He answered in as much detail as he could.
When he had exhausted the list, she asked him, ‘Does your wife have any previous history of disappearing?’
‘No, never.’
‘She’s never gone missing before?’
‘No— OK, she did do something about a year ago, when we’d had a row. She went into a supermarket and bumped into a friend, and asked her to give her a lift home, leaving me waiting in the car. She did that just to get back at me.’
There was a pause, during which he heard the tapping of keys. Then she asked, ‘Was that just a one-off situation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you and your wife argue often?’
‘No... no more than any other couple.’
More tapping of keys, then, ‘Does your wife have any history of mental health problems?’
‘No, none.’
‘Has she ever self-harmed?’
‘Self-harmed? Like cutting herself, do you mean?’
‘Any instance where she might have deliberately injured herself?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said.
There was a brief silence, punctuated with more key tapping, then she asked, ‘Has your wife, Eden, ever talked about suicide with you? Have you ever considered her a suicide risk?’
‘No, no way.’
‘So you wouldn’t consider it a possibility?’
Niall nearly shouted at the woman. ‘Not remotely. I cannot in a million years believe she would do that. And all we’d been bloody arguing about was cat litter. You think she’d go and kill herself over cat litter?’
There was no response for a moment. Just the sound of a keyboard again. Then the woman said, ‘If you can remain where you are, sir, I’ll dispatch a unit to you as soon as possible.’
‘Sure,’ Niall said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. How long do you think that will be?’
‘I’ll do my best to get a car to you within the next hour. If anything changes in the meanwhile, please call us back.’
Niall said he would.
11
‘Tell me I didn’t hear you right,’ Glenn Branson said. He had barged into Roy Grace’s office, as usual without knocking, and perched himself in front of the Detective Superintendent’s desk, chair the wrong way round, so that he was leaning, arms folded, across the back as if he was in some Wild West saloon — the position he regularly favoured.
Just when he thought that Glenn Branson’s ties could not get any brighter or more lurid, the thing knotted to the DI’s pink shirt this morning, now flipped back over his shoulder, looked like an angry, striking cobra.
Grace sipped his coffee, both irritated and pleased at the same time by his colleague’s uninvited appearance in his office. Irritated because he was trying to concentrate on writing an update report on his experiences in the Met with the Violent Crime Task Force, which the Chief Constable had asked for in order to see what Sussex Police could learn to help them with the surge in knife crime in the county. And pleased because he always liked Branson’s company, and he could do with a distraction from two hours of fierce concentration.
‘You heard me right.’
‘Chicken husbandry? Excuse me, just what is that? You’re not getting weird on hens? I mean, there are some pretty kinky websites out there — but chickens?’
‘Matey, I can’t help your warped mind. But this isn’t going to feed it. Cleo and I are doing a course in chicken husbandry at Plumpton Agricultural College tomorrow. A one-day course. Bruno’s taken a big interest in our hens, he really seems to love them — two in particular, the ones with the fluffy feet. Bruno’s named them Fraulein Andrea and Fraulein Julia. We want to encourage his interest.’
Branson leaned forward, frowning quizzically. ‘Fraulein Andrea and Fraulein Julia? What kind of names are those for hens?’
‘You have a problem with them?’
He grinned. ‘Whatever floats Bruno’s boat, I suppose. His U-boat.’
Grace shook his head at the comment about his German-born son. ‘Not funny.’
Branson raised his arms apologetically. ‘Yeah, sorry. So, this chicken husbandry thing, does it have a forensic application?’
Grace grinned. ‘I’m taking a day’s leave — OK? I’m owed a ton of leave. What is your problem?’
The DI shook his head. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, Head of Homicide for Surrey and Sussex Police, takes day off to learn how to look after chickens.’
‘And your issue is, exactly?’
Branson laughed. ‘Farmer Grace.’ He shook his head, smiling. ‘I can just see you rocking up to the next murder investigation in green wellies, chewing on a piece of straw.’
‘And what if I do?! Which do you think came first — the chicken or the egg?’ Grace asked.
‘The rooster, obviously. Typical male.’
It was Grace’s turn to smile. Then his phone rang.
It was Alison Vosper.
‘Ma’am,’ he said respectfully. ‘Can you hold for just one moment, I’ve got a weird-looking creature in my office.’
He waved a dismissing hand at Branson.
Branson took the hint and headed to the door.
‘OK, I’m with you now, ma’am.’
‘Nothing too nasty, I hope, Roy?’
‘Just one of those bitey insects you get this time of year, but it’s gone now.’
When Alison Vosper had been an ACC at Sussex, one of Grace’s colleagues had nicknamed her No. 27, after a sweet and sour dish on the local Chinese takeaway menu that they frequently used on long shifts. You never knew quite what you were going to get with her. Sweet or sour. But something in her tone indicated sweet right now.
‘I’m calling you with an update,’ she said. ‘I’ve already spoken to your Chief Constable to put her in the picture. I’ve also raised this with the Commander in charge of Anti-Corruption in the Met and he’s picking this up straight away as a matter of urgency.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Grace said. But the news didn’t fill him with elation, rather the reverse — it made him feel flat. However much he despised Pewe, and all corrupt police officers, the knowledge that what he had told her would destroy Pewe’s career — and probably the rest of his life — was still a tough one on his conscience. As well as Cleo’s warning words from last night.
First dig two graves.
And the knowledge that all he had told her was on the word of Guy Batchelor, a disgraced former police officer in prison, and the contents of his notebook.
But despite all Batchelor had done wrong, he trusted him on this.
Enough to gamble his career on, should this backfire?
He just hoped, as Guy had assured him, that the genie was already out of the bottle, and Pewe was on borrowed time.
‘Just remember, Roy, this stays strictly confidential.’
‘Of course, ma’am, absolutely. Thank you for the update.’
The moment he put the phone down, it rang again. It was Norman Potting, sounding worried. ‘Chief, I’ve just had a call from the quack — I rang the surgery about some symptoms I’ve been having for over a month now.’
‘Your prostate?’
‘No, touch wood, that’s all tickety-boo now. No, it’s something else. He wants me to come in this morning, which I guess is not good news.’
‘Norman, I’m sorry to hear that. Let’s hope it’s just something minor. Will you call me as soon as you’ve finished with the doctor? And, of course, if you need to take any time off, that goes without saying.’
‘Thanks, but it won’t come to that, chief, I’m a tough old bugger!’
Roy put the phone down and sat back in his chair. With the DS’s age and his previous health issues — plus the knowledge he didn’t really look after himself — he was worried about just how serious this might be. The old warhorse was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve.