‘Good thinking, Georgie,’ Batchelor said. ‘That would explain why there was no mobile phone at the flat.’
‘But not the computer, right?’ Arnie Crown said.
‘If we work on the hypothesis that the husband murdered her,’ Batchelor said, ‘perhaps he took the computer because he was worried it might contain something incriminating him. Maybe she had been keeping a log of his abuse? Does he have anywhere he might have hidden it? The other possibility is he dumped it somewhere. The phone has been sent to Digital Forensics — let’s see what their analysis and interrogation of it brings.’
She nodded, satisfied, and then continued to give the team an overview of the forensic search of the flat to date. ‘There is some evidence to suggest many of the surfaces have been wiped clean, possibly with a disinfectant; there are a number of marks that we have developed for fingerprint assessment; we have taken multiple swabs and we have seized a number of items that will be subject to further forensic examination. I hope we will have finished our work there in the next twenty-four hours.’
Batchelor jotted a reminder in his Investigator’s Notebook to update his Policy File after the briefing, then continued. ‘If we recap, we have a known abusive relationship; we have fingerprint and DNA evidence putting Lorna’s husband, Corin, at her flat; we have the fact that he did a runner when approached by Detective Superintendent Grace; we have the fact that he assaulted Roy when apprehended, and ran on. If we get a positive result back from the lab on the DNA from the semen in Lorna’s vagina, confirming it’s her husband — then things wouldn’t be looking too good for him.’
‘I’d say they’re not looking too good for him right now,’ Arnie Crown said. ‘He’s in a mortuary fridge minus his legs, with his head cracked open like a coconut.’
‘Yep,’ Jack Alexander said. ‘If you think you’re having a bad day, you know what? His is probably worse.’
38
Friday 22 April
Roy Grace, accompanying Bruno, limped across the short-term airport car park. It was just gone 8 p.m. His right leg was in agony after his cramped seat on the flight. Despite his coaxing, the boy had eaten nothing during the journey, although he had at least drunk a small Coke on the plane. Bruno had his rucksack on his back and Grace carried his son’s two suitcases as well as his own overnight bag. They had with them all his worldly belongings, except for his drum kit, which had been sent on by road and should arrive early next week.
So far nearly all his efforts to engage Bruno in conversation had failed. He seemed very distressed and had spent almost the entire journey concentrating on a game on his phone. Grace had asked him about school, about what sports other than football he liked, what were his favourite foods, what he liked to watch on television, what computer games he liked to play. To every question the only responses had been short and distracted.
As they approached his black Alfa, and he pressed the key fob, unlocking it and making its tail lights flash, he saw a sudden flicker of interest in Bruno’s face.
‘Do you like cars?’ Grace asked, hoping the idea of a ride to his new home in a sports car might cheer the boy up.
‘My mother had a Porsche Cayman Carrera. Its top speed was two hundred and ninety-two kilometres per hour. How fast does this go?’
‘Fast, but not that fast.’
‘How fast?’
‘I’m not sure of its top speed. We’re restricted in England to seventy miles per hour — that’s about one hundred and twelve kilometres.’
‘In Germany we have no speed limits on the autobahns.’
‘Yup, I know.’ Roy Grace opened the boot and hefted the cases in. ‘Fun, eh?’
‘Ja.’
Bruno walked round to the driver’s door and opened it.
‘You going to drive?’ Grace asked him.
‘Your wheel’s on the wrong side,’ Bruno said.
‘That’s the side we drive on here.’
‘Why do you drive on the wrong side?’
‘Well, about a quarter of the world drives on this side — on the left.’
‘Why do they do that? What happens if they meet on a bridge between two countries? One driving on the right and one on the left? There could be a big accident!’
‘I don’t think there are any places where they drive on opposite sides where they could just go over a bridge, Bruno.’
‘But it’s so stupid. Why doesn’t everyone drive on the same side as we do?’
‘It goes back a long time in history — to the days before cars when there were just horses. Most people are right-handed, so people rode on the left and had their swords on the right so that they could draw them and fight off any highway robbers.’
‘Are we going to be attacked by highway robbers now?’
‘Hopefully not!’ Grace grinned. ‘If we are, I’ll rely on you to protect us. OK?’
‘Ja, sure!’ Bruno grinned back.
He opened the passenger door for his son. Bruno climbed in. Grace reached across to help him with the seat belt and Bruno brushed away his hand, dismissively. ‘I know how to put on a seat belt. So why does not everyone drive on the left in every country?’
‘I think it has something to do with the Americans — from the days of the stage coach drivers.’
‘So they didn’t have highway robbers in America?’
He smiled. ‘Maybe not.’
Bruno pulled out his iPhone and began tapping the keypad. Grace saw he was on Snapchat. He made a note in his mind to get him a British phone, or at least a UK SIM card.
‘When will my drums arrive?’ Bruno asked, suddenly.
‘They’re on their way — they’ll be with us in a few days,’ Grace said. ‘I’m sure we can make space for them in your new room.’
Anette Lippert had previously told Roy about Bruno’s passion for drums, and he and Cleo had been worried about what they were going to do to accommodate a full acoustic drum kit — and the effect the noise might have on them, let alone little Noah. But then Anette had reassured him that soft pads and earphones made the noise minimal.
He remembered she had also mentioned the memory box that Bruno had started making with mementoes of his mother.
‘You have your memory box with you, Bruno?’
‘Yes,’ he said, quietly.
‘Do you have a favourite photograph you’d like us to get framed to have in your room?’
‘Maybe.’
They drove out through the ticket barrier in silence. Grace thought about the phone update Guy Batchelor had given him as soon as they had landed. Everything seemed to be stacking up nicely against Corin Belling. The case could be closed by early next week. Apart from the hours of questioning that lay ahead for him about Belling’s death. But he was confident he could answer, satisfactorily, any of the criticism he knew would be levelled at him. Especially if the DNA on the semen came back positive.
He turned his focus back to his newly found son, who was now on Instagram on his phone. ‘Have you ever lived in the countryside, Bruno?’
He shook his head.
‘We have a dog called Humphrey, he’s a little bit mad. Do you like dogs?’
‘Erik had a dog, a schnauzer. It was called Adini.’
‘Schnauzers are lovely. They’re one of Cleo’s favourite dogs.’
‘He doesn’t have it any more,’ he said, flatly.
Grace glanced at him. ‘I’m sorry. How old was it?’
‘Two years.’
‘Two? What happened?’
‘It disappeared.’
‘Ran off?’
‘It disappeared.’
‘That’s sad. Was he very upset?’
‘Very. The Lipperts looked for her everywhere. They posted on Twitter and Facebook.’