So often, people like Stonor, who blighted the lives of decent folk, got away with it for decades, thanks to the injustices of the legal system. Equally, he recognized that he was a human being who, regardless of his criminal past, deserved the same in-depth enquiry he would give anyone. Undoubtedly, as was the case with most villains, Stonor’s past would turn out to be a tragic one: a broken home, or alcoholic or abusive parents, who had never given him much of a chance in life, never set any kind of example or moral boundary for him. A sad victim of life and robbed of any future by an early death. Grace knew now that Stonor had had a girlfriend and probably a family, and they, too, deserved his best efforts.
55
Monday 2 March
Tooth arrived back in his hotel room soon after 11 a.m., having walked the few miles there and back to Roedean Crescent. He’d talked to two builders who were Polish and they had trouble understanding him. He explained he was a private detective working for a car insurance company, and that the occupant of the house, Jodie Bentley, whom he was trying to find, had given her name as a witness at an accident. But he got very little from them.
They worked for a London property management company engaged by the house’s owner, and were currently fitting new guttering. There had been a break-in last week, which was why they’d boarded up that particular window — it was the one where the intruder had entered. They seemed pretty glad the window was boarded up, because of the reptiles in the room, which neither of them had liked the look of. They’d seen the woman — she’d asked them to board up the window, but they were not able to tell him anything about her, or when she was due back.
At this moment there seemed only one way to find out. And that was to keep watch on her house until she returned. However long that took. Which was fine.
Back in his days as a sniper, he’d once sat for three weeks in the shell of a building, in blistering heat, permanently thirsty and hungry, with scorpions, spiders and the occasional curious snake as his only visitors, waiting for his target to appear in the cross-hairs of his sight. The spray of crimson from the exploding enemy head, when he’d finally pulled the trigger, had made it all worthwhile.
Sitting in a rental car, for however long it took for Jodie Bentley to return home, would be relative luxury.
56
Tuesday 3 March
‘What are you reading, my angel?’
Luxuriating on a blue-cushioned lounger on the open-air pool deck of the Organza, with her third Mimosa of the afternoon in a champagne glass beside her, Jodie Carmichael tilted up her straw hat and turned, with a smile, to her husband of just twenty-six hours, who had an art magazine folded across his plump, reddening stomach.
They were protected from the wind by tall windows all around, and there was a round Jacuzzi at the far end. A row of wheelchairs, mobility scooters and Zimmer frames were lined up beyond it.
‘I’ve just finished the Simon Toyne. I’m now reading a book on Mumbai I got from the ship’s library. I’m so excited — I’ve never been to India.’
‘Crazy place, Mumbai,’ he said. ‘I went to a cricket match there a few years ago. It’s their national game — almost their unifying religion. Ever watched a game?’
She shook her head. ‘Never really understood it. Have you played much, yourself?’
‘I was quite a useful spin bowler in my youth,’ he said, digging his fingers into a bowl of nuts beside him. Then he snapped his fingers at a passing steward and barked an order for a pink gin for himself and another Mimosa for his bride. Jodie cringed at his rude treatment of the sweet, young Filipino.
She continued reading. It was the four pages on the crocodile farm that she was focused on and studying intently. Sizing up the opportunities. There was plenty of wild terrain that visitors had to walk through, and that was good. That was exactly what she’d hoped.
Wild terrain.
The perfect home for the kind of cold-blooded creatures she was fond of, and understood.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘there’s cricket on in Mumbai when we arrive there — they have a magnificent stadium. I think you’d find it quite something! But, of course, if you’d still prefer the crocodile farm...?’ His voice was full of hope and she didn’t want to dash that.
‘My darling, of course, if you’d rather we do that?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, my angel,’ he said. ‘If my beautiful bride has set her heart on the crocodile farm, that’s what we’ll do. Hell, I can see cricket any time.’
‘Are you really sure?’
He took her hand and held it. His palm felt sweaty, repulsing her. ‘Being with you is all that matters. I couldn’t possibly concentrate on a cricket match — my mind would be on far more naughty thoughts!’
‘I love your naughtiness!’
‘And I love yours. Fancy going back to the cabin — you know — get out of the sun for a bit?’
‘Haven’t you just ordered more drinks, my love?’
‘Ah — yes — ah — good point.’
She slipped her free hand across and down the front of his orange trunks, which had dollar signs all over them, and gently stroked him. ‘Now this is what I call a good point,’ she said, feeling him stiffen in her hand.
He let out a gasp of pleasure.
Then, as the steward arrived with their drinks, she hastily removed her hand and returned to her book. To the photographs of the crocodile farm.
How lucky she was, she thought, to have such a sweet, understanding husband.
How sad that it would only be for a short while longer, if all went to plan.
So sad she almost shed a crocodile tear.
57
Tuesday 3 March
Haydn Kelly had positively identified the woman from the footage DC Alexander had obtained, entering the arrivals hall at Heathrow Terminal Three on Friday 20 February, and heading towards the exit.
But, so far, none of the taxi drivers or limousine companies had come up with anyone remotely matching her description.
Shortly before 9 a.m. Roy Grace drove past the black and gold sign which read BRIGHTON AND HOVE CITY MORTUARY. As he pulled into a parking space at the rear, Glenn Branson drew up alongside him. There was no sign of the Home Office pathologist, who was due to start the examination of Shelby Stonor’s body at 10 a.m. after travelling down from Birmingham.
‘Morning,’ Branson greeted him, then, as his self-appointed style guru, eyed him up and down as usual, to Grace’s annoyance. Grace was dressed for work in a dark suit, white shirt, plain tie and polished black shoes. ‘Expected to see you in tweeds and muddy wellies, chewing straw — you know — with your move to the country and all.’
‘Haha. How’s Siobhan?’
‘Yeah, all right. We took the kids to a farm shop place at the weekend to see the animals — they have chickens, rabbits, guinea pigs roaming around. Noah would love it. If you need any chickens, they sell them.’
Grace grinned. ‘I usually get mine from the butcher in Henfield.’
‘Very funny. Listen, we came back along the coast and the kids had brilliant burgers in a place in Peacehaven. Big Mouths — know it?’
Grace shook his head. ‘How were the kids with Siobhan?’
‘Yeah.’ Branson smiled, and Grace caught a glimpse of something wistful in his expression. ‘It’s hard for them, you know. But Siobhan’s finding ways to their hearts — mostly by spoiling them! And they’re really taking to her, which is a good thing cos there’s going to be times when she’s going to have to look after them without me there. At least she understands about working round the clock, you know, with her own job. She’s not like Ari, she gets what we do and the crazy hours we have to work. But she’s finding being a journalist much more demanding than she’d expected whilst she was a student.’