Want You Dead (15 page)

‘How so?’

‘Basic training for the British Army is tough. Recruits are treated, on the whole, pretty harshly and I’ve never met one that said they had a nice easy time of it. Usually they were hurt and in pain – physical or emotional, or both – every day, and were humiliated and broken in the process. Yet, having given so much of themselves, they tend not to take kindly to a bystander suggesting that if the Army has been so
unkind
, they maybe ought to leave and join the Royal Navy instead.’

‘That makes a lot of sense to me. I felt that I had invested so much of myself that I had more to lose by leaving than by staying. And he kept convincing me that if I broke up with him, I’d never find another man. And – this may sound pathetic – I believed that. He’d made me believe that. I suppose I let him stay out of some kind of desperation. You have to understand that he has immense charm and is very persuasive – very manipulative.’

‘I do understand that. Do you? Do you allow yourself to truly know how well he manipulated you?’

‘He was a prize manipulator. He even managed to be nice for a long while after I challenged him about the private detective. I actually began to think maybe he had changed. I was going to leave him, but he begged me to stay, and foolishly I gave him another chance. Then one night a few weeks later something I said seemed to pull a trigger in him and he went loopy again – totally berserk.’

‘Trigger?’

‘He was admiring himself in the mirror – naked. He’s obsessed with his body. He gets up in the middle of the night, takes steroids and does weight training. I just joked – quoted that Robbie Burns line – as he stared at himself with, like, absolute approval. I said, “Would that the world could see us the way we see ourselves.” And that was it. He smashed the mirror, then turned on me, screaming and shaking. He picked up a shard of broken glass and came at me with it. I actually thought I was going to die. Somehow I managed to get out and ran into the street, barefoot, screaming. A guy walking his dog stopped and called the police for me, and Bryce was arrested.

‘I decided then and there to throw him out, while he was in custody. I packed all his stuff in the two suitcases that he had arrived with, including the ghastly, vulgar bling ring and the Cartier watch, then I asked Constable Spofford to come to the house the morning he was released on bail because I didn’t know what would happen. Rob – Constable – Spofford put all his stuff outside the front door, and he told Bryce when he turned up that I did not want to see him, and he wasn’t to go in.’

‘And how did Bryce react?’

‘He didn’t say a word. Just took his stuff and went off quietly, like a lamb, apparently.’

‘Curious. With what you know of Bryce is that what you would have imagined he would do?’

‘At the time I remember feeling relieved that he hadn’t made a scene but after a few hours I started to feel really scared. Other people kept telling me it was over but I knew it wasn’t. I don’t think Bryce will ever let me go.’

‘Tell me why you think that.’

‘Because in his head I belong to him. I had an anonymous email with an attachment a couple of days later. I opened it. It was a cartoon drawing of a playing card – the queen of hearts. I knew it was from him. I wasn’t sure what to make of it; but it seemed, maybe, his way of saying goodbye.’

‘And then?’

‘Nothing. Total silence. I thought that perhaps he had finally got the message and moved on. Several of my friends tried to fix me up with new men, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to meet anyone. Then my best friend, Raquel Evans – a dentist – said there was a very good-looking young doctor called Karl Murphy in the medical centre where she worked, who was a widower with two small boys. I agreed to go on a blind date with him, Raquel and her husband, Paul. Something clicked – or sparked – between us. I really liked him, and suddenly, after all the darkness of Bryce, I could see light again. We had fun together. It wasn’t the intensity of passion I had with Bryce, but I felt comfortable with him, safe, for the first time in as long as I could remember. And I really liked him. I could see a future with him. I actually liked that he had young children – he seemed to care about them so much, and that made him seem a good person to me. We were starting to make plans.’

‘And now you think he might be dead?’

Red shook her head. ‘I know for sure now, he’s dead. His body’s been identified by his dental records. He committed suicide. Doused himself in petrol – self-immolation, they call it. Can you believe a doctor would do that? Cover himself in petrol, then set fire to himself? Surely a medic would know what a painful death that would be? Why didn’t he just take pills, which he could have prescribed for himself?’

‘How are you processing this, Red? What sense are you making of it all?’

‘I still cannot believe he killed himself.’

‘You don’t think it was suicide?’

‘I’m told the post-mortem strongly indicates that it was. But why? Why would he have done that?’

‘Are you asking me why?’

‘Can you explain it? I cannot make sense of it at all.’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment without having known him, Red. I am interested in how you are making sense of what has happened, given that you did know him.’

‘I thought I knew him. Do you think I should go to his funeral?’

‘What do you think about that?’

‘I don’t even know when it will be, or where – I’m hoping to find out today – but I wonder if it will seem more real if I do go. Maybe I’ll get some closure?’

‘Funerals can be helpful for closure. But it depends on how you feel.’

‘I wish I could get some closure with Bryce,’ Red said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘I still have it, you know, the guilt. That it was my fault, all the abuse. That I brought it all on.’

The psychologist looked through her notes. ‘You said that in our last session on Friday. Why do you feel that?’

Red thought for some moments. ‘I guess that’s how he made me feel – that I let him down all the time. In the kitchen. In bed. That I couldn’t live up to his expectations.’

‘You wanted to live up to his expectations?’

‘Of course.’

‘Were you clear about what they were?’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Red replied.

‘I apologize, I wasn’t clear. Curious, that I would become unclear as we were talking about Bryce and his expectations. What I meant to say was, did Bryce’s expectations stay the same regardless of his mood or the situation?’

Red laughed bitterly and said, ‘No, never. One day he would be pleased with me and the next I’d do exactly the same thing and he would fly into a rage.’

‘Did he do that in company? If you were with his friends, for instance?’

‘That’s something I realized was very weird about him. He had no friends. None. I thought all men have a best mate, don’t they?’

‘Normal men do, Red. Yes. He had none at all? No former work colleague? Childhood buddy?’

‘No one. I was all he had. In the early days I was so proud of him, I wanted to show him off to all my friends. I arranged evenings out in bars and restaurants with some of them. But he got insanely jealous if I talked to any other man. One time at a party in Brighton, I was just having an innocent chat with the husband of a friend of mine when Bryce came up and asked him just what the hell he thought he was doing chatting me up. He was so furious I had to restrain him from hitting the guy, and then took him home. We had a terrible row that night. He called me a whore, a slut, all kinds of names. Then he tied me up, gagged me and raped me. I thought he was going to kill me. He left me tied up and gagged all night.’ She fell silent.

‘You’re safe now. Such a terrifying ordeal and it’s over. You survived. Are you still with me, Red?’

‘Just about.’

‘Okay, stay with me. You don’t need to go back there.’

‘It feels so real when I remember.’

‘I know.’

‘In the morning he was sobbing, begging me to forgive him. He told me he had only done it because he loved me and was scared of losing me. He would only untie me after I had promised not to call the police. When he finally did untie me he got mad at me again because I’d wet myself.’

Judith Biddlestone nodded, her eyes softening and her mouth forming an upside-down smile.

‘I was so ashamed.’

‘The shame’s not yours, Red. Who benefited most from you feeling ashamed?’

‘I guess Bryce did. I could never have told the police about the demeaning things he did to me. I can hardly bear to tell you.’

‘And yet you have, and in doing so have placed some of that shame back where it belongs. With Bryce.’

Red was silent for some moments, then she asked, ‘Do you think it’s a good sign that I haven’t heard from him since we split up? Apart from that queen of hearts email a few days after?’

‘What do you think, Red? It’s more than four months now. Do you believe it’s over?’

‘I want to believe it is. But I can’t believe he would let me go so easily. I did think I saw him on Thursday, outside the office, but maybe I was imagining it. I ran outside and couldn’t see any sign of him.’

Oh no, my lovely Red
, Bryce thought, as he listened.
You weren’t imagining it at all.

35

Monday, 28 October

Bryce sat, his earpiece plugged in, his whole body tight with anger; a muscle in his face was twitching the side of his mouth.
Monster. Ghastly. Vulgar. Bling.

Four months, counsellor? What do you know about time in hell, lady? Linear time is a meaningless construct. Why should four months be any different to four minutes? Four days? Four years? It doesn’t hurt any less; it hurts more. The pain builds every day. It’s pretty crass of you, a counsellor of all people, to assume I’ve moved on. You might measure your time in minutes, days, months. But it all blends into one continuum of pain to me. Four months of pain. I feel it like a weight, crushing me.

Crushing me like those hurtful words.

I’m a monster am I, Red?

Vulgar, ghastly, bling. Is that what you thought of it, Red? It’s a beautiful ring. I had it specially made for you by one the best jewellers in Brighton. It cost me over ten thousand pounds of my inheritance.

Vulgar? Ghastly? Bling?

You know what, Red, I’m starting to think I had a lucky escape from being stuck with a spoiled brat. Maybe I should be grateful to you for that. Really, I mean it. In fact, the more I think about it, the more grateful I am that you let me go.

I’m going to give you a present, to show you my gratitude.

36

Monday, 28 October

Shortly after 10 a.m. on Monday morning, Roy Grace was working through the stack of paperwork for the prosecution of Lucas Daly – one of the offenders under arrest from the recent Operation Flounder. Daly’s assets were steadily being tracked down and seized, under the Proceeds of Crime Act, by financial investigator Emily Gaylor.

Grace had a ton of paperwork he wanted to clear by the end of the week, before his wedding day and the short honeymoon next week. But distracting him was the wedding file, efficiently prepared by Cleo, which was also on his desk. It contained the documentation for the booking of the church and the reception after, the catering contract, the order form for the drinks, canapés and meal. The biggest headache of all was the seating plan. Who to invite and not invite had been bad enough, and they’d had to make some tough decisions. But now trying to decide who should sit where was a complete nightmare.

There was a knock on his door and without waiting for a reply, as usual, Norman Potting ambled in. ‘Morning, chief. Got some information back for you,’ he said, clutching a brown envelope and looking pleased with himself. Recently the Detective Sergeant had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Around the same time, Grace had noticed, Potting appeared to have had something of a makeover. The comb-over was still the same, but his previously sparse grey hair was now an unnatural-looking shiny black. The horrible tweed jackets with leather-patched elbows and grey flannel trousers that he favoured had been replaced with dark grey suits, fresh shirts and ties that no longer showed what he’d eaten for breakfast. And instead of reeking of stale pipe tobacco, he smelled quite fragrant.

‘Have a seat, Norman.’

Potting used to shuffle along, but today he walked across the floor with almost a spring in his step. He sat down and looked, for a moment, a tad shy.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask, Norman, what’s the latest on your prostate?’

‘Well, so far so good. The old PSA levels have dropped quite substantially – the quack’s pretty pleased.’

‘That’s good news. What does your doctor think is the reason?’

‘He’s not sure. I’ve got a good sex life at the moment. Maybe that could be it.’

Despite that being rather too much information, Grace nodded, and grinned. ‘Well, good news, Norman. Keep it up – as it were.’

‘Oh, I am, chief! Oh yes!’ Then he looked almost coy. ‘Actually, chief, that’s one of the reasons I came to see you. It’s about your wedding.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m well chuffed to be invited.’

‘Cleo and I are delighted you can come.’

‘The thing is – ’ Potting blushed. ‘I just wondered . . . you know . . . if you are doing a seating plan . . . would it be possible to sit next to DS Moy?’

Grace stared him in the face, and grinned. ‘Oh? So are the suspicions I’ve been having over the past few months correct?’

‘Suspicions, chief?’

‘I couldn’t help noticing the body language between you two. Something going on, is there?’

‘There’s no regulations against it that I’d be contravening, are there, chief?’ Potting looked worried for a moment.

‘About relationships between staff? No, none. So, you and Bella – you’re seeing each other?’

‘You could say that, chief. Actually, it’s gone beyond that stage. We’re sort of, um, a bit of an item, actually.’ He blushed. ‘I’ve asked Bella to be my wife – last night, actually – and she’s accepted.’