Niall looked at him quizzically. ‘Why would I have done? She’s about four sizes smaller than me. No, no way. Maybe she fell over running and cut herself.’ He frowned. ‘Look, if you think I killed her you’re completely mistaken. I loved her, for God’s sake. I’ve been in financial shit since my business went bust — she’s kept us afloat. Do you people seriously think I would have killed the gravy train when I was down on my luck?’
Both detectives stared at him levelly. Then Exton said, ‘Is it correct that when the two officers attended yesterday morning, they asked you about your wife’s passport? You went to get it, then told them it had gone from its usual place?’
Ignoring another warning glance from his solicitor, he said, ‘Yes, correct.’
‘Giving the officers the impression that she had taken it with her, wherever she had gone?’ Exton continued.
‘Yes — well — that was my conclusion. Why else would she have taken it?’ Paternoster replied.
‘We’re not here to speculate,’ Exton said, giving Rattigan an exaggerated smile. ‘We are trying to establish facts. You have repeatedly maintained that your wife has disappeared. Certainly, it would be logical if she had disappeared that she would take her passport with her. Would you agree?’
Rattigan looked like he was going to object to that, but then leaned back in his chair and let it go.
Exton went on. ‘Niall, do you have any explanation for why your wife’s wedding ring, engagement ring and passport were discovered by our Forensics Team last night? They were concealed underneath a bedroom floorboard.’
He shook his head, looking numb. Neither Potting nor Exton could read his expression. Then, anger rising, he said, ‘I — you — you found — you found WHAT? Her wedding ring and passport?’
Rattigan leaned across to his client and spoke quietly. There was an exchange of nods.
‘Can you explain these items, Niall, and the hidden T-shirt?’ Exton pressed.
Niall looked at both detectives. ‘No comment.’
Rattigan made some notes, looking relieved. ‘I have advised my client not to answer any more of your questions until I have spoken to him again. I suggest we reconvene this afternoon,’ he said.
Norman Potting leaned forward and placed a finger on the control panel to terminate the second interview.
36
Despite the bad start to the test drive, Larry Olson had to admit his customer knew what he was doing. Goodman had done a lot of track days, he’d reassured Olson, as well as an ice-racing course in Sweden a couple of winters ago. Once he’d got the feel of the BMW, he’d handled it well through the fast, wet, twisty two-lane road over Devil’s Dyke and onto the A23.
On the return journey there had been a couple of moments when he’d overtaken a little sharply, but they’d made it without Olson needing to reach into his pocket for the vial of white pills.
Now they were inside the city limits, heading downhill in the relative calm of a 40 mph limit. Goodman duly braked as they approached the 30 mph roundel, muttering that he’d been caught in a sneaky radar trap just past this sign a couple of years ago.
Olson could relax again now and resumed his sales patter, not that he really needed to. He was pushing at an open door. He could see from the broad smile of his customer’s face that he was all but ready to sign any piece of paper he shoved under his nose, once they were back in his showroom.
They turned left at traffic lights onto the Old Shoreham Road, in electric mode now.
‘She’s so incredibly smooth!’ he said, beaming. ‘And silent — a different experience. And does she go, wow!’
‘She does. And economical, too! Around town you’ll get up to ninety-one miles per gallon!’
‘Awesome!’
Olson directed him to make a right shortly after the next set of lights. A left, then another right down a short, winding road until they reached a T-junction back at the wide New Church Road, lined on both side with large, detached houses and some blocks of flats. He kept the spiel going as Goodman, clearly concerned about his licence, kept the speed to a rigid 31 mph. They were approaching, to their left, a school for posh kids which had a good reputation. Olson had educated all three of his own there up to public school level. Back in the days, he rued, when he was earning proper money.
But were his kids, all grown up now, grateful? Hell no, they’d sided with their mother after he’d traded her in for a younger model. Embarrassingly young, his daughter had said, the last time they’d spoken, more years ago than he could recall.
The rain, which had eased earlier, was now coming down heavily again and the windscreen was misting. Just as he leaned forward to switch the demister on, Goodman shouted out a petrified, ‘NO!’
Olson was thrown forward against his shoulder strap as the car braked hard. He just saw a flash of red, then heard a sickening thump. Someone small, arms splayed wide out, eyes frozen, hurtled over the front of the car, thudded against the windscreen, then vanished. There was a heavy bang on the roof.
The car slewed to a halt.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
Then Goodman shrieked, ‘OH SHIT, OH GOD, OH SHIT.’
37
The navy, white and turquoise helicopter of the Kent, Surrey and Sussex Air Ambulance was flying eastwards just below the 500-foot cloud ceiling. A few minutes earlier the AgustaWestland AW169 had lifted from Worthing Hospital in West Sussex and was now on a heading back to the Rochester City Airport base to refuel. And also to give the crew, who had been up early, a much-needed comfort break and a caffeine hit.
They had just dropped off a seriously injured farmworker. The unfortunate thirty-three-year-old had fallen into a threshing machine, which had severed his right leg below the knee and ripped off his right arm below the shoulder. He’d said to them apologetically, before they’d put him into an induced coma, that it had been his own damned stupid fault — he’d removed the safety mechanism, which was there to prevent just such an accident from happening. He’d done that, he said, because the machine had kept jamming and it gave him quicker access.
Luckily for the man, they’d reached him less than four minutes after receiving the call — the accident scene was almost directly in their flight path after returning from attending a motor scooter accident near Arundel. The rider there had suffered nothing worse than a broken leg and she’d been taken by road to hospital. If they’d been much longer before reaching the farmworker, he would have bled out and died, for certain.
The pilot, Andrew Delaney, and the paramedic, Kirsten Dunwoody, sat up front, and the trauma doctor, Julian Turner, sat behind them, writing up his notes. All three had their helmets on. It was 10.15 a.m. and they were just over two hours into their eight-hour shift.
Turner looked up from his tablet and peered out of the window to his right, which was beaded with tiny drops of rainwater. He took in the familiar lush landscape below. The views from the helicopter still excited him after four years of doing this job, and he joked to friends that he had the best office in the world. Swathes of green Downland slid past, patchworks of fields, isolated houses, occasional swimming pools and tennis courts, lakes, reservoirs, the dark, straight stretches and winding ribbons of road, and, far over to the right, the English Channel, the sea a flat grey today. The only thing he struggled with was the topography. From up in the air, the hills below were flattened out and although he knew the key landmarks, he got confused at times, trying to figure out exactly where they were.