Want You Dead (48 page)

Twenty minutes later, despite all the emotions running through his mind from the past few days, Roy Grace walked back to his car with a spring in his step and a smile in his heart.

117

Monday, 11 November

Red sipped her second cup of coffee of the morning and stared at the list of nine appointments she had for viewings today. Last week already seemed a long time ago.

And the best news, to start this new week, was that the husband of the couple she had shown around the house in Portland Avenue last week, who had originally told her they had seen somewhere they liked more, had just phoned to say that they had changed their minds again, and would now like to proceed to purchase the property.

She had the forms in front of her, and they were coming in to sign this afternoon. And they were cash buyers! All being well, within a couple of days the Mishon Mackay FOR SALE board outside the house would have a banner across it announcing, SALE AGREED.

Her first sale! Her new career was on its way.

Despite the nightmare of her ordeal at Tongdean Lodge, she was really enjoying her job, and felt she had the right qualities for it.

A new email pinged up on her screen, with a JPEG attachment. She did not recognize the sender’s name, but she opened the email and read it.

‘I have a very special attachment for a very special lady!’ it said.

She double clicked on the attachment, and saw a cartoon.

And froze.

118

Monday, 11 November

In the furnished consulting room in Schwabing, close to Munich’s Isar river, the attractive woman in her late thirties, with her black hair cropped short in a boyish fringe, lay prostrate on the psychiatrist’s couch.

‘Tell me, how did you feel in the church, Sandy?’ the psychiatrist, Dr Eberstark, asked.

She was silent for some moments, then she said, ‘I felt like an alien. I realized I didn’t know his world any more. And I kept thinking what a mistake I’d made. I watched him turn and gaze at his bride as she walked down the aisle on the arm of someone – I guess her father. And it made me think so much of the time, almost twenty years or so ago, when I walked down the aisle on the arm of my father, and he’d turned and smiled at me – and I’d never felt so happy or proud in all my life.’ She paused and let out a sob. ‘Such a big bloody mistake. When I realized that, I wanted him back so much, I wanted to be there, I wanted to be that woman.’

‘Yet you left him.’

‘Yes. I left him. I guess I didn’t know then what I know now. I wanted him back so badly. Really, at that moment when the priest guy – the vicar – asked if anyone knew any reason why they should not be joined together in Holy matrimony, I nearly shouted out that I did. Really, I so nearly did. That’s what I had gone there intending to do.’ She shrugged.

The psychiatrist waited silently.

‘Looking at him, I realized what a mistake I’d made. I wanted him back. I still do. I feel I’ve screwed up my life. Every day I wake up in the morning and I lie to my son. He asks me about his father and I don’t tell him the truth. I’m scared I’m going to screw him up. What the hell should I do?’

‘What do you think you should do?’

‘Some days I think I should kill myself.’

‘Do you think about the consequence of that for Bruno?’

‘Bruno. Yes, I think sometimes that I should mail Roy a letter, telling him the truth, and telling him that by the time he gets it, I will be dead. He always wanted to have children. He could come here and take his son back to England.’

She continued to talk for a few minutes before Dr Eberstark glanced at the clock on the wall.

‘We’ll have to leave it there,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you on Thursday. Is that okay with you?’

After she closed the front door of Dr Eberstark’s building, Sandy walked out onto the pavement alongside the four lanes of heavy traffic on Widenmayerstrasse, and stopped, staring at the wide grass bank of the Isar river across the busy street, collecting her thoughts.

Reflecting on her session. How many sessions had she had? Where were they getting her? Sometimes she left the psychiatrist’s office feeling strong, but other times, like now, she left feeling more confused than ever.

As the traffic thundered past in front of her, she wondered if now really was the time, finally, to tell Roy about Bruno. Their son.

That would sure as hell throw a spanner into his newly-wed bliss.

How would his blonde bimbo take the news?

How would he take it?

She had an idea; he was a kind man at heart. A responsible person. He would take responsibility, he would have no option. But how much did he care for the bimbo, really? He’d kept telling her, during their life together, that he could not live without her. Well, he seemed to be doing pretty well.

She decided a walk along the bank of the Isar, towards the Englischergarten, would do her some good, clear her head.

Her sodding confused head.

For an instant she was back in Brighton, in England. Where the traffic drove on the opposite side of the road. She looked to the right, and the road was clear. She stepped out. Heard the blare of a horn. The scream of tyres on dry tarmac.

Then the cream Mercedes taxi hit her broadside.

119

Monday, 11 November

It felt like another Groundhog Day, as Roy Grace stood in his socks and placed his shoes in one of the Gatwick Airport security trays, along with his jacket, mobile phone, laptop, watch and belt. He had done exactly the same thing a week ago, to the hour, if not almost to the minute.

He followed Cleo through the metal detector, and to his relief, again neither of them pinged it. As he pulled his shoes back on, his excitement was growing. By hanging onto both of their tickets again, this time around, he’d managed to keep from her that they were flying in luxury.

If anything, he was even more excited than a week ago. His excitement fuelled by his determination that this time, nothing was going to stop them.

Then his phone rang.

He looked at Cleo and she grinned.

He picked it up out of the grey tray and stared at the display. The
number withheld
message meant almost certainly that it was work.

‘I’m not answering it!’

‘You will!’ she said, with a grin, and kissed him.

‘No, I won’t!’ He killed the call.

Moments later the phone rang again. He hesitated. It could be any number of people calling him for any number of reasons. But he didn’t care, he really did not care this time. Whatever the problem – if there was a problem – for the next few days it was not his.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

‘See!’ Cleo said gleefully.

He grinned and blew a silent kiss at her.

It was Glenn Branson. ‘Where are you, old timer? On a gondola on the Rialto?’

‘Very funny. You want me to buy you a Cornetto?’

‘Just-ah-one!’

‘Listen, I’m just finishing going through security at Gatwick. Can I call you back?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t want to disturb your honeymoon.’

‘You just have. What’s up?’

‘Well, here’s the thing. Bryce Laurent’s on remand in Lewes Prison on murder charges, right? Which means no bail, so he’ll be there until the end of his trial. But he’s trying to get at her. I had a call from her a little while ago, very upset. She’s had a cartoon emailed to her – by, it would seem, Laurent.’

‘I thought prisoners didn’t have access to email in Lewes Prison, mate?’ He signalled an apology to Cleo. ‘What was the cartoon?’

‘It depicted her in a cross hair gun-sight, wearing an eye-patch, surrounded by flames and swirling wind. It was captioned,
To the Queen of the Slipstream. Enjoy your last days on earth.’

‘Van Morrison,’ Grace said.

‘Van Morrison?’

‘The song.’

‘Enjoy your last days on earth?’ Branson queried

‘No! Queen of the Slipstream! I thought you knew your music.’

‘Yeah, I do – but not your trashy white man stuff.’

‘It played at the wedding – did you have your thumbs in your ear or something?’ Grinning, Grace removed his belt from the tray and, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, began threading it back through the loops on his trousers. ‘Okay, so tell me more about the cartoon.’

‘I spoke to the Deputy Governor at Lewes, Alan Setterington. He says it’s possible it could have been sent from within the prison, despite the ban on internet connections, or maybe Laurent had someone outside do it. But I thought you should know something of concern: Setterington told me a prisoner informed him this morning that Laurent’s trying to hire a hitman to kill Red. He’s put out word that he’s offering around fifty grand cash for a result.’

‘Has he found a taker?’

‘Doesn’t sound like it yet. The man Laurent thinks might do it told Setterington earlier today.’

‘So what are your thoughts?’

‘If we could find that fifty grand stash, then we’ll have spiked Laurent’s guns.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Grace. ‘We’re on the same page. Setterington had better get his colleagues eavesdropping on Laurent. We need to listen to every conversation he has. Correction,
you
need to listen.’

‘You don’t sound as worried as you might, boss,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘No, I’m not, because you’re in charge and I’ve got every faith in you! Have a good week. I’ll see you next Monday morning.’

‘Yeah, but . . . hang on, old timer—’

Roy Grace hung up. Then he switched his phone off altogether. He’d worked his butt off to keep the city of Brighton and Hove – and the whole of Sussex – safe for the past twenty years. It would now have to cope for one week without him.

‘I’ve never, ever, seen you do that before,’ Cleo said, with a massive smile.

‘Yep, well, I’ve never been on honeymoon with you before.’ He slipped his arm around her. ‘And I don’t intend wasting another second of it.’

She looked at him with a huge, warm grin. ‘Now, why don’t I believe that? You without your phone on?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not going to happen!’

‘It is!’

‘You’re not going to pick up your messages for the whole time?’

‘Well . . . maybe I’ll check them . . . just occasionally. In case . . .’

‘See, you can’t, can you? And I wouldn’t want you to. I don’t want to change you, Roy, I love you as you are.’ She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

120

Tuesday, 12 November

The sodding towel he had put up over the window, to block out the glare from the security lights outside, had fallen down, and the tiny cell was filled with a weak yellow glow. How the fuck could anyone sleep on this hard, absurdly narrow bed, and with this bloody light? Bryce Laurent thought.

He rolled over for the umpteenth time, feeling the coarse blanket against his face and shivering with cold. His left eye was bandaged and still hurt like hell from where that bitch had dug her nails in. The prison doctor was arranging for him to see a specialist because he was worried about the extent of damage, expressing concerns that it might be permanent and irreversible. Blind in one eye.

He was so going to get even with Red for that.

Somewhere in the block he heard another prisoner shouting out in his sleep. Having a damned nightmare. This place was a nightmare. So much swirled through his head, an angry mist of thoughts. And plans. Oh yes, he had plans. New plans forming all the time. He was working on one now. It was a beautiful one. Masterly! It would ensure Red never, ever, felt safe again. For the rest of her life.

Although, if all went well, that was going to be a very short time.

Suddenly, he noticed the sound of trickling water. As if someone had left a tap running. Who? Where? In the next-door cell? How long had it been going on? Had he left the tap running in here, or was it the cistern of his toilet?

He closed his eyes to shut it out, but it seemed to be getting worse, louder, running faster. A distinct gurgling sound now, almost echoing in the silence of the night.

Then he smelled petrol.

He frowned.

Petrol?

Who had petrol in here? Were they using it in a heater?

The smell was getting stronger.

He now heard a sound like lapping water running up a beach.

And suddenly, in anxiety, he swung his legs off his bunk and onto the floor.

They splashed into something wet.

He took a tentative step forward.
Shit.
The floor was wet. With petrol.
Shit. Oh Shit.

The gurgling sound continued. More was pouring in every second.

What the hell was going on?

Outside prisoner 076569’s cell door, another prisoner of Lewes’s remand wing continued to squeeze the reservoir bag of the water pouch, which was designed for cyclists, letting all three pints of petrol pour, via the drinking tube, through the cell inundation point in Bryce Laurent’s cell door.

‘Hey!’ Laurent said, his voice panicky. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’

‘It’s nearly lighting up time!’ his antagonist replied, in a soft Irish lilt. Then he switched on a torch and shone the beam at his own face, which was close to the grille. ‘Boo!’

He laughed as Laurent recoiled in shock. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Laurent asked, fumbling for the light switch in his cell but momentarily unable to find it.

‘A friend of a friend who doesn’t like you. We’re like-minded, him and I. We don’t like men who hurt women. You’ve got a pretty long track record of hurting women, I’d say. You like playing with fire, don’t you?’

‘Warder!’ Laurent shouted, scared now. Then, remembering they didn’t like being called that, he shouted, in a panic-stricken voice, ‘Officer! Officer!’

‘There’s only one prison officer on duty on this floor,’ the Irishman said. ‘He doesn’t like you very much either. You see, you murdered his cousin and set fire to his body just a couple of weeks back. Remember him? Up at the golf course? Dr Karl Murphy?’

‘Officer!’ Laurent shouted.

‘Relax, Bryce, he’s not interested! He’ll come when I call him, to lock me back in my cell. Then he’ll open yours and throw in this water pouch. Whatever remains of it for the forensics boys, everyone will think, with all you’ve been saying about killing yourself, that you smuggled it in yourself. I mean, I would! Hey, I
do
!’