Had she even died from hanging, he began to wonder? Or was she dead some time before being strung up there? Hopefully, the pathologist would be able to answer that. But however she had died, he was already pretty certain in his own mind that she had not taken her own life. Someone else had.
An iPhone lay on the floor, beneath the chair at the dressing table. An odd location — had it fallen there? Possible sign of a struggle? He called one of the scene investigators over and instructed him to seize the phone as evidence. Then the two detectives left and carried out a room-by-room walk-through. Downstairs in a sumptuous den were two chesterfields, face to face across a handsome coffee table, and a tidy roll-top desk. The clue that something was missing from it was a Mac power cable lying on the floor. Grace followed the cable under the desk, where it was plugged into a wall socket. The switch was in the on position.
Had her computer been taken? By her killer?
There were no other signs that this was a burglary. No cupboard doors or filing cabinet drawers left open with the contents scattered everywhere. The whole house looked neat and tidy. The offender might have just taken her computer. Because of what was on it? But if so, why hadn’t he — or she — taken the phone also? Not noticed it under the chair, perhaps, in the heat of the moment? What else had they not noticed?
He walked into the hall, with busts on plinths, framed antique Brighton prints on the walls and a very ancient high-backed hall-porter’s chair. He carried on through into the kitchen, which was fairly modern in comparison. And saw the iPad immediately. It sat on a work surface on the far side of the room, next to a toaster and a coffee machine, plugged into a socket.
Had Suzy Driver’s killer also missed this?
He called Aiden Gilbert at the Digital Forensics Team and asked him if someone could take a fast look at Suzy Driver’s phone and iPad, to try to see who she had been in contact with in recent weeks. Next, he radioed the Force Control Room and requested a bike or car from the Road Policing Unit to pick the items up and rush them to Gilbert in nearby Haywards Heath.
On a handsome oak Welsh dresser was a wedding photo in a silver frame. He presumed it was Suzy Driver and her husband. She was standing in the front porch of a church, in a wedding dress, her hair tumbling in ringlets around her shoulders, and wearing a short veil. Raymond Driver, in a morning suit with wide trousers and sporting a red carnation, a fancy gold brocade waistcoat and big hair, stood proudly beside her. Alongside was her maid of honour, a fair-haired woman who looked familiar to Roy.
Next to it was another silver-framed photograph, one he was immediately certain he had seen before. Identical to the one he had received from Marcel Kullen in Germany. The photo of the two ladies in ballgowns. The fair-haired one was the maid of honour.
They weren’t identical but they looked so similar they had to be sisters. Suzy and Lena, Roy thought. Both dead.
He looked at Branson, who had joined him and was staring intently at a yellow Post-it note stuck to a work surface. Something was handwritten on it, in blue ink. ‘Jack Roberts,’ the DI said, pensively. ‘Why do I know that name?’
‘Is he a movie star?’ Grace said, mischievously.
‘Ha ha. If he is, he’s from back in the silent movie era — you’re more likely to remember that, old-timer.’
Grace gave him two fingers and opened a drawer in the dresser. He could see without touching anything that it contained a roll of sellotape, scissors, a couple of ballpoint pens, a stapler and a photograph of three young children playing on a beach that he recognized, from a trip to Australia with Sandy many years ago, as Bondi. He slid the drawer shut, then opened the next and glanced in, but saw nothing of interest, nor in any of the other kitchen drawers.
Then he looked at a cork noticeboard fixed to a wall. There were a couple of taxi firm business cards pinned to it; a Thai takeaway menu; a cartoon drawn by a child of a beach, sea, a sailing boat and a big, low sun.
Then he saw another business card. ‘Bingo!’ Branson said.
‘Perhaps?’ Grace added with a note of caution. The card read:
‘Pay him a visit?’ Branson suggested.
Grace glanced at his watch. Kingston was a good hour away, longer probably as they would be heading into rush hour. ‘Better see if he’s there, and willing to wait for us.’
He dialled the number on the business card.
36
Tuesday 2 October
‘Hello?’ Johnny Fordwater answered cautiously, his hands reeking of oil.
‘Hey, buddy, how you doing?’
It was Gerry. Sounding irrepressibly cheerful.
‘Not that great, actually, but thanks for asking.’ Johnny glanced at his watch and did a quick calculation. Gerry was in the Midwest. Six or was it seven hours behind the UK? Mid-morning for him. He looked down at his gun. It lay there, taunting him.
Try again, Major Failure!
‘Look, buddy, I’m feeling pretty gutted myself, for suggesting online dating.’
‘Well, you were only trying to be helpful, Gerry — and you had a great experience — you found a beautiful lady in Katrina.’
‘Karen,’ Gerry corrected him.
‘Karen, yes, sorry. You’re a lucky guy.’
He fell silent, fixated on his gun. Tempted. So tempted to pick it up and end it all whilst still talking to Gerry.
Interrupting his chain of thought, Gerry said, ‘Thought you might want to know the same’s happened to another buddy of mine, a former NYPD detective who went through one shitstorm of a divorce and then thought he’d met his soulmate. Instead, she rinsed him. I feel terrible, buddy — like, I’m the idiot who made all this happen.’
‘Gerry, I don’t blame you in any way. I know you meant well, and it’s not your fault, I was just incredibly stupid. I just... I... I should have seen it. Blinded by love, I guess.’
‘These internet scammers are smart. They know how to yank someone’s chain every which way.’
‘Very neatly put.’
‘OK, here’s the thing. My ex-NYPD buddy, Matthew Sorokin, isn’t gonna take this lying down. I hope you don’t mind, but I told him about your situation and he’d like to talk to you — can I hook you guys up?’
Well, I’d like to but I’m just about to blow my brains out, as soon as you get off the line, if that’s all right with you, Gerry? Johnny was tempted to say. Instead he found himself saying, ‘Sure, Gerry, I’d be really interested to talk to him.’
37
Tuesday 2 October
‘So, how can I help you, gentlemen?’
Jack Roberts, getting up from behind his desk to greet Grace and Branson, still exuded energy and charm, despite it being the back-end of his working day. The PI’s dark tie was slack, the top button of his creased purple shirt unbuttoned, his grey suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair. As he beamed, he revealed a youthful set of gleaming white teeth.
Showing their warrant cards, Roy Grace said, ‘We are investigating the death of Mrs Susan Driver. We found your business card at her home, and possibly your name on a note in her kitchen.’
Roberts looked visibly shaken. ‘Dead? Suzy Driver?’
‘You knew her, sir?’ Glenn Branson asked.
Roberts ushered them to a leather sofa, and then sank into an armchair beside it. ‘Suzy’s dead?’ He clenched his knuckles.