Branson gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I don’t know how he’s got to where he is. His entire career, he just seems to have failed upwards. Where does he go next — Chief Constable or Commissioner of the Met?’
Jail, hopefully, Grace thought, but did not say. Other than to Cleo, he’d not breathed a word about the evidence he had against the ACC. Maybe this would be the last time Pewe would mess things up for him, he hoped. But he was getting increasingly concerned that no action, as yet, had happened against the man, and he was starting to have doubts. Had he made a big mistake, trusting the word of a disgraced former officer, no matter that they had once been friends? Had he been stupid to ignore Cleo’s warning that this could all backfire on him? Professional Standards normally acted swiftly to suspend an officer if there was any whiff of suspicion — but now eight days had gone by since he had given the information to Alison Vosper. Although, of course, they would need to secure the evidence before taking any action.
Could he have made the biggest mistake of his career?
‘Still with us?’ Branson asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.
Grace smiled. ‘At the moment, yes.’
98
Rebecca Watkins and Niall Paternoster sat, side by side, on a curved banquette in a corner booth of the rammed Green Dragon on Croydon High Street. Rebecca had in front of her a half-eaten plate of prawn salad and Niall a beef-and-mushroom pie. He raised his pint glass, which he had nearly drained, and clinked her glass of white wine. ‘To the future!’
‘To our future,’ she corrected.
‘To our future!’
They clinked glasses again and locked eyes. Niall’s right leg pressed tightly against her left. They were so absorbed in each other that neither of them noticed the lean woman with long hair, wearing ripped jeans and a lightweight jacket, who was standing at the bar, drinking a lime and soda and picking at a sandwich, who kept glancing in their direction and then making notes in what looked like her diary.
‘How’s your week looking?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Pretty dull — so long as I’m not rearrested for my beloved wife’s non-murder. Otherwise I’m free all week.’ He gave her a cheeky look. ‘Do you have something in mind?’
Her hand was sliding provocatively down between his legs and pressing against his crotch. ‘Hmmn, maybe,’ she said, nudging up closer to him. ‘I have the thing I’m holding in my hand very much in my mind.’
After a quick glance around, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘And I have you very much in my mind.’
She squeezed him a little harder and he gasped. ‘We have our annual sales conference this week, at the Grand in Eastbourne. Hubby’s not coming, of course, he’s away. I have to make a presentation on Thursday afternoon, then put in an appearance at the dinner — but I thought, if you’re up for it, we could have ourselves a cosy rendezvous late night after I’ve escaped.’
‘Like, your hotel room?’
She shook her head. ‘Too many work people around. I’ll have a think. Somewhere wild, crazy, deeply romantic.’
The erotic tingling inside him was so strong, Niall could barely speak. ‘I like it.’
‘I’ll text you. Late night, somewhere where there won’t be anyone around. I can put the rear seats of the Rangey flat. You bring a bottle of Prosecco and glasses?’
‘What sort of time?’
‘Whenever I can get away without being rude. Probably be near to midnight. Does that sound like a plan?’
He winced as she stroked him. ‘It sounds like a very good plan.’
‘The best plan you ever heard in your life?’
‘Even better.’
After a discreet glance around, checking there were none of her colleagues about, she kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’d better be there.’
99
There was now a fourth whiteboard behind Roy Grace in the conference room. It was labelled Rebecca Watkins. Two photographs of her taken through long lenses, and another of her and Niall Paternoster walking on the street, captured by the Surveillance Team, were stuck to it. Below them was a partially filled-in association chart, showing her known network of family and other contacts.
It was 5 p.m. Grace looked up from his notes at the crowded table. ‘This is the twelfth briefing of Operation Lagoon, and we have some significant developments. The first is that, unfortunately, our Surveillance Team has again been temporarily redeployed, but they’re leaving the tracker in place beneath Niall Paternoster’s rental Fiesta.’ He turned to Alexander. ‘Jack, I’m giving you the action of arranging the monitoring of all movements of his vehicle until we get the Surveillance Team back.’
‘I’m on it, sir, and I’m sharing with all the team.’ Addressing them, Alexander said, ‘You’ll each be able to track any movements on your computer and phone screens.’
DC Boutwood raised her hand. ‘Yes, EJ?’ Grace said.
‘Sir, why have they been redeployed at such a critical point?’
‘I’m sure ACC Pewe would be happy to explain, EJ.’ He shrugged. ‘Resources — I’m afraid it is what it is, and we have to get on with it.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘I’m glad you understand, EJ,’ Norman Potting grumbled. He turned to Grace. ‘Resources — is that shorthand for being dumped on from a great height, chief?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment, Norman,’ Grace replied with a thin smile. ‘I’ll leave you to form your own conclusions, but we do get the team back later in the week.’
Potting shook his head, making a tutting sound. Ignoring him, Grace continued. ‘I’ve called this briefing earlier than usual because I particularly wanted to have Sharon Orman here this afternoon before we lose her valuable skills. Orman, as some of you know, has developed a formidable lip-reading ability. Around 1 p.m. today she followed Niall Paternoster and Rebecca Watkins into a pub in Croydon, where she was able to observe them from a safe distance and pick up most of their conversation.’ He turned towards her. ‘Sharon, could you tell us what you saw after you entered the Green Dragon pub?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, then read from her notebook, ‘Niall Paternoster was in a corner booth with Rebecca Watkins. They were sitting intimately close, eating lunch. He raised his glass of beer and clinked her wine glass and said, “To the future!” Rebecca corrected him, “To our future”. Niall then repeated the toast. “To our future”.’
She glanced at her notebook. ‘Next, Rebecca asked, “How’s your week looking?” Niall replied, “Pretty dull — so long as I’m not rearrested for my beloved wife’s non-murder. Otherwise I’m free all week. Do you have something in mind?”
‘Rebecca Watkins was acting in a very provocative manner, arousing him discreetly with one hand. She then told him she had her firm’s annual sales conference in Eastbourne this coming week and that her husband would not be attending because he was away. She said she had to make a presentation on Thursday afternoon, then put in an appearance at dinner, but suggested they have a rendezvous afterwards. Subject suggested her hotel room, but Watkins dismissed that, saying she would have too many work people around. She suggested she would find somewhere and text him — she didn’t say what time precisely but suggested it would be around midnight. She said she could put the seats in her Range Rover flat and suggested Niall bring along some Prosecco and two glasses.’
Potting grinned. ‘A cosy little mobile love nest!’