Next he phoned Batchelor, who was still at Lorna Belling’s rented flat.
The Home Office pathologist, Dr Theobald, had arrived, Batchelor informed him, and was carrying out his initial, painstaking examination of the scene.
‘I’m not sure whether what I have to say is good or bad news for you on Operation Bantam, Guy,’ Grace said, and brought him up to speed.
‘God, Roy, I’m sorry. But to be honest, I don’t think anyone’s going to miss that vile creep.’
‘I’m with you on that one, Guy. But let’s hold off celebrating until we get the DNA and postmortem results.’
‘I’ll put the Champagne on ice, so it’s ready.’
‘I like your style!’
‘Thanks, boss — and hey — I’m sorry you had to witness it, but it sounds like karma to me.’
‘One thing Belling said to me was about an argument — can you find out what he meant by that?’
‘I just heard from an NPT officer — apparently the bastard threw all the little puppies Lorna was breeding out into the street when he came home yesterday evening. A neighbour managed to rescue them before any were run over — they’ve been taken along with their mum to an animal welfare centre called Raystede for the moment until we establish if they’re all spoken for or need to have new homes found for them — and the mother.’
‘Good to know there are still some decent people in the world, Guy.’
‘And it looks like one low-life has removed himself from the gene pool.’
‘It does indeed. But let’s wait for Frazer’s confirmation before cracking the bottle, OK?’
‘Yes, O Wise One!’
At least no smart-arsed lawyer was going to be getting Corin Belling off this one, Grace thought. He’d had that happen to him too often over the years. Equally, convictions had to be safe. If you locked up the wrong person on a murder charge, that meant the real killer was still at large — and might kill again.
Grace ended the call with a thin smile.
29
Thursday 21 April
The Akashic Records. He’d been thinking about them since last night, amid all the other stuff that was going on inside his head. The Akashic Records were meant to be like a 24/7 video recording of every thought you had, every emotion that you felt and deed that you did during your time on earth. When you died you had to sit in a room with a representative of Big Goddy and talk through every moment of your life — and explain.
He hadn’t been inside a church to pray since he was a child and had been dragged along to Assemblies by his Plymouth Brethren parents, who believed literally in every word of the Bible. The reward for their religious devotion was to be wiped out in their car by a tired French lorry driver who’d come off the Dieppe — Newhaven Channel ferry and had driven on the wrong side of the A26 a few miles north of the port, forgetting he was no longer in France.
His uncle and aunt, also members of the Brethren, had told him they were such good people that God had recalled them early. They were lucky.
Of course! How lucky was that? What could be luckier than for the front bumper of a fully-laden eighteen-wheeler, weighing thirty-six tons, to come crashing through your Ford Escort’s front windscreen and punch both your heads out through the rear window and fifty yards up the road?
He should have been in the car that day, en route to a prayer group. But God had given him mumps, so he was home in bed.
Mr Lucky.
Maybe he’d get lucky with those Akashic Records, too.
Awfully sorry, we had a technical glitch, your tapes got wiped. You’ve arrived here tabula rasa. We don’t know your whereabouts on the afternoon and evening of Wednesday, 20th April. Are you OK with that? Have we missed anything significant?
Just like his parents, he had to hope luck ran in the family. Cling to that thought.
He was clinging to it tightly.
The one thing that worried him — slightly — was how easy he had found it to lie. To now believe completely in his innocence.
He needed to talk to someone, to explain. Someone who would understand, tell him it was OK, that under the circumstances he had done the right thing. Done what anyone would have done.
Perhaps he should talk to a shrink. But were they bound by the Hippocratic oath these days or had that changed? It used to be that if you fessed-up to a shrink, they had to keep it a secret. But did that still apply, or were they now obliged to report it? He was pretty sure the latter.
Maybe a priest would be better? The secrets of the confessional?
30
Friday 22 April
Shite. Roy Grace’s head was pounding. For some moments he could not figure out where on earth he was. The hideously bright green digits of a clock radio, inches from his face, read 4.53 a.m. A child was crying. Noah?
It didn’t sound like Noah.
His mouth was parched and his head felt like someone had spent several hours poking red-hot wires through his skull.
Slowly it came back to him. He was in the guest room of Marcel Kullen’s house, somewhere in the Munich suburbs. Just how much had they drunk last night?
The child cried again.
The Kullens had three young children; the youngest was two years old. He had originally intended to stay in a hotel but Marcel would not hear of it, and in truth, arriving at the airport a total bag of nerves about what awaited him in the morning, and still having flashbacks to the horrendous accident earlier in the day, he had been grateful for his hospitality. He liked Kullen and his pretty wife, Liese, and their small house had a cosy, welcoming feel. But, boy, did they pour drinks down his throat. Weissbier, followed by a local white wine, then a stonkingly powerful Italian red. Then a clear schnapps, followed by another. Then possibly a third. He’d gulped everything down, grateful for the calming effect of the booze, and the feeling of confidence it gave him about the next day.
But now, as he rummaged through his overnight bag, desperately hoping he had some paracetamol in there, somewhere, he wondered just what it was about the human brain which told you that if you had just one more digestif late at night, you’d feel a lot better in the morning than if you didn’t have it?
To his relief he found the small blue packet. Just two tablets left. He popped them out of the blister pack and downed them with an entire glass of water, then climbed back into bed and double-checked the time on his phone. And saw a text message from Cleo.
Miss you. Love you. Hope it’s all going OK. Sleep tight my darling. XXXX
Shit. It had been sent at 10.30. Was that UK or German time — and how come he hadn’t seen it? He wondered whether to reply but decided against, not wanting the ping to wake her. An hour ahead here, it was only coming up to 4 a.m. in England. He’d call her at 7 a.m., her time, hoping he’d catch her before she left for work.
Switching off the light, he lay back on the soft pillow, beneath the heavy duvet, and closed his eyes, hoping the pills would kick in quickly. Outside he heard the first tweets of the dawn chorus. A big day today. Massive. Meeting his son and taking him to England. To his new home, new life.
And it sounded like he had a major charm offensive ahead. Bruno was currently staying with his best friend, Erik Lippert. Yesterday evening, when he had landed in Munich, Grace had spoken on the phone to the friend’s mother, Anette, about today’s arrangements. She’d warned him that Bruno was, understandably, very distressed by his mother’s death, and not at all happy at the prospect of being taken away from his homeland.