‘Really, Freddie? March 2nd would make you a Pisces. I don’t think you’re Freddie Man, at all, are you?’
‘What of it?’
‘Are you Seymour Darling, of 29 Hangleton Rise?’
‘What if I am? Who the fuck are you?’
‘Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering Lorna Jane Belling. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Seconds later Guy Batchelor joined them, proffering a pair of handcuffs.
‘Yeah?’ Seymour Darling said. ‘Well tell this to the court. Tell the fucking bitch’s heirs to give me my money back.’
43
Saturday 23 April
Saturday night, Grace had learned many years back, was not a good time to book someone into custody. But as the arresting officer, he had to stay with his suspect throughout the whole procedure, to avoid the possibility further down the line, when the case came to court, of a smart defence brief picking holes in the chain of evidence.
On every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night a massive police presence, Operation Marble, did its best to prevent central Brighton from becoming a war zone of drink- and drug-fuelled fights. He was lucky to have arrested Darling relatively early in the evening, and he’d had to wait for little over ninety minutes before the man was processed and banged up. A couple of hours later and he could well have been there, waiting his turn among the drunks, until dawn.
As he headed home, just after 10 p.m., having conducted with Batchelor a brief interview of Darling, during which he had gone no-comment on them, he was thinking hard. The clock was ticking. Thirty-six hours was the maximum time the police could keep a suspect in custody without applying to the magistrates’ court for an extension to detention.
Darling had made numerous threats to Lorna Belling. He was standing outside her flat the night of her murder, and on a number of occasions prior to then. The police had cast-iron grounds to arrest him. The man had a grievance over the money he had paid for her car and, as was usual, requested an on-call legal aid solicitor. By giving him a chance to talk to the lawyer and having had an overnight breather, hopefully the facts would be clearer in the morning. And with luck sometime tomorrow they’d get the DNA results from the semen back from the lab.
In his mind he ran through the possible scenarios, creating other hypotheses. Darling had raped her but had not murdered her. Darling had not raped her but had murdered her. Or Darling was an innocent — if angry — bystander.
What about Lorna Belling? The victim of domestic abuse. With a cheap rental apartment. Had her husband known about it for some time, or just discovered it? What bit of equipment had the printed circuit board with his fingerprints on come from and why was it lying there, seemingly discarded?
So many questions, so many things that didn’t add up.
Did Lorna have this place just to escape from her husband, or was there another reason? A shag pad for her and a boyfriend? Her sister in Australia had confirmed she had hopes of moving out there. Was she trying to earn enough money to give her sufficient cash to flee? Could hairdressing have been her cover, and she made her real money from her activities in the flat?
Was she dealing drugs or stolen property from there?
So often in his experience it was the obvious answer that was the correct one. However obscure it might seem at first. But equally he knew he could not always rely on that.
Right now one possibility was that Seymour Darling was Lorna Belling’s killer. DNA would establish if it was his semen inside Lorna. If it was, that would be strong evidence.
And if not?
That would not necessarily mean he hadn’t killed her. But it could mean that someone else had. He needed some fast-time intelligence on the woman if the DNA failed to produce a match with Darling.
Was Darling too obvious a suspect? Because the husband was still in the frame. It would be interesting to see what examination of his electronic devices revealed.
He couldn’t explain why, but all his instincts, backed by his experience, were telling him there was something more than the obvious going on here. Ordinarily he would have delegated the interviewing of a suspect like Darling to two trained cognitive suspect interviewers from his team. But he didn’t want to do that. Instead he decided that he and Batchelor, who were both also trained interviewers, should do it themselves.
Grace called the DI and told him to meet him in his office at 7 a.m.
Ten minutes later he pulled up outside the country cottage on the edge of the village of Henfield, which now truly felt like home, and walked up to the front door. As he opened it, an appetizing smell of cooking greeted him, and he heard the sound of the television. Canned laughter, then an indignant female voice. More laughter. Moments later, Humphrey rushed up to him, barking.
‘Hey, boy!’
Cleo appeared from the kitchen, in jeans, a loose jumper and battered slippers, looking all-in. He put his arms round her and kissed her.
‘Missed you,’ he said.
‘Missed you, too. How was your day? You’re limping badly. How’s your leg?’
‘Hurting a lot. But, hey, we could have a result!’
‘Really?’ She suddenly looked genuinely excited. ‘Talk me through it over a glass of wine!’
‘Over three glasses, I think. Maybe four! And I’m craving a fag. So, how’s Bruno?’
‘Yes, OK, I think. Actually, he seems a nice boy. I can see a lot of you in him — particularly when he smiles. I took him for a walk with Humphrey and let him feed the hens some scraps. We had a nice chat — I think we’re going to get on.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘He asked if his friend Erik could come and stay with us some time. I told him of course, he’d be very welcome.’
‘He asked me the same thing.’ Grace smiled.
‘We talked about what he likes to eat — for breakfast, lunch, supper. About his school in Munich — and about going to St Christopher’s school in Hove. The former Chief Constable’s wife, Judith, teaches there. I’ve already had a word with her and she’ll make sure Bruno is well looked after when he starts.’
He frowned. ‘If they accept him. Didn’t you say they have strict criteria?’
‘They’re going to give him some assessment tests on Monday in verbal and non-verbal reasoning — and they’ve said they’ll make an allowance for him being bilingual — but that can also be an asset.’
‘What happens if they don’t accept him?’ Grace asked.
‘Plan B,’ Cleo said.
‘Which is?’
She smiled. ‘I haven’t figured that one out yet. There are other private schools in the area. I’m told that the Lancing Prep in the Droveway is a good one. I’m sure it will be fine, darling, we’ll just have to see what happens. Bruno’s a bright boy. From everything Judith Martinson has told me, I can’t see there’s going to be a problem.’
They walked through into the kitchen. ‘So what other interests, apart from his drums, does he have? Have you found out?’ Grace asked.
‘He told me he likes to swim. Listen, there’s that really nice country club down the road that has an indoor pool. It also has a spa with a sauna. Didn’t your physio tell you that regular saunas would be good for your leg?’
He nodded.
‘What about joining this club — it’s called Wickwoods.’
‘Darling, we’ve got enough expense with this house. I’m not sure we can afford the membership fees of a country club.’