Did you know that the ancient Egyptians, when they died and were mummified, had their favourite pets killed and mummified, to go in the tomb with them?
Do you think they did that because they wanted company in their tombs or because they worried their pets would miss them too much — or that no one would take the same care of the animals they did?
It was 3 a.m. Somewhere out in the darkness of the city he heard a pitiful squealing sound. A creature in utter terror. It went on and on. An urban fox taking its prey. He’d heard that sound several times before and it always distressed him, but tonight he thought bitterly, Well, at least there’s two of our hens you won’t be taking.
He thought back to the conversation he’d had earlier, with Inspector James Biggs of the Road Policing Unit, and the statement he’d related from the witness who saw Bruno’s accident.
What if he had done it deliberately to end all this? Did he kill the hens? Because in his confused mind he was worried they would miss him too much?
Trying to turn his thoughts back to the Paternosters, he eventually lapsed into sleep, awaking sometime later from a nightmare in which Cassian Pewe was holding two dead hens up from lengths of string and shouting at Grace that it was all his fault.
Finally, shortly before 5.30 a.m., after lying for ages, tossing from side to side, wide awake, he crept out of the bed and along to the bathroom where he was able to shower and clean his teeth. When he returned, Cleo was still asleep.
He kept thinking about Bruno’s obsession, ever since he’d come to live with them, with serial killers. But what the hell did strangling his two favourite hens have to do with anything? Anticipating his death? Or what? Was it definitely Bruno or was it someone else who had killed the hens?
A dark thought struck him. Was that just practice, before something on a larger scale? Something human?
Just before 6 a.m., Cleo stirred and reached for her phone.
‘I’m messaging Darren,’ she said. ‘Telling him I won’t be in today. I’ll stay with you here.’
‘Are you sure?’
She kissed him. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I think we’re going to need each other.’
56
‘You know what this is?’ Niall Paternoster said, tired and ragged after a sleepless night on his narrow bunk and brutal pillow. ‘It’s a stitch-up.’ He was alone with his solicitor in a small interview room at the custody centre.
‘Stitch-up? By who? What do you mean, exactly?’ Joseph Rattigan asked. ‘Are you suggesting the police are fabricating evidence against you?’
Paternoster raised his hands in despair. ‘I don’t know what to think. It’s just crazy — I mean — just crazy.’
‘The evidence against you is not looking good, you’ll have to admit,’ Rattigan said, tapping his bundle of papers. ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Not looking good? You’re my brief! I thought you were meant to be on my side?’ He pointed at the door. ‘If I’ve got that wrong then I need to find someone else.’
‘Please calm down.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to lose your fee, is that it?’
‘Would you like to know what my fee is?’ the solicitor asked.
Paternoster shook his head. ‘All you lawyers, you’re fat cats, that’s what I do know.’
‘My Legal Aid fee is less than £150. That’s for consulting with you yesterday, being present during the interviews with the detectives, meeting with you again today and meeting with you however many more times you need.’
‘Are you serious?’
Rattigan nodded solemnly. ‘That’s the value the Legal Aid Agency place on us.’
Niall did a brief mental calculation. ‘I would have earned more than you driving my cab.’
‘You would, yes. Do you still want me to leave?’
Niall shrugged.
‘So, you dropped your wife off in the car park of the Tesco Holmbush store at around 3.15 p.m. last Sunday and you’ve not seen her since?’
‘Correct. Do you believe me?’
‘If what you’re telling me is the truth, then I believe you.’
Niall looked at him, face on. ‘But you don’t believe me, not really, do you?’
Rattigan sat up straight. ‘I’m not permitted to tell lies, either to police officers or in court. If I act for a client who tells me they are guilty, then my job is to try to reduce their sentence to the best of my ability. If my client tells me they are innocent, then I have to do all I can to prevent them from being convicted. Does that help?’
Niall shrugged again. ‘Am I right that they have to release me this morning or charge me?’
Rattigan shook his head. ‘They can apply for a further extension and, with the evidence they have, they would almost certainly get it.’
Niall Paternoster looked bleakly down at the table in front of him. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? I love Eden, why would I harm her?’
‘If I had a pound for every client who’d said that, I would be a lot wealthier than I am, Mr Paternoster, believe me.’
‘What do I have to do to convince you — and the police?’
‘At this stage, we need proof that Eden is alive and well.’
‘And how do you suggest I find that while I’m locked up in here?’
Rattigan nodded. ‘As I said, the evidence against you isn’t looking good, so far, from what I’ve heard. It seems to be both clear-cut and damning. But you’re saying it’s a stitch-up. I’d very much like to hear your reasons why you feel that in light of all we’ve heard.’
Niall Paternoster told him.
57
‘Hello my name is Nadine’ greeted Roy and Cleo Grace in the Intensive Care reception and led them straight back into the Relatives’ Room. She deflected their questions on how Bruno had fared overnight with a pleasant but non-committal, ‘Dr Williams, the Intensive Care consultant, will be briefing you on Bruno’s condition. I can tell you that he had a comfortable night after surgery, with no dramatic changes.’
She offered, as before, to get them drinks and — as if it was Groundhog Day, Roy thought — returned a short while later with a glass of water for Cleo and a coffee with an extra shot of espresso for him, then left them alone.
Cleo squeezed his hand. ‘Maybe he’s improved overnight,’ she said.
‘Then he can go home and murder more hens?’ Immediately, Grace, who was feeling tired and fractious, regretted saying that. ‘I’m sorry, darling, that was insensitive. I didn’t mean it that way, we don’t even know for sure it was him.’
She gave him a look, a gentle, knowing smile that said, Yes, sadly, we do.
Five minutes later, as they entered the curtained-off area, Roy Grace reeled with shock at the sight of Bruno. He looked even smaller and even more dwarfed by all the technology around him than before. But it wasn’t this which gripped his gullet and twisted his gut. It was the sight of the bolt sticking out of the top of the small boy’s head. He had to pinch his mouth with his hand to stop himself from crying out.
From the corner of his eye, he could see that Cleo, who was used to the most terrible sights daily in her work, was shocked too.
The intracranial bolt the consultant had talked about was just exactly that. Somehow he’d been expecting something else — although he didn’t know what. Just something tiny taped to his skull, perhaps. But not this.
It was a proper shiny bolt, with a nut, and a cable coming off it to a black box with a digital display. It was the kind of nut and bolt you might see on a radiator or a bicycle wheel.
The display was giving a reading of fifty-seven.