I didn’t know Bruno had any mates, Grace nearly said, but he held it back. ‘OK, I love you.’
‘Love you, too,’ she said forlornly.
He ended the call just as he reached the entrance to the Major Crime suite and made his way to his office, his mind swirling with thoughts both about the impending funeral and his meeting with Pewe.
He made himself a coffee, putting the milk in the mug first and then the coffee before adding the water, something Sandy had taught him, insisting it tasted better that way — and she was right. He used the time it took for the kettle to boil to start focusing back on the investigation.
Carrying the mug through to his office, he sat at his desk, glanced through his emails, then called Glenn Branson and Jack Alexander, in turn, asking them to come to see him right away.
When both detectives were seated in front of him, he told them of the developments following his meeting with Pewe. Neither of them, nor any other members of his team, had any inkling about the ACC’s impending fate.
‘What planet is he on?’ Branson retorted. ‘So we have to take over from Surveillance ourselves?’
‘Yes, as best we can.’ Grace tapped his screen. ‘I have the tracker on Niall Paternoster’s rented Fiesta showing — currently stationary outside their home in Nevill Road. Aiden Gilbert’s doing some wizardry and it should appear on all the team’s laptops and phones. Glenn, I’m giving you the action of organizing a rota for this weekend of three team members to man the observation post, as discreetly as possible, to confirm when he drives away from the house. We will have his whereabouts on our screens.’
‘Will do, boss.’
Grace turned to Alexander. ‘Jack, I need you—’
He was interrupted by his job phone ringing again. Raising an apologetic hand to the two detectives, he answered. It was Emily Denyer.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I’ve been going through the documents seized from the Paternosters’ house by the Search Team. There’s a solicitor’s letter regarding a will made by Eden Paternoster. It was hidden under the paper lining of a drawer in an antique bureau which appears to be her writing desk and where she keeps all her private papers along with a life insurance document.’
‘How recent was this document?’
‘It’s dated March seventeenth of this year.’
‘What’s the gist of it?’
‘It’s pretty simple really. I think you’ll find this interesting, sir — any death benefit was to be paid out to Rebecca Watkins.’
94
Glenn Branson and Jack Alexander both sat in silence for some moments, absorbing what Roy Grace had just told them. Trying to make sense of it.
Then Grace called Aiden Gilbert, whose team was working on recovering documents from the hard drive of Eden Paternoster’s laptop. He told Gilbert what he needed very urgently, and he promised to take a look immediately.
True to his word, less than five minutes later, a document labelled New Will as well as the life insurance policy taken out by Eden Paternoster in favour of Rebecca Watkins came through on Grace’s email.
The three detectives immediately studied the documents. The will was a short and simple document, properly signed and witnessed by two people, one called Jo Cabot, Legal Executive, and the other, Miro Afonso, Assistant Solicitor. Attached to it was a covering letter, signed off by a woman called Jill Riddle, Head of Wills and Probate, Cardwell Scott LLP.
‘Let me get my head around this,’ Branson said finally, looking baffled. ‘She’s basically leaving everything she has, bar a few small bequests, to the woman who’s sleeping with her husband? Or am I missing something?’
‘I’d say you’d just scored what golfers might call a hole in one,’ Grace replied, looking equally baffled.
‘Her boss,’ Alexander commented. ‘The Ice Queen? Excuse me, but what the hell is going on here?’
‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’ Grace replied.
‘“When first we practise to deceive,”’ Alexander quoted.
Both his colleagues looked at him.
‘What film’s that from?’ Branson asked.
Alexander shook his head. ‘People think it’s from Macbeth, but it’s actually in Walter Scott’s poem, “Marmion”.’
‘Never took you for a poet, Jack,’ Branson said.
‘I’m not. But I am a mine of useless information.’
‘Who do people generally leave their money to in their wills?’ Grace asked.
‘Their other half?’ Branson ventured.
‘So,’ Grace said, ‘we’ve been putting all our focus on Niall Paternoster — and perhaps that’s not misplaced. What about this as a hypothesis — bearing in mind we know from what Rebecca Watkins told us last night that Eden confided in her about her marriage problems.’ He paused before continuing.
‘A big part of these marital problems, unknown to Eden, is that Rebecca Watkins is having an affair with her husband — Niall. Only Rebecca Watkins and Niall Paternoster know this. Rebecca plays on Eden’s vulnerability and builds a friendship with her. She plays the game of being the considerate, trusted, forever friend, someone who will support her out of this situation, help her build her life back and plan for the future.’
He paused to let this sink in. ‘Rebecca then puts a cunning plan to Eden — leave all your money to me, fake your disappearance, setting up Niall as the possible murderer, but without sufficient evidence for him ever to go to trial. And bingo! There’s no body, but as we’re going to map out the rest of your life and get you to a better place, what’s a seven-year wait to be declared legally dead to collect the cash?’ He looked at the two detectives. ‘It may sound far-fetched, but we need to consider everything. Where are we with obtaining Eden’s medical records?’
‘We’ve requested them, but they haven’t arrived yet. Maybe we should go and pay the solicitor who drafted the will a visit, boss?’ Branson suggested. ‘I know the firm, they’re local, just opposite Brighton Library.’
Grace looked at his watch: 11.34 a.m. ‘They’ll be closed today but we’ll go Monday morning, Glenn. Maybe we can catch her between clients, or else in her lunch break.’
‘Will she talk to us? You know what briefs are like. Or should we get a warrant?’
‘No, that would be too heavy-handed and I think we’d struggle to get one for this — client confidentiality is sacrosanct. Let’s just try our natural charm.’
Branson gave him a quizzical grin. ‘Yours or mine?’
‘Really? You think you have some?’ Grace replied.
His colleague shook his head. He shot a glance at Alexander, who was smiling, then back at Grace. ‘I honestly don’t know why I like you.’
‘Could it be my natural charm?’
95
The police search officers had finished at the end of last week, the crime scene tape had been removed from the front of the house and Niall Paternoster had been allowed to go back inside his home. Although, to his chagrin, on searching round, he’d discovered the police had carted away almost every scrap of paperwork, and he had no idea when his laptop would be returned.
Now, he sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee with milk that was almost on the turn and scanning through the Argus for any mention of the mystery of his missing wife. But, it seemed, the news had already moved on. Fatboy Slim had a whole page, publicizing a free concert he was giving on Saturday night on the seafront. The headline story was a gruesome murder, dismembered remains found in a wheelie bin. There was an article on the superstar blogger Zoella. A family were concerned about the wife’s missing eighty-four-year-old father, who had dementia and hadn’t been seen in four days.