‘Would it be possible, Corinne,’ Grace asked, ‘for her to have entered the store any other way?’
She thought for a moment. ‘The lady could have come in via the staff entrance at the rear, but she’d have had to have known the key code.’
‘How often do you change that?’ Branson asked.
‘God, probably not often enough. I’ve been here five years and we’ve only changed it a handful of times.’
Grace gave her a reproachful look.
She smiled. ‘I know, mea culpa!’
‘So that is a possibility?’ Grace asked.
She shook her head adamantly. ‘If she was in this store, she would have been picked up on one of the cameras. No question. And you’ve seen the one almost directly above the cat litter — animal products — section.’
Either, Roy Grace thought, Eden Paternoster had never entered the store at the time her husband claimed, or—
Her husband had the time wrong?
Or he was lying?
A-B-C.
That mantra from the Murder Manual replayed in his head as it did so often when confronting a potential crime scene. Assume nothing. Believe no one. Check everything.
Grace’s phone rang. He saw on the display it was Norman Potting.
‘Need to take this,’ he said and stepped outside the office.
The DS sounded upset. ‘It’s bad news, Roy,’ he said, his voice low, almost a growl.
‘I’ll come now. Meet you in Bill’s in Lewes in thirty minutes.’
‘No, please don’t worry, I just thought you should know — in case I have to take any time out.’
‘I’m meeting you at Bill’s in thirty minutes. That’s an order!’
Roy put his head back through the door. ‘I’m sorry, mate, something’s come up. Can you deal with this and I’ll see you back at HQ.’
After Grace apologized to Edgerton and left, Branson asked her to replay all the digital recordings from 3 p.m. to 3.30 p.m. yesterday, just for belt and braces.
Half an hour later, they were still in the same place. Nothing.
Branson then asked her to play again all the footage up to 4.30 p.m. They saw a man with tousled hair, dressed in a faded T-shirt — an old Pink Floyd one — and cut-off jeans approach the front entrance and speak to Tim outside, then go in.
‘That’s the husband,’ Corinne said. ‘He came in and questioned members of staff, after which they did a thorough search for her.’
‘Could you print me off an image of him?’ Branson asked.
‘Sure, though it won’t be great quality, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s fine,’ he said.
Next, they went to her office. Branson was conscious it was Monday lunchtime and the store was busy. But Corinne was anxious to help him. Over the following hour she had the entire staff of the store come in one by one and look at the photograph of Eden Paternoster.
Each of them shook their head in turn. No one had seen this woman yesterday.
19
Bill’s was a cafe-restaurant, occupying a corner site on cobbled Cliffe High Street in Lewes, the county town of East Sussex. It had a green-and-white frontage, flanked by outside tables beneath its awnings. As Roy Grace arrived there at 1.45, with the lunchtime rush tailing off, he was pleased to see several tables free. He chose an end one, well spaced from the next table, which was also unoccupied, and sat down.
He pulled out his phone to check his messages, but before he had a chance, he saw the bulky figure of Norman Potting lumbering towards him. He stood to shake his colleague’s hand. Usually irrepressibly cheerful, Potting looked gloomy. ‘Thanks, chief,’ he said, pulling up the chair opposite and lowering his frame onto it.
A waitress appeared. Potting ordered an Americano with hot milk and Grace a tuna sandwich and sparkling water. Potting didn’t want any food.
‘Tell me?’ Grace said.
‘Can you keep it confidential, chief?’
‘Of course.’ Grace noticed Potting’s voice was sounding more gruff than usual.
The DS looked at him with baleful eyes, and for the first time in a long while Grace noticed he was looking his age — and more. ‘I might have the big C back,’ he said flatly.
‘Shit, I’m sorry, Norman. It’s not your prostate, you said?’
He shook his head. ‘For some while my voice has been a bit — you know — hoarse, and I’ve been coughing a lot.’ He touched his throat. ‘And I’ve felt a lump on my neck. I ignored it for a while, but thought I’d better let the quack know so I rang the medical centre on Friday and told them. I had a call first thing this morning that he wanted to see me right away.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Well — he’s usually a pretty positive chap but he looked worried. He knows I smoked a pipe for years and that I’m overweight, drink a bit — don’t we all?’
Grace smiled sympathetically. ‘Drink? In this job, yes.’
‘He ticked me off for not coming to see him sooner. Told me that with my lifestyle I’m high risk.’
‘What is he worried you might have, Norman?’ Grace probed gently.
‘Well, he wants to eliminate the possibility I might have laryngeal cancer.’ He put a hand to his throat again and stroked it absently.
‘So he thinks it’s only a possibility?’ Grace said, trying to reassure him.
Potting nodded. ‘Apparently, from what he said, there are lots of symptoms that can mimic this. But he did point out at least twice that those at high risk from it are smokers, drinkers and those who live an unhealthy lifestyle.’ Potting gave him a shrug and an almost childish grin. ‘Guess I tick all those boxes. But if my number’s up, at least I can say I’ve had a bit of a life, eh?’
Grace smiled and wagged a finger at him. ‘Stop it! You are only in your fifties, that’s no age, OK? He said you’re presenting symptoms, but he wants to eliminate cancer, not confirm it, right?’
Potting nodded, a little sheepishly.
‘So, don’t talk yourself into an early grave.’ Grace tapped the side of his head. ‘I’m sure mental attitude has so much to do with fighting anything that’s wrong with us. Be positive, yes?’
Potting nodded again.
‘What’s your doctor’s plan?’
‘He’s referring me to an ENT surgeon, who’ll do a biopsy, CT scans, chest X-ray, ultrasound and a laryngoscopy, I think it was, he said. But it’ll be about two weeks before I get the appointment.’
Their drinks arrived and they waited until the waitress had moved away.
‘Two weeks?’ Grace said.
‘Two weeks in which I’m going to be, frankly, worried as hell.’
‘Listen, he said he wanted to eliminate the possibility of cancer. Take that as a positive. Even if the news is bad, cancer treatment is getting better all the time.’
Potting looked back at him bleakly. ‘I googled laryngeal cancer after I left the surgery. It has one of the worst survival rates of any cancer.’
‘Then stop googling it, OK? That’s an order. Think positive. That’s another order.’ Grace stared hard at him, their eyes meeting. ‘I know it’s easy for me to say, Norman, but really, please keep thinking positive.’
‘Understood, chief. I’d rather you didn’t — you know, tell anyone just yet.’
‘Of course.’
20
Grace and Branson sat opposite each other at the small round meeting table in the Detective Superintendent’s office. They had mugs of coffee and Grace’s fast-emptying packet of chocolate digestives in front of them, as Branson, complaining he hadn’t had lunch, worked through them. Two photographic prints of Eden Paternoster, from the digital images they’d been emailed, also lay there, one with the background of the Parham House lake and the other in front of a Christmas tree.