Cleo had given him a ton of books to read relating to her Open University degree course in philosophy, and he had been dutifully working through them ever since they had first started dating, aware of just how much knowledge he lacked from his own education. Some of the stuff he had found impenetrable, but he had learned a lot from others. The words of one writer, the American poet and philosopher Henry Thoreau, had stuck in his mind: ‘lives of quiet desperation’.
He looked at the bruises on Lorna’s body. Had that been her tragic life? One of quiet desperation? Had this little place been her escape?
He pointed out the marks on her neck to Batchelor. ‘What do you think, Guy? Any hypothesis?’
‘Well, boss, I’d say from what we know of the husband, he might have murdered her and then tried to make it look like suicide. But I don’t think we can rule out anything at this stage, even suicide.’
Grace nodded. ‘She could have been attacked by her husband. Or by someone else. Or suicide. Until we find her phone, laptop or other electronic devices we won’t know for sure she didn’t write or send a note.’ He stepped back out into the main room and looked at the ashtray. ‘Was she a smoker?’
Then he was interrupted by his phone ringing. ‘Roy Grace?’
Instantly his heart sank as he heard the voice of the most pedantic of all the Home Office pathologists on-call to Sussex Police. Frazer Theobald.
‘Hello, Roy. I’m just finishing off a job in Woking, then I’ll be heading down. Should be with you in about two hours.’
The most pedantic, but the most thorough, Grace acknowledged with grudging respect as he ended the call. ‘I’ll be leaving you to it shortly, Guy. OK?’
‘Absolutely, boss.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’
‘I’ll take care of everything. You won’t need to worry.’
‘Check out the Murder Manual when you get back to the office, OK? It has everything you need as an SIO.’
‘I will.’
They stepped out of the flat, not wanting to disturb the crime scene more than they needed, and were met moments later by Crime Scene Investigator Alex Call, who had just arrived. Grace introduced Batchelor, explaining his role. Then he instructed the CSI to lay down a forensic grid, and to ascertain if there were any fast-track opportunities for forensic retrieval of evidence. He and Batchelor would wait out here whilst Call did his first cursory sweep.
Grace looked at his watch, working back from the time he needed to be at the airport. Lorna’s husband needed to be informed, and he wanted to break the news himself to the man. How he reacted could be vitally significant. But he needed to remain here at the crime scene with Guy, waiting for Alex Call’s initial assessment, in case there was something blindingly obvious he had overlooked, which Call’s trained eye spotted and could lead them to a swift resolution.
They stood on the landing chatting to the scene guard, then the Crime Scene Manager who arrived with James Gartrell, a CSI photographer, who would video the scene.
Ten minutes later Call came back out, closing the door behind him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ve done a quick sweep; there are a number of things of interest. Firstly it looks as if some attempt has been made to clean the flat up. I’ve found cigarette butts and beer cans in the plastic bag left by the door. In fast time I’ve developed marks on two of the cans, which I’ve already sent off electronically to the fingerprint bureau. I’ve also swabbed the victim’s body.’
‘Good work, Alex. What about a mobile phone or laptop?’ Grace asked.
‘Not that I’ve come across so far.’
Grace frowned.
‘Could have been taken by her killer,’ Batchelor said.
‘A botched burglary, do you think, Guy?’
‘Possible.’
At that moment there was a ping, and the CSI pulled his tablet from his pocket and stared at the screen. ‘We have a match!’ he said. ‘From the prints on the cans.’
‘Oh?’ Grace replied.
Call looked at both detectives. ‘Corin Douglas Belling. That gives us a starting point.’
23
Thursday 21 April
If they made an arrest within hours of the murder being reported, it would not only reflect well on him, Grace thought, as he left the building. It would take any pressure off him having to explain his sudden absence for a few days.
If.
If they had the right person.
Corin Belling had violently assaulted his wife three times in the past year — at least, three times that the police were aware of, having been called by his wife. In all probability it was many times more than that, unreported. Such was the normal pattern. Abusers would assault their partners, then apologize and beg for forgiveness. Over and over. The average was, incredibly, forty assaults before the partner would contact the police. And still after then the assaults would continue. Until one day they went that bit too far.
There was a ton of questions he needed answering. The first was Lorna’s reason for having this flat. Did the husband know about it? Or rather, when had he found out about it? Was Lorna a secret smoker? If not, who had been using the ashtray? Corin? DNA might provide the answer if they could find any on the cigarette ends.
In the meantime they had the print match on the beer cans. Lorna’s husband, Corin.
Corin had been released from custody after his arrest earlier in the week for assaulting his wife.
Lorna had been renting the flat for over eighteen months — secretly, Grace presumed. Paying cash. Why? And why no phone? Or computer?
The obvious explanation was to give her a bolthole to escape from her husband when he became violent. Maybe she left her computer at home. Maybe also she left her phone. If the husband was a control freak there were any number of ways these days he could track her through her phone.
Another possibility that he’d already considered was a secret trysting place with a lover.
It was unlikely for her husband and her to have a place close to the seafront as a kind of weekend holiday home. But if that was the case, why would it have been in her name and why was she paying in cash, giving the landlord no other address?
He razored away that last explanation, leaving just the first two options.
The husband’s prints, clearly recent, on the cans of beer put him at the scene where she had been found dead.
Had he discovered her bolthole and gone there to confront her? Then turned violent? He looked at his watch. Time was running out on him. He wanted to break the news himself to the man, and see from his face and body language how he reacted.
Grace decided to go to the man’s workplace and talk to him. He was aware of the forensic considerations of going straight from a crime scene to a suspect, but in this case he judged there would be no cross-contamination issues.
Needing a collaborating officer for the questioning and potential arrest, he thought for some moments about who from his team was available, then called DS Exton, gave him the address and asked him to head straight there and meet him outside.
24
Thursday 21 April
Burgess Hill is a small but sprawling town a few miles to the north of Brighton, and Roy Grace always got lost there so, before setting off, he programmed the address into the Mondeo’s satnav.
Twenty minutes later, driving up Station Road, he was lost again as the satnav sent him on a detour back to the roundabout he had just crossed, and then down a dead end. Cursing, he turned round, pulled over, and entered the address into the Maps app on his personal iPhone, which he often found was more reliable. It showed his destination to be over a mile from where he currently was. ‘Great!’ he said aloud, annoyed.