Nothing about Eden or himself.
If she was alive, just where the hell was she? What game was she playing? And, more to the point, why?
Had she had an accident?
Then a wilder possibility came into his mind as he thought suddenly about the Hitchcock film Psycho, which they both loved and had seen several times. The irony of Janet Leigh embezzling money and disappearing, only to end up staying at the Bates Motel and being murdered by Norman Bates. Could something like that have happened to her?
It was a crazy idea, but nothing else made any bloody sense. If she’d stayed away for a night, as she’d done before when they’d rowed, that was one thing. But this many nights? That was very different. Had she somehow discovered his affair with Rebecca? But if so, surely she would have confronted him and not simply disappeared? Or was fitting him up — as she clearly had from all the police had told him — her nasty idea of revenge?
In six hours’ time he was due to head over to Mark Tuckwell’s and do a long stint in the cab, first collecting a couple flying in from Tenerife to Gatwick and taking them to their home near St Leonards. Then up to Heathrow Airport to pick up a Mr and Mrs O’Connor arriving from Munich. After dropping them home, to Tunbridge Wells, he would head back to Brighton and spend the rest of the night picking up the detritus of weekend revellers blowing their latest wage packet on booze and drugs. All the time hoping none of them would throw up in the cab or do a runner.
Then tomorrow, Rebecca’s hubby was off to France for a golfing holiday. They would have a whole week together. Happy days!
His phone rang, a WhatsApp call, intruding on his thoughts. Glancing at the display, he saw it was Rebecca. ‘Hey, gorgeous!’ he answered. ‘I was just thinking about you — how much I’m looking forward to tomorrow! I’ve told Marky I’m not available to drive for him for the next week — told him I need to wait home until she turns up. Know what I’m saying?’
She sounded strange as she replied. ‘I’ve been interviewed by the police. I think they’re suspicious.’
‘Of what?’
‘Hello? Eden has disappeared. They’ve seen us together up at the Dyke. What would you be suspicious of if you were a cop?’
‘Yeah, I know how it looks. But at the end of the day I haven’t harmed her and nor have you — unless you’re not telling me something?’
‘So now you think I’ve killed her? Thanks a million!’
‘Of course I don’t, my gorgeous.’ After a brief moment he added, ‘I love you.’
There was a silence.
‘Do you love me?’ he queried.
‘I don’t think we should be talking like this over the phone. If they’ve got us under surveillance, they might have bugged our mobiles.’
‘I don’t think so. And anyhow, WhatsApp is encrypted. They won’t be able to listen in.’
‘Really? So how did they find us at the Dyke?’
‘Other phone records? Are they watching us? I dunno. But I googled the authority the police need to bug anyone — there has to be a life at risk.’
‘And they don’t think Eden’s life is at risk?’
‘No, they think she’s dead — that was the gist of my interviews with them after they arrested me. They think I murdered her, as I told you.’
‘Even so, I think we should be careful over the phone.’
‘I bloody love you,’ he blurted. ‘I want you.’
There was a long silence. Then she said, ‘Did you not hear what I said?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ she said tersely, ending the call.
96
The offices of the law firm Cardwell Scott were in a red-brick building occupying a corner site diagonally opposite the piazza in front of the modern glass edifice of Brighton Library.
Roy Grace and Glenn Branson walked in through the front entrance and up to the curved reception desk, behind which sat a woman with elegant, dark hair. She gave them a polite smile.
They showed their badges. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ Grace led. ‘We would like to speak to Jill Riddle.’
She glanced at her computer screen, then looked up at them. ‘Do you have an appointment, officers?’
‘No,’ Grace said. ‘But we need to speak to her urgently on a potential murder investigation we believe Ms Riddle may be able to help us with.’
‘Take a seat, gentlemen, and I’ll see if she’s free.’ She indicated to a sofa in front of a table with a spread of newspapers and local magazines, then lifted her handset.
‘How was your day, yesterday?’ Branson asked, his voice sympathetic. ‘And how’s Cleo taking it all?’
‘She’s pretty cut up.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know — I never thought she had much fondness for Bruno, but clearly she cared for him a lot more than I realized. But we had an OK day, thanks. Noah tried to make scones, which basically meant covering most of the kitchen — and Humphrey — in flour. He’s turning into a little rascal, nicking the cheese when Kaitlynn wasn’t looking.’
Branson grinned.
‘Then Jack came over and we did a Sunday roast. Good to have a bit of normality. But I haven’t really slept.’
The receptionist replaced her handset and looked at the detectives. ‘Ms Riddle has a fifteen-minute window before her next client.’ She pointed over to her right, to a lift. ‘If you go to the fourth floor, her assistant will meet you.’
They entered and rode the irritatingly slow lift upwards. Finally, the doors jerked open to reveal a neatly dressed, middle-aged woman with a wavy fringe shaping her face standing on a small, sterile-feeling landing. She greeted them with an uncertain smile. ‘Follow me, please, gentlemen,’ she said.
They walked along a corridor, past a number of closed doors. She rapped on the last one, then opened it and ushered the detectives through. Grace led, followed by Branson, into a small, tidy office, with one wall lined with bookshelves filled with legal tomes, and a window overlooking the library.
A woman with wild grey hair, wearing a blue two-piece over a white blouse secured at the neck with a looped, bootlace-thin black bow, gave them a quizzical look. On her desk were several stacks of documents bound with ribbons, as well as a silver photograph frame showing two young men, seemingly twins, dressed in mortar boards and graduation gowns, and another of two Golden Doodles. There were more bound stacks of documents arranged on the floor next to the desk. On another wall Grace clocked a practising certificate and a large framed photograph of a women’s hockey team.
She stood up. ‘Gentlemen, good morning.’
Grace and Branson showed her their warrant cards. ‘Jill Riddle?’ Grace checked.
‘Yes, what is this about?’
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team and this is my colleague Detective Inspector Branson. We appreciate your seeing us at such short notice,’ he said. ‘We’re investigating the disappearance, under suspicious circumstances, of Mrs Eden Paternoster, whom we believe is a client of yours.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve been reading about this in the Argus.’ She indicated the two chairs in front of her desk. ‘Please sit. Can I offer you any tea or coffee?’
‘We’re fine, thank you, and we know you’ve only got a few minutes, so we’ll keep it brief. We believe Mrs Paternoster may have been murdered and her husband, Niall, is currently our prime suspect. Our investigating team have located a will on a computer hard drive which appears to have been drafted by you. I have a printed copy of it here.’