‘Pretty convincing baloney,’ Gerry said.
‘I’ve lost all my fun money. Every extra dime I worked for is gone.’
‘Any chance you can recover any of it?’
‘You sitting near a window, Gerry?’
‘Near a window? Sure, right by a window.’
‘Can you see the sky?’
‘Uh-huh. Got a clear view.’
‘See any pigs flying past?’
31
Tuesday 2 October
‘Follow the money,’ Financial Investigator Emily Denyer said. ‘That’s what we need to do.’
The phrase, Roy Grace well knew, had become a mantra for the police in every case where money was involved. Following the money would, hopefully, lead you to the villain or villains.
Glenn Branson, seated alongside Emily in Grace’s office, stared gloomily at the paperwork stacked in front of him. Two mountains in fact, one getting smaller as the other grew taller. Evidence. All in sixteen-point type on the advice of the lawyers, because they might be unlucky enough to come in front of an elderly judge with deteriorating eyesight and failing patience.
A bronze statue of Lady Justice stood outside the Old Bailey, the building housing the Central Criminal Court of England and Wales. She carried a sword in her right hand and scales in her left. In Roy Grace’s view, for accuracy the scales should be replaced with a pair of dice or a roulette wheel. Every prosecution, even the most watertight one, was a gamble, a game of chance in which the prosecution might be up against a smart defence brief, a perverse jury or a blinkered judge. You did all you could to arrest the right suspect and once that was done the even bigger battle of the paperwork started — with the chain of evidence being one of the most important elements.
The paperwork in front of the three of them related to the impending trial of Jodie Bentley, a woman who had sent at least two husbands as well as a prospective one to premature graves, and pertained in part to proving the money — and potential money — she had to gain from her machinations.
With all three unfortunate victims, the physical proof that she had murdered them was entirely circumstantial, even after laying a honeytrap for her with an undercover operator. As Emily Denyer said, following the money was their best hope. But Jodie Bentley was a clever woman and operated under a string of aliases, with bank accounts in different names spread around the globe.
‘What a bitch,’ Glenn Branson said, studying one document, evidence from a Home Office pathologist, Dr Colin Duncton. ‘Even if her last victim had survived the snake venom she used — from a saw-scale viper — his willy would have shrunk! I’m sure there was some movie about that.’
‘The Shrinking Man or something?’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Branson, a movie buff. ‘1957, The Incredible Shrinking Man, directed by Jack Arnold and starring Grant Williams and Randy Stuart. But it wasn’t just his manhood that shrunk.’
‘Grant Williams and Randy Stuart?’ Grace looked perplexed.
‘A man of your vintage? Surely you remember them?’
‘Respect your elders, Detective Inspector Branson!’
‘That was a TV movie in 2012.’
‘Is there anything you don’t know about films?’ Grace shook his head with a smile and returned to the stack he was working through, covered in annotations from a Crown Prosecution solicitor. He read through them, trying to answer each of the queries about Jodie Bentley’s then fiancé, an American called Walt Klein. The solicitor was asking for corroboration on the following points.
Why were they in Courchevel?
What time did they leave the hotel?
Exactly what time did she lose sight of him?
How long after his disappearance before she notified the police?
There weren’t just hours of questions, there were days. He had been working on the queries since 7 a.m. this morning and was starting to lose the will to live. Then his phone rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
It was an old colleague he hadn’t spoken to in a while, Inspector Bill Warner from Brighton CID. ‘Roy, how are you doing?’
‘Good, Bill, you? How’s your back?’
Warner, a former professional boxer, taxi driver then international water polo player, was suffering from a disintegrating spine condition, which he was not letting interfere with his work. He was today’s on-call detective inspector for Brighton and Hove.
‘Crap, if you want the truth, mate! But I’m fine otherwise. I’ve just attended a suicide, but I’m not happy with it. I think someone from Major Crime should go and take a look.’
‘OK,’ Grace said to him, ‘What are your thoughts, Bill?’
‘Lady by the name of Susan Driver, age fifty-five. Widowed four years ago. Her husband, Raymond Driver, was a big name in the Brighton antiques world — started life as a knocker boy, then became a player in brown furniture until that market collapsed and he moved into antique jewellery. Left his old lady properly loaded. Her daughter in Australia was worried because she hasn’t been able to contact her for several days. There’s a number of reasons why this looks suspicious to me. CSM Alex Call’s at the scene and he can fill in your officers.’
Bill then went on to describe the scene and what he had found there.
‘I’ll go myself,’ Grace said.
Warner thanked him.
‘Fancy a peep at a swinger?’ he asked Branson after he ended the call.
‘Not really my thing, but I’ll come and hold your hand, boss.’
Apologizing to Emily Denyer, telling her they would be back as soon as they could, the two detectives left, both trying not to look too happy about the welcome, if grim, distraction.
32
Tuesday 2 October
To dream of death is good for those in fear, for the dead have no more fears.
Johnny Fordwater kept returning to that quote he’d heard, years back, trying to recall the source.
Death, as it had for the past week, felt like the best solution. Suicide.
Any other option meant complete loss of face.
In front of him lay his neat and elaborately written notes to his three children and eight grandchildren. In them, he apologized for being unable to leave them the bequests he had always planned for them. He told them the reason, perhaps too much information, but so what? Maybe it would serve as a warning to them to never do what he had done. However desperate their lives might have become.
He walked over to the safe in his study, entered the six-digit code and swung open the heavy door. Inside lay his old service revolver, which he should have handed in years ago, when he’d left the army. But no one had actually requested it so he’d just thought ‘sod it’ and kept the weapon. Next to it lay several rounds of ammunition. With a steady hand he filled each of the six chambers, in turn, with a live round. An old army chum who suffered from depression had told him that he occasionally toyed with shooting himself with his service revolver, and each time he changed his mind at the last minute it felt better.
It felt to Johnny that the only way out of his financial ruin was to do the honourable thing. When he pulled the trigger it wouldn’t matter which chamber ended up in front of the firing pin. The relief of death was a certainty. He completed the task, then put the gun in his mouth, pointing upwards, and with his right index finger found first the trigger guard, then the trigger itself.