‘A simple, stupid error,’ Lorna Dennison-Wilkins said. ‘Seen it before many times. The killer in a panic.’
Grace shook his head. ‘This doesn’t fit. He wasn’t in a panic. So, let’s suppose he was planning to murder Eden. The trigger was the row they had last Thursday night. Maybe he deliberately created the row.’
‘But isn’t that a bit daft?’ Branson asked. ‘Wouldn’t he have known the neighbours would hear?’
‘Not necessarily. If he’s a narcissist, bigger on ego than he is on brains as you and I both thought after talking to him, perhaps he thought that the neighbours hearing a row would lend credence to the story he’s giving that she’s left him — done a runner on their marriage. But without thinking through how all his movements would be picked up on ANPR cameras and GPS tracking of his phone.’ Grace shrugged. ‘That wouldn’t be the first time a killer’s been trapped that way.’
‘Good point,’ Branson agreed.
‘So let’s go down this route for now. When he brought her body — or body parts — here, it was nearly 3 a.m. Pitch dark. No one around. He had all the time in the world. He had the choice of at least six far thicker bushes within flashlight range, as we can see. So why did he choose the one so near and so sparse? And I’m not buying red mist or panic. He was clear-headed enough after killing her to remove her wedding and engagement rings and conceal them, and to hide her passport. But two things here are really bothering me.’
‘Which are, boss?’ Branson asked.
‘We know there were a number of true crime DVDs in the house. Let’s hypothesize that he learned through those that one of the best ways to dispose of a body is to dismember it and bury it in a shallow — rather than deep — grave, in woodlands. Because that gives you the best chance of predation, which we believe has happened here. The body parts conveniently carried off. So why was he dumb enough to leave items of her clothing in the grave also? Do either of you think that’s consistent with his planning?’
Grace looked at them all in turn before continuing. ‘Then, after all his planning, Niall Paternoster clumsily chucks the knife into the nearest bush? When there are several so dense and prickly it’s much less likely a member of the public would find it. Why would he do that? I think it was more likely that the deposition site was his way to get rid of the clothing and I think animal disturbance has caused the knife to be moved, especially as it has soil on it. But I don’t completely reject the possibility it could have just been chucked away by him.’
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying, boss? That he wanted to be caught?’ Branson asked.
Grace shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘I’m confused.’
Lorna Dennison-Wilkins looked equally bemused.
‘Join the club,’ Grace said. ‘None of this is making sense. Was it buried or was it thrown away?’
The DI looked at his watch. ‘Boss, I’ve got to get back to HQ to meet Mark Taylor for the surveillance briefing. If we leave now, I’ve just got time to drop you back home.’
‘I’ll come to the briefing with you. We can spend some more time here. I want to take a further look round.’
‘On your own?’
‘No, come with me.’
Grace, followed by Branson, walked further into the woods. They became increasingly dense, all paths a tangle of nettles and brambles, with dubious-looking mushrooms and toadstools free-standing or attached to tree trunks.
Finally, Branson, looking at his watch, said, ‘We really need to head back, boss, for Mark Taylor. It’s after 3 p.m.’
Grace nodded.
‘Any conclusions?’
‘No. You?’
Branson shook his head. ‘Right now I’m all out of conclusions.’
‘You and me both.’
72
Kosmos Papadopoulos sat in the glassed-in dock of Court 3 at Lewes Crown Court. A tall, confident-looking man, with slicked-back hair, he wore an expensive suit, stylish cream shirt and blue silk tie, accessorized with bling rings and an even blinger watch. He could have done without the unwanted accessories on either side of him, a male and female security guard, in their shabby outfits. But at least his brief, Kiaran Murray-Smith, a sharp-eyed QC in his early fifties, and his junior, Madeleine Wade, had been doing a pretty good demolition job of the prosecution, so far.
His legal team had been doing so well that Papadopoulos could scent victory in the expressions of the jurors.
And now, the neatly dressed woman in her mid-thirties, with long hair the colour of straw, who was taking the oath in the witness box, didn’t look like she would say boo to a goose. Yet another in a string of so-called ‘expert’ witnesses called by the prosecution.
She swore on the Holy Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Yadda, yadda, yadda. The poor deluded woman actually sounded like she meant it. Yeah, good luck with that one, lady. When you arrive at the Pearly Gates, if you’re expecting St Peter to unclip the crimson rope and let you turn left, you could be in for a spot of disappointment. But hey, that’s for later.
The witness over the next hour relayed to the court her evidence. She gave this in a quiet and assured manner, concentrating on conversations of the defendant that she had witnessed. Once the prosecution counsel had finished with the witness, the defence counsel got to his feet.
Murray-Smith was straight on it, going for the jugular.
‘Sharon Orman, could you please tell the court your academic and professional qualifications?’
‘I left secondary school with nine GCSEs and three A levels in mathematics, computer science and biology,’ she replied.
There was a short silence while he let the jury absorb this.
‘And, subsequently, what further qualifications did you achieve?’
‘None,’ she said falteringly. ‘I saw an advert for Sussex Police, looking for people to join under their diversity programme. I joined the Digital Forensics Team before moving to the Surveillance Unit.’
Murray-Smith gave her a big, confidence-boosting beam and a sarcastic tone. ‘Would this have been because you fancied a career change?’
There was a brief interruption as the prosecution counsel objected. The judge allowed the defence counsel to continue.
‘In your evidence, as an expert witness, Ms Orman, which was pretty damning, you claimed that you had watched, via binoculars, the defendant in conversation with another person. You read out from your notes your recording of what Mr Papadopoulos had purportedly said. I will repeat it, just for the avoidance of any misunderstanding.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and read aloud from it, directing his words at the jury box.
‘You told this court that, according to your interpretation, my client said, “There’s a drop in the Channel, one mile north of the Palace Pier. Eight million quid’s worth of crack cocaine at street value. I have two other bidders for this — do you want in? If so, give me your price by midday tomorrow.”’
Murray-Smith looked up from his notes, straight at the woman. ‘Is that correct?’
‘It is,’ she confirmed.
‘Word perfect?’
No hesitation. ‘Yes.’
‘So, Ms Orman, as we have heard, you’ve had no formal qualifications or training in the art of lip-reading. Yet you claim to have observed my client in discussions over what might or might not have been a business deal. Pretty damning evidence if true, wouldn’t you agree?’