Actually, he could. It was full of gristle and she’d overcooked it. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. The high-backed Perspex chair at the glass dining table was cripplingly uncomfortable, but he wasn’t about to tell her that either.
‘You’re a true genius as a chef. Apple crumble and custard — my favourite dessert.’
‘Nothing’s too good for you. I’m loving your company.’
‘And me yours.’ He yawned. ‘Look at the time. Almost midnight — where did the evening go?’
‘I had no idea it was so late.’ she said. ‘It’s been such fun.’
‘It has. Think I’m pretty much ready to hit the sack. I’m afraid my medication has that effect on me.’
‘Your room’s all made up.’
‘A few years back and I’d have made love to you all night.’ He raised his glass. ‘My lovely Jodie, where have you been all my life?’
She raised her Drambuie.
‘God, how I wish I’d met you sooner. I wonder how different my life might have been,’ he said.
‘It’s never too late. Is it?’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ He drained his glass, stubbed out the remainder of his cigar and stood up, unsteadily. ‘I don’t have a toothbrush.’
‘I’ve got a spare one.’
‘You’re an angel.’
‘True.’ she said.
They both smiled.
‘I wish— you know— that I could make love to you,’ he said.
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
‘Good plan.’
‘What would you like for breakfast?’
‘You!’ he said.
‘I think I can arrange that!’
Ten minutes later she led him upstairs. Cornel noticed her cat scratching a wall at the end of the corridor.
‘What’s he after?’ he quizzed her.
‘I think he’s mousing. He keeps doing that — maybe there’s a mouse in the cavity wall. Tyson!’ she shouted. The cat shot off along the landing and down the stairs.
There seemed to be a lot of scratches at the bottom of the wall, as well as a few shallow grooves. What, he wondered, was the other side of it? Her snakes? He would try to take a discreet closer look when he had the opportunity.
A few minutes later, with J. Paul Cornel safely installed in the guest bedroom with ensuite bathroom, Jodie went back downstairs to clear up. She was feeling pretty good about how the day had gone but, she knew, she needed to deepen the bond between them. He seemed to be a bit guarded, and she needed to break that down.
How?
He had confessed his impotence due to a prostate operation. Maybe, if she could arouse him despite what he had said, that would do the trick? Perhaps later she would slip into his bed, naked, and try.
She topped up her Drambuie, lit another cigarette and sat at the kitchen table. She liked him. Which was as well, she thought, if she was intending to marry him.
A copy of the Argus newspaper lay there. As she sipped her liqueur and smoked, idly flipping through the pages, her eyes were suddenly drawn to a story.
It wasn’t so much the headline that caught her eye, but the photograph below.
DS Bella Moy with her Sussex Police officer fiancé, DS Norman Potting.
An attractive brunette in her mid-thirties, with her arm round a large man of indeterminate age, mid-to late-fifties, at least.
She read through the article. The two detectives were engaged to be married. Then tragically, whilst off duty, Potting’s fiancée had bravely entered a burning house to rescue a child and dog trapped inside. The child and her dog had got out, but DS Bella Moy had failed to emerge. Her body was recovered some hours later.
And now she remembered something that Paul had said to her over dinner last night.
I lost my soulmate in a house fire.
His whole expression had changed after he had uttered those words. Last night she had taken it as someone very private revealing too much about himself.
She stared back at the photograph, concentrating hard on the man. The shape of his face. The slightly bulbous nose. The thinning hair in a comb-over. The short bull neck.
Feeling a prickle of unease, she opened the lid of her laptop and googled ‘Sussex Police — Norman Potting — Images’.
A whole raft of photographs appeared. Some were of total strangers. But others looked remarkably like a shabbier version of J. Paul Cornel.
Was she imagining it? Was he just a lookalike? Was she being too cautious after the Walt Klein fiasco?
There was one way she might find out.
She googled J. Paul Cornel and started to sift through his images, taking screen-shots of each.
111
Friday 13 March
Norman Potting was in danger and there was no one immediately available to protect him.
Cleo was feeding Noah, and Grace sat up with her, thinking hard. Should he break with all the rules, drive down to Roedean Crescent and be on hand for Norman? He had confided the UC’s identity to Cleo, which he knew she would keep secret.
Half an hour later, just approaching midnight, Noah was sound asleep and Cleo collapsed, exhausted, into bed.
‘Try to sleep, darling,’ she said. ‘You won’t be any use to Norman if you’re too tired.’
He yawned. ‘You’re right.’ He reached out and turned off his bedside light, but then after a few moments switched it back on. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave him exposed like this. I’ve got to go and check he’s OK.’
‘Do what you’ve got to do. Just be careful and get back as soon as you can, you have to have some sleep.’
He dressed, pulled on a warm coat, made himself a quick espresso and calmed Humphrey, who seemed to think it was morning. He wiped the mist off the Alfa’s windows, started the engine and drove fast towards Brighton.
Fifteen minutes later he turned into Roedean Crescent and slowed, looking at the house numbers in the dark street. The odd numbers were on the left-hand side. He put the window down and shone his torch, driving slowly, passing a few parked cars with misted windows, indicating they had been there for some while, until he reached No. 191. He carried on. A cat shot across the road a short distance in front of him.
He cruised the area, turning down all the side streets, looking for any suspicious vehicle where Tooth might be lurking. Although it was quite possible that the hitman was having the same difficulties as they’d had in locating Jodie Carmichael’s real residence, until Potting had established it. He drove back along Roedean Crescent, halted a good hundred yards from the entrance to the drive, switched his lights off, climbed out and walked back.
In case Jodie had night vision CCTV cameras, something he wouldn’t have put past her, considering her form, he just ambled slowly past like any man out taking a late stroll, glancing down the driveway as he passed. He could see the silhouette of the house directly below, which appeared to be in complete darkness. Norman Potting was in there, somewhere, asleep, according to the latest update.
Grace crossed the road, and walked back along the other side, barely glancing at the driveway this time, then crossed over again and got back into his car, still looking around and thinking, wondering. Just what was going on in that house right now?
According to the duty handler, who was listening to every word that was exchanged between Potting and Jodie Carmichael, not much. Potting had gone to bed. Alone.
He looked at his watch. It was coming up to 1 a.m. Despite the espresso he felt leaden, and thought back to Cleo’s words, that he’d be no use to Norman if he was too tired. He felt exhausted.