‘The first possible flight. There’s availability tomorrow.’
‘I’ll speak to the Chief,’ he said. ‘But in principle, I’m with you on this, Roy. Just come back with a result, and I think in the current climate of cuts, best not to let the press know.’
‘I don’t want the press to know in any event, sir. I need the element of surprise over there.’
‘Two other things. I know you’ve had previous experience in the USA, but don’t take any independent action without the full knowledge of the New York Police – which I know you won’t. And also, I’m up for a Deputy Chief Constable appointment, so don’t do anything to embarrass me, okay?’
Grace grinned. ‘Good luck with that, sir. And don’t worry, my role in New York will be purely liaison.’
‘Good luck to you too, Roy.’
Grace had a heavy heart as he walked back to his car. He really did not want to go; he wanted to be at home to help and support Cleo, and he wanted to be with his son. Every time he left the house he missed Noah. The thought of spending several days away from him made him unhappy. But he really could not see any option.
84
His next-door neighbours were arguing! And the baby was crying.
He loved it!
But what Amis Smallbone loved most of all was the news Detective Superintendent Roy Grace had brought home to his beloved Cleo.
‘Roy, do you really have to go?’
‘I do. I’m the one who has the relationship with the NYPD and we really need their help on this.’
‘I really need your help here. Surely with your whole merged Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Branch you have someone else who could take your place?’
Sitting in the big armchair on the top floor of his new house, smoking a cigarette and drinking whisky, Smallbone heard the words through his Bose headset. Detective Superintendent Roy Grace was flying to America tomorrow, at 11.30 a.m. Leaving his beloved Cleo Morey behind. And their son, Noah.
Uh oh.
Not smart. Not smart at all. So many options dancing around in his brain. Disfigure Cleo Morey with acid. Kill the horrid little baby, Noah, who was crying now. Kill Cleo. Kill the baby. Break the little bastard’s spine and paralyze it for life.
Then watch Roy Grace wheeling around his little cripple.
So many options. He was spoiled for choice, really he was. He listened intently over the sound of the little bastard baby screaming.
‘Cleo, darling, you have to understand. It’s me who has the relationship with the NYPD, with Detective Pat Lanigan – his help is going to be crucial to this.’
‘Does he know you have a two-month-old baby?’
‘I’ll only be a few days, I promise.’
‘I know you. You’ll be at least a week. And then probably another week. I understand your work is important, Roy, but you being around to help me with Noah is important too.’
‘What about getting your mother or your sister to stay with you?’
‘I can ask my mother, but we’ll probably start killing each other after a few days. Charlie’s away in Shanghai on her new job.’
‘Cleo, this is a really important case for me. If I send someone else and they screw up, I’m never going to forgive myself. Come on, you know the score.’
‘Why can’t you send Glenn? He’s deputized for you before.’
‘Because his wife is being buried on Wednesday, okay?’
Another long silence. The baby was silent, too. Then Cleo spoke again.
‘Who are you taking with you?’
‘Well, I wanted to take Jon Exton. But the idiot’s passport ran out in May. So I’m taking DS Batchelor, and a sharp new recruit on the team, DC Alexander. I’ll make it up to you when I’m back, I promise.’
Oh yes, you will, Amis Smallbone thought. You’re going to be making it up to her by buying a beautiful coffin for your son. And I will be there at the funeral, standing a short distance behind you with a smile on my face. So you will know, Detective Superintendent Grace. You will know who made you suffer. You will remember me for the rest of your life.
He crushed out his cigarette, lit another, adjusted the volume level on his headphones with shaking hands, and continued to enjoy the show.
85
As they had cleared immigration at New York’s Newark Liberty International airport, Roy Grace had texted Cleo. Landed! XX
Then he had phoned the Incident Room and spoken to DC Alec Davies, who gave him an update over the past few hours Grace had been out of contact, but there was nothing significant to report.
Now DS Guy Batchelor and DC Jack Alexander both had their suitcases loaded on their trolleys. Roy Grace, feeling increasingly glum, watched several unclaimed bags make their fourth, or maybe fifth, or perhaps their sixth circuit of the carousel. He held his phone in front of him, waiting equally forlornly for a text back. He was missing Cleo and Noah already, badly.
Then the carousel stopped.
‘Shit!’ he said.
‘Happened to Lena and me last year,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘We went on holiday to Turkey. Didn’t get my suitcase for three days.’
‘Thanks, Guy,’ he said. ‘That’s cheered me up no end.’ It was 5 p.m. New York time, 10 p.m. in England. The three of them had sat side by side on the flight, discussing strategy for some time, before relaxing after their meal. Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander had put on their headsets and watched a movie, but Grace had been too wired to watch a film or sleep. Instead he had been feeling bad about leaving Cleo, which was distracting him from focusing on the task ahead. Now he felt ragged.
Wearily he trudged over to the British Airways baggage office, joined a short queue, then presented his baggage stub. The man behind the desk tapped the details into his computer then gave him the news he really did not want to hear. ‘Sorry, it’s not showing up.’
‘Terrific.’
His phone pinged with an incoming text. Great! Now get the next flight home. Noah and I are missing you. X
No sodding suitcase, he texted back.
Ha! Poetic justice! XX
He grinned and texted, Call you when I get to hotel. Love you. XXXXXX
Moments later he got a reply. Love you too, but I don’t know why. XXXXXXXX
‘The best thing would be, sir, if you phoned us around 8 p.m. after the next UK flight has come in.’
‘Actually,’ Roy Grace said, ‘the best thing would be if you phoned me and told me you had my sodding suitcase.’
*
Roy Grace’s mood, already lifted by Cleo’s text, improved further as the trio entered the arrivals hall and he saw the smiling figure of Detective Pat Lanigan.
Lanigan was a tall, imposing character in his mid-fifties, with broad shoulders and a powerful physique. He had a ruggedly good-looking, pockmarked face, a greying brush-cut, and was wearing a checked sports jacket over a polo shirt, jeans and workman’s boots. He was the kind of cop few people would choose to pick a fight with. He greeted Grace with a bear hug, then looking at his attaché case quizzed him on why he was travelling so light.
‘Don’t ask!’ Grace responded, introducing him to his colleagues.
‘I’ll go sort them out, don’t you worry!’ he said in his nasally Brooklyn accent. Pulling out his police badge, Lanigan strode in through the exit doors and was gone ten minutes. He emerged with a triumphant smile. ‘It’ll be at your hotel by ten o’clock.’
‘You’re a star!’ Grace was instantly feeling more confident about his mission.
‘Not a problem. I just explained to the baggage guy, the Chief of Police of England doesn’t want to have his bag lost. Sorted.’ He pinched Roy Grace’s face.