Grace stood up. ‘OK, I’m going to go out to my car, for privacy, and call Cleo. I think I’m ready.’

Branson took his hand in his and crushed it. ‘Good luck, mate. I’m thinking of you all.’

Grace turned away, unable to face him, not wanting him to see his tears again.

63

Wednesday 4 September

Niall Paternoster sat in the front passenger seat of the Skoda Superb taxi owned by his pal, Mark Tuckwell, as they drove out through the gates of the Brighton custody centre. It was 11.15 a.m.

‘Been a bad boy, have you?’ Tuckwell, a relaxed, good-natured man of thirty-five, jested.

‘That’s not funny – I don’t know what’s going on. They reckon I’ve offed Eden.’

‘And have you?’

‘Do I look like a murderer?’

Tuckwell was nonplussed. ‘Did Dr Harold Shipman or Ted Bundy?’

‘Thanks a lot, mate. Thought I might count on you for a bit of sympathy.’

‘Not if I’m driving a fugitive from justice!’

‘You are not driving a bloody fugitive.’

‘So what’s happened, talk me through it.’ Tuckwell grinned. ‘What weapon did you use?’

‘I’m not in a mood for joking, really I’m not, all right? Two sleepless nights in a cell – Jesus – I’m not surprised people confess to shit they haven’t done, just to get it over with. So, OK, right, Sunday we go out for a drive – Eden and me – we both like going to stately homes – National Trust places, that kind of thing. It’s something to do – and something to dream about, right?’

‘Dream about their heating bills and the cost of their roof repairs, you mean?’

Paternoster tutted. ‘We actually have the vision to look beyond that. When we go to these places, I’m looking for ideas, inspiration, right? I want inspiration for the kind of house I’m going to buy when my new business comes good and my first million rolls in.’

‘So until then, when are you going to open 507 Nevill Road to the public? Will you be serving cream teas? What attractions will you have in the grounds – a safari park?’

‘Haha.’

Paternoster stared for some moments through the windscreen, appreciating his freedom; appreciating being away from the confines and tedium of his cell and from feeling, in just that brief time, almost immediately institutionalized. It was a fine day. He’d barely seen any daylight since Monday.

‘You’ve got a nice back garden – maybe make it a dinosaur theme park?’

‘Will you stop this? I’m in serious crap, Mark, OK? I need your wisdom, not your rubbish humour. Seriously. Please?’

Tuckwell braked as they joined the rear of a queue of traffic on the slip road. He shook his head. ‘Tell you what, how long have we known each other?’

‘Since Year Ten?’

‘Pretty much – so – over twenty years. In all that time, all you’ve ever done is dream, you’re always wanting something more, something better than you have.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’