‘Roger that, boss! Yes, yes.’
‘Good! Go, go, go!’
A few cars ahead, he saw the tall, lean, suited figure of Jon Exton emerge from the passenger door and stand on the pavement. He was joined moments later by the robust frame of Norman Potting. He watched as they conferred briefly, then walked down the pavement and stopped for a moment outside the front of the Paternosters’ house before striding up the steps to the front door. Potting pressed what looked like the doorbell and followed with a rap on the door.
Grace held his radio up in front of his face, his heart in his mouth. This was always the moment where something could go horribly wrong, such as the occupant opening the door with a gun in his hand. But he didn’t think so, not right now — they’d given Niall Paternoster no reason to expect what was about to happen.
He held his breath.
The door was opening.
27
‘If you’re trying to sell me something, I’m not interested. OK?’
Norman Potting stared back calmly at the angry man with untidy hair standing in the doorway, dressed in a crumpled T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. ‘Must be your lucky night, sir,’ he said. ‘We’re not.’ He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Potting and Detective Sergeant Exton from the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.’
Niall Paternoster’s demeanour changed instantly. Anxiously, he blurted, ‘Have you any news of my wife? Eden? Has she turned up somewhere? Has she been found?’
‘Afraid not. Can we step into the house and have a word with you, sir?’ Potting replied.
Paternoster stepped aside to allow them in.
‘Niall Paternoster, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering your wife, Mrs Eden Paternoster. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
The man looked in total shock, Norman Potting thought. He was so stunned that he barely even noticed DS Exton stepping past him, seizing his wrists and cuffing his hands behind him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Niall said, looking genuinely bewildered. ‘This isn’t making any sense. I called you guys this morning because my wife had disappeared — and now you’re arresting me? On what grounds?’
‘Did you not hear what I just said?’ Potting asked.
He shook his head. ‘No— I—’
‘Would you like me to repeat it?’
‘Please,’ he said lamely. ‘Oh my God, is she dead? Please not, please tell me she isn’t. What’s happened? Have you found her body?’
He was crying. Potting thought, Crocodile tears?
‘We’ve not found your wife’s body, Mr Paternoster,’ he said. ‘We’re hoping you can help us with that.’
Niall shook his head, sobbing and sniffing. ‘I’m sorry, this is insane — completely ridiculous. Why would I murder her? Murder the woman I love?’
Ignoring his protestations, Potting said, ‘You will be entitled to legal representation if you don’t have your own solicitor, but I’m afraid I can’t say any more at this stage. We will now take you to the Brighton custody centre.’
‘What about the cat?’ Niall asked.
‘Cat?’ Potting queried.
‘Reggie. He’s about somewhere, probably asleep upstairs.’
‘Officers will be here and will take care of him, if you tell us what he needs.’
Niall Paternoster looked on, in even more bewilderment, as several men and women in oversuits, protective shoes, rubber gloves and face masks stood waiting on the pavement, while a uniformed officer stretched a line of blue-and-white crime scene tape across the front garden wall, pausing to let him and the two detectives leave, each officer holding an arm.
One of the men in oversuits approached, glanced at Paternoster’s wrists, and spoke to the two detectives.
‘When you book him in to custody can you have them bag the Fitbit and Apple Watch separately, and get them across to Digital Forensics ASAP?’
‘I’ll make sure of it, Chris,’ Exton replied.
As he was led away, up the pavement, hoping to hell none of their neighbours was watching, Niall Paternoster noticed the two officers who had come to his house that morning. He shouted out at them. ‘Hey, Detective Superintendent, can you tell me what’s going on? You’ve got no right to do this to me. I know my rights.’
A moment later, a firm hand pushed his head down, propelling him into the rear of a small Ford, behind the front passenger seat.
‘You’ve got this all wrong!’ Paternoster said as the door closed on him and one of the arresting officers climbed in beside him in the rear. ‘Can’t you people get anything right? You’re meant to be trying to find my wife! What the hell is all this about?’
Jon Exton turned to face him. ‘Perhaps it’s because we don’t believe you, Mr Paternoster.’
‘Don’t believe me? What do you mean? Don’t believe what? My wife has vanished and I’m going out of my mind with worry. What the hell don’t you believe? Haven’t you checked out the CCTV footage at Tesco Holmbush?’
Exton continued staring at him. ‘That has been done. The footage has been studied. Outside and inside the store. You were there, but your wife wasn’t.’
28
After Potting and Exton had driven off with their prisoner, Roy Grace didn’t strictly have a further role to play tonight, other than as the SIO to make his own initial assessment of the crime scene. The fewer people who entered a potential crime scene the better, to limit contamination. He watched Gee sign the scene guard log and go into the house, and Barbara Onoufriou and four Search Team officers walk round to the rear garden. But he was too curious to leave. All his instincts were telling him something was very definitely wrong here.
Turning to Branson, he said, ‘You can go home, mate, I want to hang around a bit.’
‘I’ll stay with you, boss.’
‘Honestly, you don’t have to. Go and cherish your family.’
The DI shook his head. ‘The kids are at their grandparents and Siobhan’s taken a day off — she’s been out with her sister at the final wedding dress fitting. She said they were going to dinner together — which is shorthand for getting trolleyed.’
Grace grinned. ‘Think I would too — at the thought of getting married to you!’
‘Your humour doesn’t improve with age.’
‘Nah, just my wisdom.’
After worming into fresh forensic suits, overshoes and gloves, and pulling on masks, they approached the Paternosters’ house. The young, uniformed PC scene guard standing behind the tape was in for a long night, until the poor sod was relieved around 6 or 7 a.m. tomorrow, depending on how they worked their shifts these days, Grace thought. Both of them signed his log and ducked under the cordon.
The guard contacted the Crime Scene Manager, who came out into the tiny front garden to join them.
‘All OK, Chris?’ Grace asked.
‘We’ve found two laptops and two iPads — I’m having them bagged and sent over to Digital Forensics. Any chance Mr Paternoster would oblige us with the passwords, do you think?’
‘That will be a good test of whether he’s going to cooperate. If he won’t give them, it might indicate he has something to hide — I’ll make a call. And we’d like to take a look around if you’re happy, Chris? I want to get more of a feel for the place, but if you’d prefer us to stay outside, I’d understand.’
Gee smiled. ‘You’d both be welcome, sir. You came here earlier today, so I don’t think we have to be worried about contamination from either of you. I’ve already had a quick look round and there’s no obvious sign that any section of the carpets have been cleaned recently. There are two tiled areas, the kitchen and en-suite bathroom floors — if you could avoid walking on those for the moment, sir. We’re taking a close look at the kitchen where the attending officers earlier noticed recent cleaning and saw fresh blood — which Mr Paternoster blamed on cutting his finger on a potato peeler.’