minutes.

A moment later she was forced to a halt by a learner driver under instruction in a driving-school car, practising his three-point turn. There was another just beyond this one, doing the same. God, it must drive the residents of this exclusive street bananas that every driving school in the city chose to come here – although she could understand why. It was a wide, tree-lined road, with very little traffic normally. She looked at the car clock, then double-checked against her watch. Twelve minutes late.

The instructor at least had the courtesy to wave her past, but just as she started the manoeuvre, the idiot learner suddenly shot forward. How she missed a collision she did not know, and in her anger she raised her hand, giving two fingers. Not a good advert for the company, she knew, with its logo emblazoned all over her car, but she didn’t care. She needed to get to the house, and was already perspiring with anxiety.
Please don’t give up and leave,
she thought.

She saw the high brick wall ahead, instantly recognizable from the photographs on the glossy brochure on the seat beside her, and the gates, open. She had to stop again, for another full agonizing minute as another learner stalled in the middle of the road ahead of her. The woman driver started, jerked forward a few inches, then stalled again.

Sod you!
Red put two wheels over the pavement and drove around, bumping back onto the road, then finally reached the house. The smart gold and black sign by the open gates confirmed its name.
Tongdean Lodge.
She turned in, and drove up the drive, passing the garage block to her left, and reached the top, where the drive became circular, and she could now see the magnificent house to her right. And she breathed out a massive sigh of relief. The client wasn’t here yet, she had beaten him to it!

She glanced down at the list of nine names on the lined paper on her clipboard with today’s earlier viewings to remind herself of his name.
Andrew Austin.

The only sign of life was a small white van, parked on the far side of the drive. Probably the gardener, or someone doing maintenance on the property, she assumed. She rummaged through the assortment of keys and found the one for Tongdean Lodge, which also had the gate entry code and alarm code written on its tag. Thoughtful of the gardener, or whoever, to have left the gates open for her, she thought, as she climbed out of the car, closed the door, and walked up to the front door.

She waited there for some moments, and then had a prick of doubt. Andrew Austin was going to turn up, wasn’t he? She glanced at her watch. He was now fifteen minutes late. She had his mobile number on her list. Give him another five minutes and she would call him. In the meantime, she thought it would be a good idea to take a walk around the property, to familiarize herself with it a little.

She turned and looked at the stunning view over the rooftops of the houses on the south side of the avenue, right across Hove and down to the English Channel, which sparkled beneath the bright sunshine. It was a perfect day for a viewing – everything looking at its best. There weren’t going to be many days like this at this time of the year.
Oh, please turn up, Mr Austin!

There was a brick archway through into the gardens, with a mature laurel bush beside it. She stepped through it, entranced by the magnificence of the gardens that lay beyond, as if she had entered a secret world. She stared at the neatly manicured, terraced lawns; the swimming pool with a Roman arch at one end; the tennis court further on.

To her left was a wide, magnificent terrace, with a twelve- or even fourteen-seater wrought-iron table in front of French windows. What a glorious spot to eat out on a fine summer’s day or evening, she thought, making a mental note to ensure she mentioned this.

She was startled by a sudden soft footfall behind her, and instantly a shadow fell over her. But before she could react, she felt a strong blow on the side of her head, as if she had been struck by a flying brick. A searing flash of white light inside her skull, as if a firework had been set off.

Her legs were collapsing. Her body swaying, her brain spinning her into darkness.

From behind, Bryce put his arms around her, gripping her unconscious body, preventing her from falling to the ground. He did not want her to hurt herself.

He wanted to do all the hurting.

93

Monday, 4 November

It wasn’t until shortly after 3 p.m. that the fire at the Royal Regent had been extinguished for sufficient time for the building to be deemed safe for firemen to re-enter.

Two went in while Roy Grace and a numb Norman Potting stayed outside, along with the Chief Constable and Cassian Pewe, watching all that was happening and barely exchanging a word between them. Grace badly needed to get back to the office, but he could not leave Norman Potting in his current state. Instead he called Glenn Branson who came over and updated him and Pewe and the Chief Constable on the events of this morning’s briefing.

Glenn had been instructed to step up the manhunt for Bryce Laurent with renewed urgency, and to ensure that Red Westwood was protected.

Both the Chief Constable and Cassian Pewe were being supportive to Grace, neither of his bosses levelling any blame. To his surprise certainly today, at any rate, given their history, Pewe appeared to hold no grudge. Perhaps because his skin was too thick.

Suddenly, Tom Martinson put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Roy,’ he said in his kindly voice. ‘Sometimes in every police officer’s career a really terrible thing happens. When it does, that is the moment we wonder why the hell we are doing this job. But if we are able to be mentally strong enough, it’s also the moment when we realize that’s why we chose to do this job. Because all our training kicks in. Not many people phone the police because they are happy. We’re not here to serve happy people. We’re here to make a difference. Occasionally, however tragic it might be, we give up our lives to do that. Human lifespans are not predictable. Don’t ever make the mistake of measuring someone by the length of their life. Measure them by the difference they made to this world.’

Roy Grace looked at him and nodded, blinking through his tears. ‘I’ll try to remember that, sir. Thank you.’

Five minutes later the two firefighters, in their breathing apparatus, came back out. They walked like a pair of spacemen, their expressions invisible behind their masks, over to a fire engine, opened a locker in its side, then returned to the building with a quantity of lighting equipment.

Norman Potting let out a low, keening wail, then collapsed, weeping, onto the pavement.

Roy Grace knelt beside him with an arm around him, and wept also. He tried desperately to find some words to comfort the old detective, but could find nothing.

They knelt together, two grown men sobbing, oblivious to all around them.

94

Monday, 4 November

Gounod’s
Faust
was playing on the radio as Bryce Laurent drove the van across the rough cart track. An idiot rabbit sat upright dead ahead, staring, mesmerized by his headlights. He felt it bump under his front wheel. Then a more violent bump as they jolted through a rut.

He’d holed up in the Brighton station car park until dusk, wanting his approach to his factory to be in the dark, to give the minimum chance of being spotted. He’d spent a highly enjoyable few hours just sitting in the van, reading out loud to Red, in the back, all the texts she had sent him in the months of their courtship. There were some gems, some absolute gems! Too bad he couldn’t hear her reaction, because he didn’t dare remove the gag in case she tried screaming.

Now they were on their way! He hummed to himself in tune to the music. Opera! He’d never got the damned stuff when he was young. It was only when he’d worked on the runway inspection team at Gatwick Airport that one of his colleagues had explained it to him. Or, rather, unexplained it.

Opera
, he had said,
is raw emotion. Forget trying to intellectualize it, just let the emotion carry you along.

Yep. He had been right. So now, as he drove, he let the
raw emotion
flood through him, raising his arms from the wheel, humming, then singing out loud, ‘Rumtitumtitumtity.’ He was so happy. He had Red back. Yesssss!

Raw emotion!

He glanced over his shoulder as they jolted over another rut. ‘Soon be there, my baby! Rumtitumtitumtity!’

He sang loudly, his lungs close to bursting. They were almost a mile from the nearest dwelling. His factory was right ahead, just a hundred yards to go. He burst into song again. Copying the French libretto. He had no idea what the words meant, but he sounded good. His mother had once told him he had a beautiful voice, that he could have been an opera singer.

And now he was one!

He looked over his shoulder again to see whether Red was appreciating it. But it was difficult to tell with the gag duct-taped in her mouth and the blindfold duct-taped around her forehead.

‘So good to see you again, Red, my angel!’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea how good this makes me feel! You and I, with the rest of our lives ahead of us. How good is that?’

95

Monday, 4 November

The Monday evening briefing was a sombre event. The death of any police officer in any force throughout the UK was felt with a level of sadness by every serving officer, regardless of where they were. But when it was a member of their own team, the impact was totally devastating. As an indication of how seriously the whole of Sussex Police took this, Cassian Pewe was sitting in on the meeting with them.