A Twist of the Knife (38 page)

‘Sid Carp?’ said Potting. ‘He was always a fishy blighter.’

The entire team groaned in unison. But they all knew the name. Sid Carp was a frequent flyer with Brighton Police. An old lag and a true recidivist – or revolving door prisoner as they were known – a nasty petty thief and small-time drug dealer. ‘Sid Carp?’ Grace said. ‘He must be older than God.’

‘Got to be nudging seventy,’ Potting said.

‘Old enough to play Santa, anyway, sir,’ DC Boutwood continued. ‘He’d been the resident Father Christmas in the Churchill Square shopping mall until a week ago, when he turned up drunk and was fired. Apparently he went round telling several of the staff that if he couldn’t be Santa, no one would be, and the store and Brighton were going to regret it. So it sounds like this could all be about his revenge.’

‘How on earth did he get past the security vetting?’ Grace asked, shaking his head. Then he turned to Potting. ‘Norman,’ Grace said. ‘I want you to come with me to see Walker’s wife – we need to find out if, in his financial predicament, she thinks he might have been unstable.’

*

An hour later, Roy Grace and Norman Potting climbed out of Grace’s car in front of a smart, mock-Tudor house on Woodland Drive – a street nicknamed by locals as Millionaire’s Row. It was freezing cold, the stars glittering like heavenly bling above them. There would be a frost in the morning for sure, the Detective Superintendent thought, as they strode past two cars on the driveway, a convertible Audi and a BMW coupé. He rang the doorbell, waited, then rang again. Then he rapped hard on the door.

After a good couple of minutes it was opened by an attractive blonde, with dishevelled hair and streaked make-up. She was wearing a slinky dressing gown with her boobs half falling out.

Grace showed her his warrant card. ‘Mrs Zoe Walker?’

‘Yes?’

‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Potting from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. I understand you have been informed of the very sad news about your husband?’ he said.

‘I have, yes.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Would you like to come in?’

‘Just for a moment, thank you.’

The two detectives entered the hallway and she shut the door behind them.

‘Can I offer you gentlemen a drink? Tea or coffee, or something stronger?’

‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Grace replied. They briefly talked through what had happened that afternoon, and gave her an outline of the police investigation to date. ‘We don’t want to keep you tonight,’ Grace said. ‘But I understand your husband may have had financial worries. I believe he owed a lot of money and had recently been threatened.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid he was a bit of a gambler. He told me he was sorting it all out. I . . .’ She hesitated for a moment and he saw her shoot a sudden glance upstairs. He studied her eye movements carefully.

‘What do you think has happened?’ she asked.

‘It’s really too soon to say – we need more information. We have to establish whether this was a terrible accident, murder or possibly suicide.’

‘Well now you mention it, Richard did mention suicide occasionally, but only in the way many people do when things are bad – you know. I never thought he – you know – he would actually do it. He’s not the type.’

‘What do you think might have happened to your husband?’ Grace pressed.

‘I don’t have an explanation,’ she said and began sobbing. The detectives waited for her to regain her composure. ‘He was highly experienced, and even if his main chute didn’t open, his reserve should have done, for sure.’

‘Accidents do occur,’ Grace said, ‘from what I’ve read up today.’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, I packed his parachutes immaculately. I know I did.’

Grace nodded. ‘OK, well, we have the British Parachute Association team coming down tomorrow, so hopefully we will be able to establish exactly what happened. I won’t trouble you any more until we have all the facts.’

As she closed the front door on them, Potting gave him curious look. ‘That was a bit short, Chief.’

Grace patted the bonnet of the Audi, which was icy cold. ‘Nice cars, these,’ he said. Then he touched the bonnet of the BMW and could feel the heat from it. ‘I like Beemers. Always have.’ He made a mental note of the registration number.

‘Know what BMW stands for, Chief?’ Potting said as they climbed back into the car.

Grace stared at him, knowing it was going to be something rude. ‘Don’t go there,’ he warned. He started the engine, drove a short distance from the house, then pulled over and radioed for a PNC check on the BMW, reading out its index number to the controller.

*

Roy Grace delayed the Sunday morning briefing to the afternoon, to give the parachute investigation team a chance to carry out their work. Meanwhile his own officers were still trying, urgently, to trace Sidney Carp. At 10 a.m. Roy held a press conference at which he gave public reassurance about the numbers of officers on the case, leave being cancelled, and his enquiry team working through the holiday period to establish what had happened and make the city safe.

In the early afternoon, just as his briefing was about to commence, Norman Potting came hurrying in. ‘We’ve netted our suspect, Sidney Carp!’

‘Brilliant work, Norman!’ Grace said.

Then Potting looked gloomy and shook his head. ‘Not good news, I’m afraid, chief, he’s going to be the fish that got away.’

There was another loud groan from the team.

Potting continued. ‘He was arrested at Victoria Station in the early hours of Sunday morning, in a drunken state, with a holdall containing a chainsaw, and is still in custody, having refused to give any details or explain why he was carrying a chainsaw.’

‘That doesn’t necessarily eliminate him,’ Grace said, ‘but he’s no longer our best suspect. I think I have a better one.’

*

An hour later, Grace was armed with the preliminary, but fairly conclusive, information about why both parachutes had failed. The two detectives returned to Woodland Drive. As they climbed out into the sub-zero air and walked to the front door, Grace noted that both the Audi convertible and the BMW were coated in frost.

This time, slightly to Potting’s surprise, Roy Grace enthusiastically accepted Zoe Walker’s invitation for coffee. She sat them on the large sofa in the sitting room, and proudly pointed out the two cabinets filled with Richard Walker’s sky-diving trophies.

‘There is something I’ve remembered, Detective Superintendent. When I was at Shoreham Airport yesterday, I’m sure I saw a man sitting in a car on the perimeter road who I recognized – he was one of the men who had been threatening my husband.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll just go and get the coffee.’

The moment she had left the room Grace said, ‘Norman, I want you to go outside, slam the front door loudly behind you, get in the car and drive off.’

The DS frowned at his boss. ‘You do?’

‘Come back when I call you,’ Grace said. ‘Go!’ He could see all kinds of doubts in Potting’s face. ‘Go!’ he said again.

Potting shambled off, and a moment later, Grace heard the door slam, even louder than he had intended. Then he heard the sound of his car starting.

A few moments later, just as Zoe Walker came back in, holding a laden tray, a gruff male voice called down from upstairs, ‘Was that those coppers again, darling? What did they want this time?’

She turned sheet white and froze in the doorway. The tray slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor. Roy Grace leapt to his feet, ignoring the mess. ‘You always packed your husband’s parachutes, is that correct?’

‘Yes. Well, almost always.’

‘Well the reason his parachutes failed is fairly clear. The lines on both the main and reserve chutes had been cut clean through. You’ve got your husband’s former business partner, Jim Brenner, upstairs in your bed. And your husband had a two-million-pound life-insurance policy. More than enough to cover his debts and for you to start a new life.’

She said nothing. He could see her eyes darting around nervously.

‘Not smart to let your lover leave his car on your driveway with a warm engine when your husband’s body’s not even cold, Mrs Walker.’

‘It’s not like you think it is,’ she said.

‘Oh it is, trust me. It’s all too often exactly how I think it is, sad to say.’

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. ‘Zoe Walker, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of your husband Richard.’ Then he read her out the formal caution.

‘What . . . what . . . do you mean?’

He snapped the cuffs on her wrists. ‘I’m also arresting your bedfellow on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. The one bit of good news I can give you, as it’s Christmas, is that in prison you get an excellent turkey dinner, with all the trimmings. Some local villains have themselves banged up deliberately every December so they can enjoy it. There’ll be plum pud and crackers. You’ll have a lovely time. A much nicer Christmas than your husband will in the mortuary.’

*

It was almost midnight by the time Roy Grace left the custody centre and drove home. Although Zoe Walker had broken down and confessed, he would have to appear in court tomorrow in front of a magistrate, to get an extension to keep her and her lover in custody whilst enquiries continued. In addition to this, he would have a morass of paperwork to wade through.

She thought she could blame the people her husband owed money to, but there was one flaw in her plan – she didn’t know he had already paid off his debts a week earlier, after a huge win at the casino. He’d been planning to tell her the good news as a Christmas present.

Then, as Grace stepped out of the shower, his phone rang.

Dreading news of another homicide, he picked it up with trepidation. But it was the Chief Constable again.

‘Well done on your fast work, Roy,’ he said. ‘I understand you have two in custody.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There’s one problem the arrests haven’t solved though: all the kids who now think Santa Claus is dead. I’m particularly concerned about the children at Chestnut Tree House hospice – for some of them, sadly, it might be their last Christmas. You’re a resourceful man, Roy, and a father yourself. Any thoughts?’

‘Leave it with me, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll come up with something.’

*

A life-size wooden reindeer stood in the gazebo-style porch of the sprawling mansion, Chestnut Tree House, along with a huge inflatable snowman. Fairy lights twinkled all around in the late afternoon darkness. Snow was falling and there was a sense of the magic of Christmas in the air. A crowd of fifty adults and youngsters, all wearing Santa hats, were outside, singing a carol. In the front row were children in pushchairs or wheelchairs, and one small boy on a wooden chair playing a trombone larger than himself.

Out of the darkness came a loud, ‘Ho-ho-ho! Hello boys and girls!’ Santa Claus, in his full costume and thick beard, staggered towards them under the weight of a huge, laden sack. For twenty minutes he chatted animatedly to each child in turn, before handing them a beautifully wrapped gift with their name on the tag.

When he had finished, the director of the hospice called out, ‘Let’s all say, ‘Bye, Bye, Santa!’

All the kids shouted out in unison, ‘BYE BYE, SANTA!’

Roy Grace fought back tears as he trudged back down the driveway to his car, safely out of sight of the house. He wiped snow off the windows and mirrors and climbed in, desperate to remove the beard and moustache, which were itching like hell. It was 6 p.m., he realized with a heavy heart. It had taken him all afternoon, since leaving court, to get the kit sorted out and buy the presents, ticking each off the list he had been given by the hospice, paying for them himself, then wrapping and labelling them. He had been determined to show all the kids that Santa was alive and well.

But the shops would all be shut now, and it was too late to get to The Lanes to buy that bracelet. Cleo was going to be disappointed in the morning at not getting a proper present, and he felt lousy about that.

A shadow fell and there was a sudden rap on the window, momentarily startling him. He saw a man he recognized in a smart overcoat – one of the parents he’d seen in the crowd – standing by his door. Grace wound down the window.

‘I just wanted to say, Detective Superintendent, how grateful all of us parents are for what you did. If there’s ever a way any of us can repay your kindness, please let me know. I hope you get all you wish for this Christmas.’

‘That’s very nice of you,’ Grace said. He grinned. ‘I have only one wish. If you could get Stanley Rosen, the jeweller, to open up his shop in Brighton tonight for just five minutes that would really make my Christmas!’

The man smiled. ‘I think that could be arranged.’

‘You do?’ Grace said, surprised.

‘I am Stanley Rosen.’

An hour and a half later, Roy Grace drove out of the underground car park and turned left onto the seafront, towards the pier. Heading home to Cleo. It was 8.30 p.m., and Christmas, for him, was really beginning. He’d phoned her to say he was on his way, and she’d told him Champagne was in the fridge, waiting.

On the seat beside him was the blue velvet box with the name ‘Stanley Rosen’ monogrammed in gold on the lid. He couldn’t believe his luck! They truly were going to have a great Christmas after all. His and Cleo’s first Christmas together, and Noah’s first Christmas ever. He felt a surge of deep happiness.

Then his phone rang.

At five o’clock, Henry Henry got up from his typewriter and walked quietly to his window. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d jumped there in hobnail boots, there was no one to hear him, but this was his ritual and he stuck to it. Rituals marked his day like punctuation on a printed page.

He peered nervously at the row of terraced houses the other side of the street. It was impossible to tell the quality of the residences inside. Some were elegant flats, some were bedsits, like his own.

He found the window straight away, out of habit. Damn. She was not there. He muttered to himself, as if he had been deprived of something that was rightfully his. And then he saw a flicker of movement – or had he imagined it?