Victim Enquiries. He wrote a summary of Norman Potting’s interviews with Lorna’s friends.
Possible Motives. That filled two pages.
Media. He wrote down the appeals for information in the press release that had been put out to the Argus newspaper, the local television station, Latest TV, as well as Radio Sussex, Juice and the weekly Brighton & Hove Independent.
The final item was Other Significant Critical Actions. He checked through the details of his attempt to interview and his pursuit of Corin Belling, the arrests and the interviews under caution of Seymour Darling and Kipp Brown, and the latest information about the new suspect, known only as Greg.
When he’d finished he called Batchelor. ‘Guy, I need you to speak to Seymour Darling, purely as a witness, with his solicitor present, and show him the recording of Kipp Brown. Ask him if this is the James Bond character he claims he saw outside Lorna Belling’s rented flat.’
‘Leave it with me, boss.’
‘Let me know right away.’
‘Absolutely.’
When he ended the call, Grace called the DI in Professional Standards for an update on the IPCC investigation, but he wasn’t overly worried. Only one thing would make a man like Belling run away from a police officer wanting to question him — and that was guilt.
62
Monday 25 April
He’d heard it said that you cross a personal Rubicon when you kill. And now he understood that. Murder was the one act for which there was no possible restitution. He preferred to think of it as an act rather than a crime. He wasn’t a criminal and he still was not sure that Lorna Belling’s death was as a result of his act.
Not completely sure.
Maybe he never would be. But the one thing he was sure of was that no one was ever going to get him over her death.
Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, you’re a smart man and you have a smart team behind you. Honestly, if I ever had the misfortune to have a loved one murdered, you are the detective I would want to have heading the enquiry. Well, let’s put this into perspective. Ordinarily I would.
Really, and I’m not just saying this out of bullshit. It’s true.
Because you are so smart.
And this is the problem I have with you.
I can’t go down over this, it’s just not an option. If it ends up in a choice of you or me, I’m afraid it would have to be you.
I know you’ll think I’ve probably lost the plot and you’d be right. Everything’s broken loose inside my head, the fixings have all sheared, the stuff — my thoughts — are all over the place and I’m having a hard time holding them together.
But please take one thing with you — and it is this: My respect for you. You’re good! Shit. You are really good! But get too close and you’ll be a goner, just like sweet Lorna. And that thought makes me sad.
Really, very sad.
In another life you and I could have been just fine.
But it doesn’t look like it’s working out that way.
So sad.
63
Monday 25 April
Juliet Solomon and Matt Robinson, partnered again on B Section, were an hour and a half into their eight-hour shift on lates. It was just gone 7.30 p.m. After catching up on paperwork whilst waiting around at Brighton’s John Street police station for a shout — a call-out to an incident — they decided to take a car and go out hunting, as Matt called it. Cruising around, being the visible police that the Police and Crime Commissioner Nicola Roigard, and the public, wanted.
Juliet Solomon drove, heading down towards the seafront. They crossed the roundabout in front of the Palace Pier and headed along Kingsway. As they drove they were watching the streets and the occupants of cars, looking for the usual suspects — local drug dealers, criminals who had absconded from prison or failed to meet bail or probation terms, drink drivers, someone on their mobile phone whilst driving.
It was a foul night, with rain pelting down. ‘PC Rain’, the police jokingly called it. The streets were almost deserted. Not many people ventured out on a wet Monday night. But the overcast sky wasn’t completely dark yet.
‘I like this time of year,’ Juliet said. ‘After the clocks have gone forward and it’s suddenly lighter much longer in the evenings. Spring on its way. It always cheers me up.’
Peering at the road ahead through the wipers, then at the deserted pavements on both sides, Matt Robinson retorted, ‘Spring? You must have good vision!’
‘Ha ha.’
As they approached The Grand and Metropole hotels she nodded at the tower coming up on their left, which rose 160 metres into the sky. A mirrored doughnut-shaped glass pod — the viewing platform — was slowly rising, like a vertical cable car. Its construction had caused much local controversy.
‘What do you think now it’s finished? You didn’t like it when it first started going up, did you?’ asked Juliet.
‘Yeah, actually I really like it now. It’s pretty cool — took Steph and the boys on it a couple of weeks ago — awesome view! How about you?’
‘I’m getting more used to it. I love the underneath of the pod, all mirrored — very UFO!’ she conceded. ‘I guess we now have to wait for the first jumper.’
‘You’re a right cynic!’ he said. ‘Or should I say pessimist.’
‘You know the definition of a pessimist?’
‘I think I’m about to. What is it?’
‘An optimist with experience.’
He shook his head, grinning. ‘I think it’s sealed — no one could get up there to jump.’
‘Sure they could, there’s an inspection ladder up the inside — metal rungs.’
Matt Robinson shuddered. ‘I don’t have a head for heights.’
‘I’m fine with them, my dad was a builder — I was always scaling ladders with him and crawling over rooftops when I was a kid.’
‘Bloody hell — hadn’t he heard of health and safety?’
‘Clearly not, he fell to his death when I was eighteen, off one of the roofs at the Pavilion.’
‘Wow, I’m sorry, that’s so sad.’
They drove on along the seafront, but there was barely a soul around, and the traffic was light. They stopped a van with a tail light that was out, and Robinson hurried through the rain to the cab to advise the driver. Then as he got back in the car, and began wiping his glasses, a Grade One call came in. A man reported acting suspiciously outside an electrical goods depot on the Lewes Road.
Pleased at having some action, he leaned forward and switched on the blue lights and siren as his colleague accelerated forward, racing past two vehicles, and tapped in the address on the satnav. Then, as they turned right into Grand Avenue, they were told to stand down as two other response cars were now at the scene and the suspect was being spoken to.
They turned the car round, deciding to head back into central Brighton and cruise around there. As they drove they passed the time by discussing their favourite — and least favourite — kinds of incidents. He loathed minor road traffic collisions, he told his work buddy, when both sides were arguing hammer and tongs with each other and you could get no sense out of anyone. She replied that what she disliked most of all were domestics — fights between couples. Not many officers enjoyed intervening in those — too often a chair would come flying at you as you went in through the door, or one or other of the parties would turn on you.