Want You Dead (17 page)

Then, holding the shoe high, heel forward, she strode into the main open-plan living/dining room.

Empty.

Her breakfast coffee mug and cereal bowl lay on the bar, as she had left them this morning, along with her Kindle on which she read
The Times
every morning. She hurried back down the hallway and secured the safety chain, then twisted the lever of the internal bolt.

Finally she felt secure. She coughed again, then again went through to the kitchen, poured a glass of cold water, sat at the table and gulped it down, then began twisting the ring, trying to pull it off. But it would not move.

Then her sense of devastation at the loss of Karl Murphy suddenly welled up and she began crying. She went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Spanish white Albarino wine – one of the few things Bryce had given her a taste for that she still enjoyed – opened it and poured herself a very large glass. She drank a gulp of it, then another. Her heart felt like it had weights hanging from it. She stripped off her clothes, which reeked of smoke, put her skirt and top into a bin bag to take to the dry-cleaner’s, and the rest she shoved into the washing machine.

Then she walked, naked, into the bathroom, opened the glass door and switched on the really strong power shower – one of the very few features she liked about this place. She checked the temperature with her hands, and when she was happy with it, she stepped inside the cubicle.

For several minutes she luxuriated in the strong jet, cleansing the smoke from her hair and from every pore of her skin. She soaped her finger and finally wrenched the ring off and put it in the soap dish. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess. Karl was dead, and she still could not get her head around that. How the hell had the ring been put back on her finger? By whom?

By Bryce. There was no other possible explanation.

Was he in the minimart tonight when the fire broke out?

Fire was one of his party tricks.

Connections started forming inside her head. Cuba Libre? Her car? Was she just being fanciful? Now, this evening, her convenience store?

Still deep in thought, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped one of her hugely expensive hotel-size towels around herself. She had been in the shower for so long the mirror had totally steamed up. She opened the window a fraction, and the door, and slowly the mirror began to clear.

She massaged leave-in conditioner into her hair, then night cream on her face. Then, as she stared at her reflection, she froze.

A distinctive shape was forming in the centre of the mirror.

A vertical rectangle, with hearts in each corner of it. And the silhouette of a woman’s head, wearing a crown.

The queen of hearts.

40

Monday, 28 October

It was shortly after 6 p.m. when Roy Grace was ushered by Tom Martinson’s assistant into the Chief Constable’s spacious, elegant office. It occupied a corner of the first floor of the Queen Anne mansion that gave its name to the Sussex Police headquarters complex, Malling House. The chief officers of Sussex police were all located within this handsome, imposing building.

Roy Grace’s nervousness was not improved by noticing that the Chief looked uneasy himself. Martinson jumped up from behind his huge, polished-wood L-shaped desk and hurried across, his arm outstretched, and shook Roy’s hand. ‘Thanks for coming to see me, Roy,’ he said, his normally cheery, precise voice sounding a tad less assured than usual, ushering him over to one of two black sofas arranged in a corner, with a coffee table between them.

Grace sat on the edge of one sofa, and the Chief settled on the edge of the other. He was a fit-looking man of fifty, with thinning, short dark hair and a pleasant, no-nonsense air about him, dressed as usual in his uniform of white shirt with epaulettes, black tie and black trousers.

Grace observed him wring his hands. ‘Can I offer you something to drink, Roy? Tea? Coffee? Water?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, sir.’

‘Good, right. Look, I thought I ought to give you a heads-up. I think you know that Assistant Chief Constable Rigg is moving on?’

‘I do, yes, sir. He’s been promoted to Deputy Chief Constable of Gloucestershire?’

‘Yes, correct. Well, we’ve appointed his replacement, who will be starting here next Monday – I think while you are on honeymoon, correct?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Judith and I are very much looking forward to your wedding on Saturday, by the way. Should be a jolly occasion.’

Grace smiled. ‘Cleo and I are very honoured that you and your wife are coming.’

‘We’re delighted to be invited! And Rottingdean is a beautiful church – what an idyllic venue for a wedding.’ Martinson smiled fleetingly, then looked serious again. ‘The thing is, we had a number of applicants for this post. But the one who stood out as by far the best qualified is someone I think you’ve had a few issues with in the past. I just want you to understand that his appointment is in no way any reflection on how much I value you.’

Grace frowned, wondering whom he might be talking about. There was one person he could think of, but instantly dismissed.

As if reading his mind, Martinson said, ‘Chief Superintendent Cassian Pewe, from the Met.’

‘Cassian Pewe?’ Grace echoed lamely, as if hoping that somehow he had misheard.

‘He really does have outstanding qualities for this role.’

Grace felt like an insect that had fallen into a draining sink, that was swirling around and about to be sucked down the plughole.
Cassian Pewe?

‘I know the two of you have had issues in the past, but he assures me these are completely forgotten now.’

Grace had originally met Cassian Pewe when, as a London Metropolitan Police Public Order Inspector, Pewe had come to Sussex to run a public order training course. A year later, Grace had a run-in with the deeply arrogant officer when the Met had sent in reinforcements to help police Brighton during the Labour Party Conference. Then, eighteen months ago, Cassian Pewe had been brought in as a Review Superintendent by Grace’s previous ACC, Alison Vosper. Pewe’s first task had been to organize a police search team to dig up the garden of Grace’s house on suspicion that Grace had murdered his wife, Sandy, and buried her remains there.

Roy Grace could never forgive him for that. The man preened and strutted, always acting as if he was in charge, even when he wasn’t. The Chief was well known in the force for his dislike of arrogance – he could not be serious, surely? Roy was amazed that a man of Martinson’s judgement could have done this. He was appointing this total shit as his boss?

Just over a year ago, Roy Grace had saved Cassian Pewe’s life, risking his own in the process, when Pewe had been in Grace’s car which, after being rammed in a chase, had almost gone over the cliffs of Beachy Head. After that incident, Pewe had applied for a transfer back to the Met. And out of his life, Roy had hoped.

He could not believe this man was coming back. And now as his boss. Chucking caution to the wind, he said, ‘I’m really not happy about this, sir.’

‘I appreciate that you might not be,’ Tom Martinson said. ‘If it makes you too uncomfortable, I could see if we could get you transferred to another role when something comes up, but I would hate to lose you from Major Crime. Perhaps stick it out for a bit? He categorically assures me he has nothing personal against you.’

Grace thought hard for some moments before replying. Of all the roles in Sussex Police that he knew of, few – if any – could match his. Investigating homicides was what he loved. There weren’t many days that he woke and did not look forward to going to work.

But Cassian Pewe as his boss?

Shit.

41

Monday, 28 October

‘Shit.’

The towel around Red fell to the floor. She spun round, staring at the closed door behind her in total panic.
Shit, oh shit. No.
She shook in terror. Had Bryce been in here? Was he here now? Had he entered while she had been in the shower?

She rammed home the bathroom bolt, then leaned against the door, staring again at the image of the playing card on the mirror. Then she ran over to the window, and looked down into the deserted alleyway. Two floors up. Too high to jump. Terror pulsed inside her, tightening her gullet. The cold, damp air made her shiver even more.

She felt for some moments as if she was back in a childhood nightmare, being chased by a monster, trying to scream and no sound coming out. Should she scream now, out of the window, for help?

Would someone hear?

Then her terror turned to anger.
Screw you, Bryce.
She tried to think rationally. She had checked the flat, locked and bolted the front door. There was no way he could have come in while she was in the shower.

Was there?

Shivering, she grabbed her towel, then looked around the bathroom for a weapon. Looked at the loo brush. At the round, free-standing vanity mirror. At her range of bottles of perfume and jars of creams. She settled on the mirror, picked it up, gripping it by the base. Then she unbolted the door and hurled it open.

And stared out into the empty corridor.

42

Monday, 28 October

Bryce, in his flat across the alleyway, watched her on the monitor showing images from the pinhole camera he had concealed in one of the bolts securing the bathroom mirror to the wall. He was grinning.

Nice to see her naked. Nice to see her truly afraid. He watched her step out into the hallway, looking right, then left, vanity mirror held high. He watched her, with deep satisfaction, check every inch of the flat again, flinging open the doors of every room, every cupboard, then finally picking up the phone and dialling.

He knew exactly who she would be calling, and he was right.

‘PC Spofford,’ the voice answered.

He loved the panic in her voice as she spoke to the constable. The reassuring voice of the police officer saying he would be with her in fifteen minutes. The same little bastard cop who had handed him his packed suitcases outside her front door not so many months ago.

Then he switched his attention to his laptop screen. To the Google Earth map of her parents’ house near Henfield. Where her stupid bitch mother and pathetically weak father lived. But not for much longer.

He zoomed in close, studying the windows, the roof.

Then he entered another address into Google Earth. The Royal Regent mansion block on Marine Parade where Red was buying her dream home. And which she would be showing her parents next Sunday.

Your dream home, babe. Dream on!

43

Monday, 28 October

Red, dressed now in black tights, a knee-length black skirt, a grey roll-neck sweater and boots, and trembling with fear, heard the entry-phone buzz and looked at the small video screen beside the door. Then relief surged through her as she saw the familiar friendly face of PC Rob Spofford, slightly distorted by the poor lens. She pressed the button to let him in, then waited. After a minute she heard a rap on the door. She peered through the spyhole, slid off the safety chain and twisted open the two locks.

As he stepped inside, she closed the door hastily behind him and slid back the bolt. ‘God, thanks so much for coming,’ she said.

She’d never seen him out of uniform before. He was dressed in a dark bomber jacket over a T-shirt and jeans, and seemed leaner and more wiry than he did in uniform. ‘No problem. I was off duty tonight, but I’ve been called back in by my sergeant. Tell me.’

‘I’m not sure where to begin,’ she said.

‘You look like you need a drink, Red.’

She nodded. ‘I do. Want to join me?’

‘No thanks, much though I would like one.’

The quietly assured, gentle police officer had a calming effect on her. She felt safe with him here as he followed her through into the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of Albarino, got him a glass of water and they went through into the living room. Spofford sat on the tiny sofa and she perched across from him on a hard, beat-up armchair. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ she asked, craving a cigarette.

‘Not if I can cadge one.’

She grinned. ‘You’re a smoker, too?’

‘Yep. Just don’t tell my wife!’

She grinned again as she fetched the pack and an ashtray, then shook one out for him and held up the lighter flame.

‘So tell me,’ he said.

She lit her cigarette and drew deeply on it. ‘Look, this may sound crazy – and I’m not sure where to begin.’

‘Go as far back as you like.’

‘Okay. The thing is, Bryce, I think I told you, was – is – a part-time magician?’

‘You did, yes.’

‘A lot of his tricks involve fire. He has one where he hands you his business card and suddenly it bursts into flames.’

‘Okay.’

‘I may be putting two and two together and making five. But Karl, my new boyfriend, was found burnt to death. Then the restaurant Bryce first took me to – and that Karl first took me to – was burned down. On Sunday I was going to my parents for lunch, and on the way my car caught fire. Today, on my way home, I stopped in my local convenience store and a fire broke out there while I was in it. When I got back here, the engagement ring Bryce had given me, and which I had given back to him, was somehow on my finger.’ She pointed to it on the coffee table. ‘Then I came home, got in the shower, and the queen of hearts appeared on the bathroom mirror. When I had my first date with Bryce, at Cuba Libre, he did a magic trick on me, and a queen of hearts playing card appeared in my handbag.’

Spofford frowned. ‘Show me the mirror.’

Red led the way through into the bathroom, pointed at the mirror, then stared at it in disbelief.

There was nothing there.

The constable looked at her, then at the mirror, then back at her.

‘It was there,’ she said. ‘I’m not making this up.’ She walked over and peered closely, looking for any trace of the queen of hearts. But the mirror was completely clear, as if it had just been carefully and thoroughly cleaned.