‘Any more thoughts, Glenn — other than how many crumbs you can drop on my table?’
‘Sorry, boss!’ Branson swept them dismissively onto the floor with his hand and grabbed yet another biscuit. ‘The Amazing Disappearing Eden Paternoster!’ Then he looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, that was a bit insensitive.’
Grace shook his head. ‘I’m over it — long over it.’
‘Doesn’t something like this bring it back?’
He nodded, wistful for a moment. ‘Always. And if Eden has genuinely disappeared, then I’d feel something of the husband’s pain, yes. But this doesn’t smell at all right to me. The husband says she went into the store to get cat litter and disappeared. But his car isn’t picked up by any camera out in the car park, his wife isn’t picked up going into the store and she’s not been caught on any camera inside the store. We know from the staff that he was there, but no one can recall seeing her, although they must see hundreds of people every day. And in any case, my sense — hunch — is this is more than just a routine misper situation, especially with what John Alldridge noticed.’
Branson studied the photographs for a moment. ‘Nice-looking lady. I agree, but maybe we should have a chat with Mr Paternoster — don’t you think?’ He reached over and rummaged in the now almost empty packet. ‘No passport smacks to me of someone doing a runner — with a lover — possibly?’
Grace looked thoughtful. ‘Possibly. How about we drop in on him, unannounced, and have a friendly, sympathetic chat?’
Holding up half a biscuit, with a cartoon-like bite shape missing, Branson replied, ‘Good plan, boss.’ The rest of the biscuit disappeared.
‘I do have a hypothesis.’
‘Yes?’ Branson asked.
‘Maybe she got too close to your chomping jaws and you mistook her for a chocolate digestive.’
‘That’s not even slightly funny.’
As Glenn pulled out onto the main road a few minutes later and accelerated ferociously, Grace said, subtly trying to make him slow down, ‘Um, you know how you often see flowers attached to trees at the scene of a fatal?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Biggsy in Traffic told me it’s because people always drive at what they’re looking at. You lose control on a bend and you see you’re skidding straight towards a tree, so you stare at the tree — and whoomph! You drive straight at it and hit it. If you’d stared past it instead, you’d have missed it.’
‘That so?’
Grace nodded. ‘Another thing a trauma specialist once told me is that the worst thing you can hit is a tree.’
‘Why’s that?’ Branson said, taking a sharp bend at a speed that nearly defied the laws of physics, as Grace warily eyed a very large beech ahead.
‘He said, always hit a wall, because that’ll collapse. But hit a tree and what that does is absorb the impact and then give it all straight back to you.’
‘You’d rather I hit a wall than a tree?’
‘Mate, can you just slow down, for Christ’s sake? I’d prefer neither.’
Fifteen minutes later, at a quarter to four, Glenn Branson pulled up the silver, unmarked Ford in Nevill Road, in front of the Paternosters’ house. Nodding at the Greyhound Stadium opposite, he asked, ‘Ever been to the dogs?’
Grace nodded. ‘Yep, last year Cleo and I went — I was asked to present the prizes for an evening that was fundraising for the Sussex Police Charitable Trust.’
‘Did you have a punt?’
‘I thought it would be polite — and it was for a good cause.’
‘How did you do?’
‘We were put at a table with a CSI who breeds racing greyhounds as a hobby. He gave me a tip — always bet on one you see having a dump before the race.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yep,’ Grace said.
‘Yeah? And?’
‘Lost every sodding race.’
Branson laughed. ‘Shit happens.’
‘Or maybe it didn’t.’
21
Roy Grace and Glenn Branson got out of the car and walked up to the Paternosters’ front door. The top half was frosted glass. Grace pressed the bell and heard musical chimes. Followed by the miaow of a cat.
They waited.
After several seconds, Grace rang again. A shadow appeared behind the glass, then the door opened, just a few inches. A male voice commanded, ‘Back! Back, Reggie!’
The door opened wider and they saw an unshaven, tired-looking man in his thirties with muscular arms, wearing denim shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops. He was stooping, holding a grey Burmese cat. On one wrist, Grace noticed, he wore an Apple Watch and on the other a Fitbit.
Looking up at them, he said, ‘Sorry, can’t let him out the front — the last one got run over and I was to blame.’
‘Mr Niall Paternoster?’ Grace asked.
‘Yes.’
Grace held up his warrant card and introduced himself and Branson.
Niall gave a smile. ‘Detective Superintendent? Major Crime Team? So, you’ve not palmed some junior lackey off on this?’ Then he hesitated as a thought seemed to strike him, and his face fell. ‘Oh my God — have you found her? Is that what—?’
‘May we come in, sir?’ Grace asked politely, ignoring the comment.
They entered the small hallway as the man shut the door behind them. Grace glanced around; the interior was modern, fresh-feeling, minimalistic, but there was a faint smell of fried food and cigarette smoke. The smell seemed incongruous — the floral scents of expensive diffusers would have gone more appropriately with the decor, he thought.
‘Have you found my wife?’ Niall asked again with a nervous edge.
‘No, sir, I’m afraid not,’ Grace said. ‘We’d just like to have a chat with you.’
Niall expanded his arms. ‘Absolutely! And thank you for coming. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?’
‘We’re good, thank you,’ Grace said firmly.
They followed the man through into the modern-looking lounge and sat down on the white sofa he indicated. Niall Paternoster sat opposite. Grace noticed an ashtray on the coffee table that was crammed with butts.
‘Mr Paternoster, could you talk us through the circumstances of your wife’s disappearance? Starting with the last time you saw her?’ Grace asked.
‘What, again? Don’t you people talk to each other? This isn’t the first time I’ve gone over this.’
Grace didn’t tell him that one reason they liked people to recount events multiple times was that if they were lying, they would often start making mistakes or inconsistencies. All he said was an apologetic, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it is important we understand exactly what happened and the timeline.’
Paternoster sighed. Then, as if suddenly realizing he was behaving strangely, his demeanour changed completely, all eager to help now. ‘The last time I saw Eden was yesterday afternoon. We were heading home after a nice day out. We’re members of the National Trust and we like visiting their houses — a regular thing we do on Sundays. But yesterday, actually, we went to Parham House.’
‘And everything was fine between you?’ Branson interjected.
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Well, we’d had a bit of a stupid argument — over cat litter.’ He recounted the circumstances, leading to Eden jumping out of the car in the store’s car park to go and grab a bag of the stuff.
‘That was the last time you saw her?’ Grace asked.