‘We will do, if you step out, sir.’
Reluctantly, and angrily, Kipp Brown switched off the engine, climbed out then pressed the key fob to lock the doors, pointedly. ‘It’s a yellow line — I assume you’re not going to ticket me for parking here?’
‘No, sir, we won’t.’
Accompanied by the two detectives, he walked to the Ford and climbed into the back seat. Batchelor and Exton sat in the front, closed the doors and turned to face him.
‘Mr Brown,’ Batchelor said. ‘This may seem like an intrusion, but we have a very delicate situation here and we didn’t want to embarrass you, or cause you any problems by visiting you at your home yesterday, or your office today. So we thought this would be the best place to have a talk.’
Brown raised his hands in the air. ‘What do you need? An ISA? A new mortgage? Some advice on your police pension scheme?’
‘Police pension scheme? That’s another story,’ DS Exton said, bitterly. ‘Best not go there.’
‘I hear you guys got stuffed by the Tory government. Theresa May? She’s on a par with the Antichrist with you guys, right?’
Neither of them spoke, but he could see from their expressions he had hit a nerve. ‘I can sort you out on that, if you give me the chance.’
Ignoring the comment, Guy Batchelor asked, ‘Could you tell us, Mr Brown, where you were last week on the afternoon and evening of Wednesday, April 20th?’
He held up the cigarette pack. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘I’m afraid it’s not permitted in this car, sir,’ Batchelor said.
‘Great.’
‘Could you tell us, Mr Brown, where you were last week on the afternoon and evening of Wednesday, April 20th?’ the detective repeated.
‘What does that have to do with anything?’ he replied.
‘I’d be grateful if you would answer the question, sir,’ Batchelor said, deadpan, watching him carefully.
The Independent Financial Advisor looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes — I — er — I was at work — until late, then I went home. I worked in my office at home for a while, then I had supper with my wife on a tray in front of the television.’ He began to look more relaxed. ‘We watched an episode of Homeland. We’ve been watching it forever. How does anyone ever get to the end of all these long series? You know, they take over — we haven’t watched anything else for weeks.’
‘You didn’t leave your office at any time during the day?’ Batchelor asked.
Brown shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I’d love to have the luxury of taking time out. But no way.’
‘So,’ Batchelor continued. ‘You spent the entire day in your office, and then went home — at what time approximately?’
‘I left — I don’t know — about a quarter to seven.’
‘And your office staff — they could verify that you’d not left the office all afternoon?’
Brown hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Does the name Lorna Belling mean anything to you?’
Brown’s eyes shot all over the place. ‘No. Lorna who?’
‘Belling.’
He shook his head.
‘You didn’t visit her at her apartment in Vallance Mansions, on the afternoon of April 20th?’
‘Absolutely not.’
The two detectives exchanged a glance. Then Guy Batchelor said, ‘Mr Brown, I’m afraid in that case I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us to the police station for an interview.’
‘No way. I’ve got a very busy morning, as I’ve told you.’
‘So you are not going to come voluntarily, sir?’
‘What part of no way don’t you understand, officer?’
Again the two detectives exchanged a glance. Then Batchelor said, ‘In which case, sir, you leave us with no option. Kipp Brown I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Lorna 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.’
‘What? You said I wasn’t under arrest! You bloody lied!’
‘No, sir,’ the DI said. ‘You’re the one who’s just lied.’
56
Monday 25 April
Misdirection! The first principle of a close magician. Direct your victim’s focus onto your left hand, while you do what you need to do with your right hand. Or have a fox chase a chicken across the room while you pick your mark’s pocket.
We’re all gullible, all easily suckered. The conman succeeds by offering something for nothing. Double your money... Treble it... Roll up, roll up! Three-card Monte! Find the lady! A tenner a go — easy money. Suckers! Marks!
He knew he just had to keep calm, keep remembering that the police are not superhuman. Not infallible. They could be misdirected, too, just like anyone else. Oh sure, he knew there were smart ones like Roy Grace.
You are smart, Detective Superintendent, but beware. You might just be too smart for your own good. You should cut a little slack.
Otherwise there won’t be any slack in that noose round your neck.
Not that I want to kill you. But then again, I didn’t want to kill Lorna Belling. Never intended to. Not sure I actually did. But hey, whatever. Get too much closer and I’ll need you dead.
Shit happens, eh?
He stared in the bathroom mirror at his face. A killer’s face.
This past week I seem to have aged ten years. I’m starting to think like a killer. Hey! I really might be a killer! There are all kinds of mitigating circumstances but let’s not risk that route. Juries are too unreliable, judges too mercurial. We’re into survival, self-preservation, Darwinian rules apply now. Survival of the fittest. Just remember, life’s a game. Keep hold of that. I have to win. Coming second is not an option. Coming second means going to prison. Banged up, locked away. Forgotten.
Like I always say, no one remembers who came second.
57
Monday 25 April
Roy Grace sat in the tiny observation room, watching on the screen the live video feed of Kipp Brown being interviewed by Guy Batchelor and Jon Exton. He was accompanied by his solicitor, Allan Israel, a smart criminal lawyer who had a practice opposite Brighton’s law courts and was a regular thorn in the side of Sussex police.
Brown’s face was familiar to him from his regular adverts in the media, although he looked a little older, and a lot less charming than he appeared on camera. In his mid-forties, now dressed in a crumpled police-issue tracksuit and old trainers, he had a hard, scowling face beneath immaculate, shiny black hair. He sat very upright, alert, as if he was the inquisitor, not the two detectives, looking around him with an air of contempt.
As Batchelor completed the interview formalities he looked at the IFA. ‘Mr Brown, are you aware that having been arrested, we are now empowered to search both your home and your workplace and seize anything that we deem appropriate to the investigation?’
‘You’ve already taken my phone and laptop.’
‘We are aware of your very respected position in this city,’ Batchelor continued. ‘I am hoping that if you are cooperative now, we may be able to avoid any embarrassment for you.’
‘Embarrassment? You just discoed my car outside Brighton College!’
‘Discoed?’ Batchelor frowned, looking at Exton, who was also frowning.
‘I’m a Kiwi. Grew up in New Zealand. That’s what we say when the police stop a car — all the flashing lights. Disco. Gettit?’
‘Ah.’
Exton grinned and nodded.
‘Mr Brown,’ Batchelor said. ‘If you had told us the truth when we were talking to you before, we could have avoided all this.’