Something valuable he had learned about over the years he had worked with Roy Grace was the psychology of the behaviour of suspects. Genuinely innocent people often tended to resist arrest vociferously, and sometimes quite aggressively. But most guilty suspects became like putty in your hands, almost as if relieved the game was finally up. She felt like putty, now.
‘Attempted murder? What are you talking about?’
‘You wanted me to take your car, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So who just drove off in it?’
‘Someone drove off in it?
Who?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I’m sorry, Paul, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What was that noise just now, that explosion?’
He wrenched her arm further up her back, so hard she cried out in pain. ‘You little bitch,’ he replied.
His phone rang. He answered with one hand and heard Roy Grace’s voice. ‘Norman, where are you?’
‘In 191, holding my suspect.’
‘Can you open the front door, there are officers outside.’
Potting frogmarched her across and unlatched the door.
‘You’d better hurry, guys,’ Jodie said with a smirk. ‘One of your colleagues is upstairs and he doesn’t have very long to live — if he’s even still alive.’
116
Saturday 14 March
With Jodie’s hands cuffed behind her back, Potting was right behind, escorting her up the stairs and along the corridor, followed by several officers. She stopped beside a door and turned to Potting.
‘There’s a wardrobe just inside, to the left. If you open the door you’ll find a remote. Press it.’
Potting did as he was told. Instantly the wall at the end of the corridor slid open to reveal the glass door behind it.
‘Holy shit!’ someone exclaimed in horror.
A small, shaven-headed man, in an anorak, jeans and trainers, his eyes bulging, lay on the floor, motionless, with an enormous brown-and-beige-patterned snake entwined round his body and neck. Crawling about on the floor were several large black hairy spiders as well as some light brown scorpions, one of which was on the man’s neck.
‘Don’t go in!’ said a voice behind them.
They all turned to see Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, in a dark suit, shirt and tie, standing beside a man dressed like a bee-keeper in a hooded white protective suit, padded gloves and a large glass mask. ‘This is Dr Rearden, a reptile expert from London Zoo. He’ll deal with this.’
Public Order officers were a tough bunch, used to dealing with anything. Norman Potting had never seen them step away with such relief on their faces as when the reptile expert moved forward.
‘Be our guest!’ Potting said, as Rearden opened the glass door, went through and shut it rapidly behind him.
‘Well, look who’s in there! If it isn’t our friend, Mr Tooth!’ Grace said. ‘What a surprise! All wrapped up for me — and it isn’t even my birthday!’
117
Sunday 15 March
‘The time is 10.17 a.m., Sunday 15th March, interview with Jodie Carmichael in the presence of her solicitor, Clifford Orson,’ DS Guy Batchelor said clearly, for the benefit of the video recorder above their heads. They were in the small interview room in Sussex House. Beside him, on another hard chair with little back support, sat DS Tanja Cale, who was also a trained advanced interviewer. The first interview had taken place on Saturday afternoon to establish certain facts and the background of the defendant and for her to give an account. This second interview was to challenge some of her previous answers in light of the information subsequently discovered by the police investigation.
Both Guy and Tanja were aware that Roy Grace was watching the live video feed in the tiny observation room next door. And they were also aware that they could only keep a suspect for thirty-six hours. To keep Jodie any longer they would need to go before a magistrate and present good reasons for an extension. She had already been in custody now for just over twenty-four hours. They had until ten o’clock this evening to charge her or else come up with grounds for seeking an extension.
Across the table, littered with glasses of water and mugs of coffee, sat Jodie Carmichael, quiet and sullen, dressed in a black top and blue jeans, toying repeatedly with the chain of the locket round her neck. Beside her was her brief, a tough, sharp London solicitor from a leading criminal law practice, suited and booted and with freshly gelled hair. He spoke with a strong Brummie accent.
The two police officers were expecting a fight.
‘This is the second interview with Jodie Carmichael, née Danforth, also known as Jodie Bentley and Jemma Smith, among other possible names.’
‘Other names?’ the lawyer interjected. ‘Would you care to specify them?’
‘Not at this stage. We are carrying out investigations into your client’s background and we believe she may have used other aliases in the past.’ Then Batchelor looked at Jodie. ‘You married Christopher Bentley when you were twenty-two. Is that correct?’
She glanced at her solicitor before answering, ‘Yes.’
‘And am I correct in saying that some years into your marriage, your husband died after being bitten by a saw-scaled viper snake that he kept at home?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. It was terrible. He understood those snakes so well, and he knew their dangers.’
Batchelor went on. ‘Am I correct also that your second husband, Rowley Carmichael, died from venom from the same snake — the saw-scaled viper?’
‘According to the post-mortem report, yes.’
She pulled, theatrically, a handkerchief out of her bag.
‘Would I be correct also in saying that you currently keep several of these snakes in a room at your house in Roedean Crescent, Brighton?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Are you aware just how deadly these creatures are?’
‘Absolutely. You’d have to be a bit stupid not to be.’
‘Are you aware that a licence under the Dangerous Wild Animals Act is required to keep these creatures?’
‘I am.’
‘You told us yesterday in interview that your late husband, Christopher Bentley, had such a licence. Despite his death, you maintained the licence in his name at an unoccupied flat in South Kensington, London. May I ask why you never transferred the licence to your own name and never notified any relevant authority that you had moved these reptiles to Brighton?’
She looked at her solicitor again, who nodded that it was OK for her to answer.
‘I’ve been busy,’ she said. ‘I suppose I just haven’t got round to it yet.’
‘Busy for all those years?’ Tanja Cale asked her, with a hint of sarcasm.
‘I thought that if it was a valid licence, it didn’t matter where they were actually housed.’
‘You certainly have been busy,’ Batchelor said. ‘Let’s go back in time a little. I understand that you were present when your older sister, Cassie, died. You outlined the brief details in yesterday’s interview but could you tell us the circumstances in detail?’
‘No comment,’ her solicitor interjected.
‘No, it’s OK,’ Jodie said. ‘It was a terrible accident. Our parents had taken us over the October half-term to Cornwall. We were staying in Boscastle. Cassie and I went for a clifftop walk. She asked me to take a photograph of her at a particular high point. She stepped back right to the cliff edge. I was really worried and told her to move away. She told me I was being a wuss and instead she took a step further back. Then she stumbled and — she — she — suddenly—’ Jodie closed her eyes. ‘Oh God.’ She opened them again. ‘I’ll never forget the terrible look on her face. One second she was there, then she — she—’ Tears filled her eyes. Her voice broke. ‘She just dropped out of sight.’ She paused, apparently to compose herself, then sniffed. ‘I crawled to the edge and looked, and I could see her body down on rocks, way below. I don’t know how far. Two or three hundred feet.’