‘Actually, Mum, it was a bit shit.’
‘Oh?’
Laura recited what had happened. Meg gave no indication that she already knew.
‘God, how is Cassie?’ Meg asked, desperately.
‘Yeah, she’s OK — she was pretty freaked out — they’ve given her something for shock and she’s asleep. They want to keep her here in hospital until tomorrow.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘They’re cool with me staying with her here — in the room. Sorry I hadn’t messaged you yet, it’s all been a bit crazy.’
Meg desperately wanted to scream at her daughter, ‘Come home! Come home now!’ Instead she said, meekly, ‘OK, my angel, that’s so good of you to be so caring.’
‘She would do the same for me.’
God, Meg thought, please don’t let that be necessary.
‘If anything else happens, anything at all, ring me day or night, and don’t forget to keep an eye on your drinks when you are out.’
Ending the call, with Laura promising to message her in the morning with how Cassie was, Meg decided to watch Twelve Angry Men again. It was about the trial of a young black man accused of murdering his father. The evidence was compelling, especially to an all-white male jury back in 1957. One of the things that had resonated with her was a juror who reminded her of Gwen’s protestations that she did not want to miss Royal Ascot. He was wanting a quick ‘guilty’ verdict, because he had tickets to a major baseball game.
Meg made herself some supper, then settled down in front of the television with a tray and a notebook and pen. As the film progressed, she repeatedly stopped it and noted down the arguments the actor, Henry Fonda, used to change the minds of one after another of the jury, until he had them all finally convinced.
She fell asleep as the end credits rolled.
60
Thursday 16 May
At 8.30 a.m., Roy Grace sat with his team around the conference table in the Major Crime suite. A series of photographs were stuck to a fourth whiteboard behind him. They showed a replica set-up, outside the Starrs’ Chichester house, of the crime scene that had been there the previous week. The cordons, scene guard, a high-visibility police vehicle and a number of police officers.
‘One week on from the anniversary of when we believe Stuie Starr was murdered, we set up a facsimile of the scene,’ he informed them. ‘A team of officers were deployed to the area to stop and question all vehicle drivers and pedestrian passers-by, to establish if they had been there on the previous Wednesday and Thursday and had seen anything. DC Alldridge led the operation. What do you have to report, John?’
The DC replied, ‘Boss, we spoke to a number of people who had been in the area, and logged their names and contact details, which I have here.’ He tapped a document in front of him. ‘Unfortunately, none of them were able to provide any useful information at this stage.’
Grace thanked him. ‘I sat down with Alex Call last night and we’ve agreed a number of further submissions to the forensic lab, and hopefully we should get some results in the next few days. Nothing fresh has come up from the press and media appeal or house-to-house last week, nor from a CCTV and ANPR trawl. We’ve also drawn a blank on our drugs intelligence sweep. So, at the moment we are struggling to find any witnesses. But someone must have seen something. We believe at least two people carried out the attack. Someone must have seen them arrive and enter the property or leave it.’
At the end of the briefing, Grace returned to his office. Shortly after, Norman Potting appeared at his door.
‘Brief update for you, chief,’ Norman Potting said, walking into Roy Grace’s office. ‘About our one-eyed monster.’
The Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team had moved buildings three times in as many years, firstly from Sussex House into a former dormitory building at Police HQ, and then to another building close by. At least, Grace thought gratefully, he now had his own desk, in his own private room, and a conference table, albeit one that could just about fit four very slim people around it. ‘One-eyed monster? You’ve lost me, Norman.’ He sipped his second strong coffee of the morning, although it was only just after 9 a.m.
‘Dr Crisp.’
‘Ah.’ Grace understood now. ‘Tell me? But first, how are you?’ Grace realized he hadn’t spoken to him since he had finished his treatment for prostate cancer.
Potting waggled a finger in the air. ‘All working tickety-boo — the winky action! Just need a new lady in my life now, and I think I may have found her.’
‘Really?’
Sitting down, Potting said, ‘I’ve met this fantastic lady and I think I might be in love again, Roy.’
‘That’s great news!’ Grace smiled, albeit a little dubious. During the ten years he had worked with Norman, he had come to greatly respect his abilities as a homicide detective, but somewhat less so as a man able to judge potential life partners — with one tragic exception, a wonderful detective on his team who was just the kind of down-to-earth, caring person Norman deserved. But she had died, heroically but tragically, whilst off-duty, when she had gone into a blazing building to attempt to rescue a trapped girl and a dog.
Before her, much of Norman Potting’s love life had, in Grace’s opinion, been a total train crash, due to his choosing completely the wrong women. The worst of them was a Thai con artist the detective had met online, who had rinsed him. But he was glad to hear him sounding so happy — Norman had been grieving for a long while and it was good he was now able to move forward. ‘Tell me about her?’
Norman Potting gave him a dreamy look. ‘She’s Swedish, Roy. Her name is Kerstin Svenson and she’s gorgeous and very witty. Amazing, I never thought at my age I’d meet someone like her!’
‘And she’s how old?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Punching above your weight, aren’t you?’ Roy asked him, quizzically.
Potting beamed. ‘Maybe just a little!’
‘How many times have you been out with her?’
Potting shook his head and reddened a fraction. ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult because she lives in Sweden — a town called Sundsvall.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘Ah.’ Potting suddenly looked evasive and reddened again. ‘Well, we haven’t actually met yet, Roy — I mean physically.’
‘So, who introduced you?’
‘We met online.’
‘On a dating site?’
Potting looked sheepish. ‘Yes.’
Alarm bells were clanging inside Grace’s head. ‘OK, when are you going to physically meet?’
Again, Potting looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, we should have met last Friday — she was coming over to see me — but she was in a car crash on her way to the airport — some senile idiot pulled out in front of her. It’s made a pretty good mess of her car, apparently.’
‘Really?’ Grace was doing his best not to sound sceptical, but it was hard. ‘So, the car belongs to her elderly mother and it’s her only means of transport? And Kerstin discovered she’s not on the insurance policy, right?’
‘It’s not like that, chief.’
‘WAKEY WAKEY, NORMAN!’ His voice was so loud it startled the DS. ‘Operation Lisbon? Does that ring any bells?’
Potting looked at him. ‘Last October, the internet romance fraudsters we busted, you mean?’
‘Yep.’
‘This is different, honestly. Kerstin’s the real deal. I’m not Johnny Fordwater.’
Potting was referring to a former army major who he had been sent to see at Gatwick Airport. The man, a widower in his late fifties, was in the Arrivals lounge, waiting for the love of his life, a German woman, to come through after landing from Munich. Potting had had to break the news to the man that this woman did not actually exist. Tragically, Fordwater had sent her over £400,000, every penny he had in the world.