Batchelor and Exton ran through the formal interview procedures with Darling and his solicitor. Darling spoke meekly, like a lost soul, his voice barely a whisper. Very different from the last time he had been in this room.
Batchelor reminded him that he was still under caution and said, ‘Do you understand that, Mr Darling?’
‘Yes I do.’ He shot a baleful glance at Ishack, who gave no reaction, then continued. ‘I’m not going to deny killing my wife, who provoked me beyond — beyond — all reasonable endurance. But your accusations against me for killing Lorna Belling are wrong. I didn’t kill her, I really didn’t. You have to believe me.’
‘Why should we believe you?’ Batchelor asked. ‘You were angry at her because you felt she had screwed you financially over the sale of a motor car and you confronted her. We already know you have a history of violence — particularly against women.’
‘I don’t need this, I’m in enough shit as it is.’
‘Mr Darling,’ Batchelor said, ‘whatever happens in your own case, you are a witness in our investigation of Lorna Belling’s death, and after this interview we have some CCTV footage we’d like you to look at. It may help you to cooperate.’
‘I’ve already told you she had a lover. Isn’t he someone you should be looking at? He’s the man who killed her.’
‘The description Darling gave when he was previously interviewed certainly fits Kipp Brown,’ Grace replied, keeping his voice low. The observation room was soundproofed and it would be impossible for anyone in the interview room to hear them even if they were shouting at the top of their voices, but Grace always found himself talking in a hushed tone in here.
‘What makes you so certain of that, Mr Darling?’ Exton asked, gently.
‘I told you before, in an earlier interview, that I’d seen this matt-black Porsche driving around, like it was looking for a parking space, and then a short while later, up in her window, I saw them embracing.’
‘The man you told us previously looked like James Bond?’ Batchelor asked.
‘I said he had James Bond’s build. Tall, lean, good posture.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell us about this man, Mr Darling?’ Batchelor pressed. ‘Did you catch sight of him in the car? Getting out of the car?’
Darling shook his head.
‘So is there anything else you can think of, beyond what you told us on Sunday, that makes you link the driver of this Porsche to the man you saw with Mrs Belling?’ Exton asked.
Darling shrugged. ‘Flash personalities and timing. A hunch, right?’
‘Did you get any letters or digits of the Porsche’s registration plate?’ DS Exton asked him.
‘I’m afraid not — I’m not a detective,’ he sneered. ‘But there is something else,’ Darling said, suddenly raising a pointed finger in the air. Then he gave a smug smile and fell silent.
‘Something else?’ Batchelor asked. ‘Would you like to tell us?’
There was a brief pause as Darling was consulted by his solicitor. They conversed in whispers, which neither Grace nor Branson could hear.
Darling nodded. ‘During the time I stood vigil outside that bitch’s flat, there was another man who was a visitor to the property. On the afternoon — or evening — you are accusing me of killing her, he visited her twice. And if you want to know the truth, Detective Inspector Batchelor, the way he presented himself, I thought he was one of yours.’
‘Mine?’
‘A cop.’
74
Wednesday 27 April
‘What a fuckwit!’ Guy Batchelor said, sitting in Roy Grace’s office.
Grace nodded, reflecting on his thoughts on Darling last night. He was undoubtedly an unstable, dangerous man, a manipulator and a wild card. The kind of criminal who would say anything to get himself out of the shit. And understandably. It went with the territory in that world. Accusations against officers were made all the time by suspects, as pretty much their last line of defence. Yeah, I was fitted up by the police. Yeah, you know, they look after their own. Yeah...
Historically there was some truth in those accusations, and there had been many instances of retrials, such as with the Birmingham Six, where that had come to light. But he did not believe that to be the case with any of the trusted officers on his team.
‘Let’s see what Ray Packham comes up with, Guy. We can check out the owners of phones from any IP addresses he gets, and see if any of them fit the description of the man Darling says he saw.’
‘Could be a long process, boss. And Darling could be lying.’
Grace nodded. ‘We’re no longer time-critical. Darling’s confessed to his wife’s murder and we can now formally charge him. He’ll be on remand in prison and won’t be going anywhere. That will give us as long as we need to either further charge him with Lorna Belling’s murder — or find Greg.’
‘What’s your hunch, boss?’
‘My hunch is that Darling’s telling the truth about there being another person in the mix. What’s yours?’
‘I’m veering between the husband, Darling and Brown,’ Batchelor said. ‘Darling has shown he has anger management issues and is capable of murder. Could he have been angry enough to kill someone he suspected had ripped him off? I don’t know — but we do know what he did to his wife. And that shows a man who has totally lost the plot. With Kipp Brown, you don’t get to be rich like that by being Mr Nice Guy. We now have his DNA on semen in the victim’s vagina, and we have a possible motive — rejection, or tarnishing his name in the community.’ He looked quizzically at Grace. ‘So what do you think about him?’
He nodded, saying nothing for some moments. ‘It’s a good theory, Guy. Our priority is to find our mystery Greg. This seems to be stalling our enquiries.’ The spectre of Cassian Pewe hung over his head like the executioner’s axe. In the event of any screw-up, there was only one head that would roll.
75
Thursday 28 April
Funeral weather. Silent rain falling from a pewter sky; the wettest kind, a mist that settles on your hair like dew and permeates every layer of your clothing; the kind that gives England its lush green countryside and inspired the words they would be singing in the church shortly, ‘Walk upon England’s mountains green’.
The wipers scraped noisily across the windscreen as Roy Grace drove, not helping his jangling nerves. Cleo sat beside him, dressed in black, with a dark silk scarf covering her head, the name Cornelia James just visible in one corner. Arriving at Patcham village on the outskirts of Brighton, he turned left beside the former Black Lion pub — now a smart restaurant — which had been his regular watering hole when he’d been based at Sussex House, a five-minute drive away. Nothing stays still in life, he reflected, looking at the building as he headed up the steep, narrow hill, past a row of terraced cottages on his left, and slowed opposite the pretty, ancient church of All Saints.
Parking the Alfa with two wheels on the grass verge, he climbed out, head bowed against the rain, removed an umbrella from the boot then opened the front passenger door for Cleo, ignoring the lone newspaper reporter across the road.
Bruno, in the rear seat, had been silent throughout the journey, holding the small bunch of white lilies, Sandy’s favourite flowers, that he was going to place on the coffin when it was lowered into the grave. Cleo had also said very little. All of them were immersed in their own thoughts. Roy couldn’t imagine what might be going through his son’s mind right now.