There was a knock on the door. Polly immediately leaned forward and grabbed the photographs, just as it opened.
Ned Watkins peered in. He shot a ‘still here?’ look at the detectives, then addressed his wife coldly again. ‘Off to poker — everything OK?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m going to my kick-boxing class shortly.’
‘See you,’ he said.
‘See you,’ she replied stiffly.
As he closed the door, the lack of affection between the two hung in the air like the vapour from dry ice.
‘Mrs Watkins,’ Grace asked, ‘where were you last Sunday, September the first, around 5.30 p.m.?’
‘I took our dog, Kiko, for a walk on the Dyke.’
‘Is that all?’ Grace persisted.
Outside they heard the roar of a high-powered engine starting, followed by what seemed to the officers to be several unnecessarily loud revs, as if Ned Watkins was signalling some displeasure. Then came a squeal of tyres and the vroom of the McLaren, they presumed, roaring off at speed.
Seemingly ignoring the sound, Rebecca Watkins gave Grace a long, hard stare. ‘I’m guessing you know the answer to that. So, before I say anything else, am I a suspect — is that what this is about? Should I have my solicitor present?’
Both detectives shook their heads. ‘No, you are not a suspect,’ Grace answered. ‘Not at this moment.’
‘Meaning?’ she rounded on him.
‘If you were a suspect, we would have arrested you,’ Grace said. ‘We are aware that you appear to be in some form of relationship with Niall Paternoster, who is a person of interest to us. The purpose of coming to see you is to be able to eliminate you from our enquiries.’
‘Or implicate me?’
Roy Grace stared levelly at her. ‘We need to make sure you didn’t help Niall Paternoster murder his wife, Eden, and dispose of her body.’
‘That’s absolutely ridiculous!’ she replied.
‘Then you have nothing to worry about. We would like you to come to the Police HQ in Lewes tomorrow morning to be interviewed as you are an important witness. What time would be convenient?’
‘I’m in a meeting at work all tomorrow morning — it’s the monthly appraisals of my team, we’re having to do them on a Saturday.’
‘Fine,’ Grace said. ‘What about tomorrow afternoon?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve meetings booked all afternoon.’
Grace stared back at her. ‘Would you prefer us to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder?’
There was a long, silent stand-off. Then she said compliantly, ‘Would 9 a.m. work?’
Grace glanced at Polly, who nodded. ‘OK, 9 a.m. If you go to reception at the front entrance of the Police HQ in Lewes, they’ll have a car park space reserved for you.’
‘You don’t seriously think I have anything to do with Niall’s wife’s disappearance, do you?’
‘So long as you don’t, Mrs Watkins,’ Grace said, ‘then you have nothing to worry about.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then I’m afraid I have to be off, I don’t want to be late for my class.’
86
As the detectives drove away from the Watkinses’ house, heading back to HQ, Roy Grace turned to Polly. ‘Your thoughts?’
‘Her husband is one angry man.’
‘A right loving relationship — not,’ Grace said.
‘Has the husband found out about her affair?’ Polly asked. ‘Should we include him on our list of suspects?’
Grace, halting the car at the junction with Dyke Road Avenue, said, ‘If he was going to murder anyone it would be his wife — or Niall Paternoster. He wouldn’t have any reason to harm Eden — unless I’m missing something?’ He turned left.
‘There’s a very strange dynamic going on in that relationship.’
‘For sure. But there’s always two sides in a marriage breakdown.’
‘We’ve been focusing on Niall Paternoster as our prime suspect, sir,’ Polly said. ‘But that Rebecca Watkins, blimey O’Reilly, she is one cold fish. Hard as nails.’
Grace nodded. ‘Hard enough to have murdered Eden, to get her man?’
‘I was wondering that, sir. Does she look like a murderer?’
Grace smiled. Something Glenn Branson had once said, quoting a movie as he so often did, came into his mind. He was trying to remember which, then it came to him. ‘Did you ever see that Hitchcock film Strangers on a Train, Polly?’
She frowned. ‘I think I may have done.’
‘There’s a line in it that gives you your answer; it’s something like, “I’ll tell you what a murderer looks like. A murderer looks like anyone.”’
She nodded. ‘So true. Worth putting surveillance on Rebecca Watkins as well?’
Grace shook his head. ‘Nice idea, but we don’t have the resources. And, despite what we’ve seen of Niall Paternoster and Rebecca Watkins, I’ve still got doubts about Eden’s disappearance. Maybe we’ll know more after we interview Rebecca tomorrow. Wear plain clothing. Nothing to distract the subject.’
‘I’ve got a shirt that DI Branson would be ashamed of,’ Polly said with a smile.
‘Sounds perfect.’
87
It was just past 9 p.m. when Roy Grace pulled up outside their cottage. It was dark and as he climbed out of the car, hearing the distant bleat of a sheep somewhere, he felt a small amount of weight fall from his shoulders. The air smelled sweet and he breathed in the almost intoxicating smell of freshly mown grass. Before his thoughts returned to Bruno.
Inside their house, he could hear Humphrey barking his greeting. He stood for some moments, looking up at the hill, thinking. Thinking that Bruno would never see this again. That he would never see Bruno again.
His only link with Sandy now gone.
He put the Indian takeaway into the oven to keep warm. At least, now he was on the Paternoster case, he was no longer at risk of being called out in the middle of the night to a crime scene — someone else could have that pleasure.
‘Hey, darling, I’m home.’
He was really hungry, he realized, having barely eaten all day.
‘I’m home!’ he called out.
Silence.
As he went through into the living area, Humphrey walking along beside him, he saw Noah’s baby monitor on the coffee table in front of the sofa, beside a book Cleo was part way through.
‘Cleo!’ he called out, then climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. No sign of her. He slung his jacket onto the antique chaise longue in front of the bed that they’d bought at the weekly auction in Lewes, tugged off his tie and dropped that onto it, then undid the top two buttons of his shirt and walked along the corridor to Noah’s room, rolling up his sleeves. He opened the door. The curtains were drawn and he saw the silhouette of his son asleep.
He crept over and looked down at the boy, curled up in his cot — which he would soon outgrow — clutching his special teddy and a small stuffed monkey close to his face.
Blowing him a silent kiss, he retreated, closing the door softly, then climbed the steep attic steps and opened the door to Bruno’s room. Instantly, he felt a tug in his heart. Cleo was sitting on the end of his bed, on the red-and-white Bayern Munich bedspread, dressed in a loose smock, her hair clipped up, hands folded in her lap.
‘Darling,’ he said gently.
She looked up at him through red, tear-stained eyes, her face a picture of sadness.
He strode over, sat down beside her and put his arm around her, kissing her on her wet cheek.
‘It’s just so horrible, isn’t it?’ she said.