He looked at his watch. At 6 a.m., he would be handing over to a new duty Senior Investigating Officer. Sussex and Surrey normally had around twenty-four homicides a year between them. So far this year, Sussex was enjoying a below-average rate. The odds had been badly stacked against him for this weekend, and although homicides were his meat and drink — there was nothing he loved better than to investigate a murder — he was glad to have had a quiet period.
Just as he thought this, bending down to tug the red tennis ball free from Humphrey’s jaws, his phone rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered, and was immediately dismayed to hear the somewhat neurotic voice of Andy Anakin — known to his colleagues as ‘Panicking Anakin’ — one of the city’s duty inspectors. Anakin was known colloquially within the police as a shit magnet. Incidents happened whenever he was on duty. A nervous man, he frequently spoke in short, staccato sentences.
‘Oh, sir, good morning. Just wanted to give you a heads-up, sir. In case. You know?’
‘Heads-up on what? In case of what?’ Grace replied.
‘Well, the thing is, a major Brighton target died last night in suspicious circumstances.’
‘You’re talking in riddles, Andy. Who died?’
‘You didn’t hear? Shelby Stonor.’
‘Shelby Stonor?’ Grace quizzed him. ‘That scrote?’
‘Yep, the very one. DI Warner was called out and has looked at the circumstances and has asked that you be informed.’
Like any city, Brighton had its share of persistent offenders who were well known to the police. Shelby Stonor was up there on the A-list of the worst of them. Grace had first encountered him in his early days in the force, as a beat copper. Back then Stonor had been a frequent joyrider and a petty thief. He had graduated to becoming a house breaker — and a fairly rubbish one at that. During the past twenty years Stonor had spent more time in prison than out. And one of the crimes Grace hated, almost more than any other, was domestic burglary. In his view — and a view shared by both Sussex Police and all other forces — violating the sanctuary of people’s homes was up there amongst the vilest of offences. Currently, Grace knew, Stonor was a major target for Brighton Police who also believed he was connected to a gang stealing high-value cars.
‘That’s what you’re calling me at this hour to tell me? That Shelby Stonor’s dead?’ He added, cynically, ‘Are we going to have a whip-round for flowers or something?’
‘It’s how he’s died, Roy. That’s why I’m calling you.’
Does anyone care? That little bastard, he was tempted to reply. He took a deep breath. ‘Tell me.’
53
Monday 2 March
Rollo had gone to play a rubber of bridge with the couple who had been witnesses at their marriage, earlier. Kind of a strange way to spend the start of their honeymoon, she’d thought, and he’d offered to cancel, but she had insisted. He couldn’t let them down and ruin their game, not after they’d been so sweet.
He promised to be back by six for champagne, then a romantic wedding-night dinner à deux. She’d told him not to hurry, she was happy for him.
And she had work to do.
Luck was really going with her. Ever since she had changed her appearance all those years ago, luck had gone with her. It seemed she just had to think lucky to be lucky. Klein had been a hiccup along the way. She was now back on a roll. Even before setting foot on the ship she had been planning Rollo’s demise. The discovery that the ship’s captain was licensed to carry out marriages recognized in English law, and her plan to seduce Rowley into marrying her, had worked so brilliantly. No one would suspect a loved-up bride of just a few days of killing her husband. And the location was perfect, given to her on a plate, with plenty of dangerous creatures in addition to crocodiles.
She was thirty-six and her body clock was ticking ever faster. She had very few years left to achieve her dream of a lifestyle to match that of her old school friend, Emira. Enough money to buy one of those villas on Lake Como, to have all the other luxuries she could ever want, to have a man she really loved and to bring up her own family. This opportunity with such a deadly combination of elements might take years to occur again. It was too good to miss — she had to grasp the moment.
Carpe diem!
The ship was rolling a little in a heavy swell. The captain had warned them in his 9 a.m. address that it would be a little rough for a few hours, and to make sure everyone held the handrails on the stairs. She walked unsteadily across to the door, opened it and peered out into the corridor. Rollo was forgetful and had a habit of returning to the cabin minutes after he had left, for his glasses, his phone, his wallet or his insulin pen. But all she could see was a liveried butler delivering drinks on a silver tray to another cabin.
She closed the door and locked it. Then she went to the fridge where she kept the freezer pack that, she had told Rollo, contained the drops she needed for her dry eyes, and where his insulin pens were stored. Inside was a tiny rubber-stoppered vial of amber-coloured crystals she had brought with her, from a small stash she kept in her freezer at home. It lay among the sachets of eye drops that she did not need. She removed it and one of his grey Lantus twenty-four-hour pens, and placed both items on the dressing table.
Next, from a compartment inside her handbag, she took out the hypodermic syringe, a small bottle of sterile water and surgical gloves from the kit she always travelled with. She liked to be prepared, never knowing when an opportunity might present itself, although she’d had a feeling from the start, with Rollo, that the cruise might provide too good an opportunity to miss. And with his rocky health, she wanted to do it sooner rather than later — which might be too late. Happily, events were panning out much faster than she had expected. With luck, this would more than make up for all those precious months she had wasted with Walt Klein.
For protection she snapped on the gloves and firstly rehydrated the vial of freeze-dried crystals with the sterile water. She had studied the way Rollo took his insulin, by screwing a fresh needle into the base of his throwaway insulin pen. Whilst the crystals were dissolving, she took the empty syringe and pressed the needle against the base of the pen, pushing it firmly and carefully up inside. Then, glancing nervously at the door, she withdrew the plunger, drawing out the clear insulin until the pen was empty. She went over to the washbasin and, pressing the plunger firmly, squirted the insulin down the plughole, breathing in its distinct, clinical reek.
Her hands were trembling, she realized. Again she looked at the door. Don’t come back, please don’t come back.
Then there was a knock.
Shit!
She looked down in panic, wondering where to hide everything. ‘Hello?’ she called out.
‘Canapés!’ a sing-song voice replied. Their regular afternoon delivery of caviar, smoked salmon and prawns, with a glass of champagne, that Rollo had ordered for them.
Relief surged through her. ‘Can you come back later, please. Half an hour?’
‘No problem! Sorry to disturb you!’
Shaking, she returned to her task. She picked up the vial and the syringe and carefully drew up the rehydrated venom, watching carefully, hoping to hell she had not miscalculated. Then she smiled. Perfect! The pen’s clear-plastic barrel was full and the faint yellow tinge was barely discernible!
She marked the pen, to be sure she could identify it, with three careful scratches from her nail scissors, then placed it with her eye drops back in the opaque freezer pack and put it back in the fridge. Picking up the syringe and the empty vial, she stepped out onto their secluded balcony, in the warm late-afternoon sunshine, leaned over the rail and carefully looked around for anyone who might notice her, but there was no one about. Then she tossed the syringe and vial overboard into the deep blue ocean.