85

Friday 6 September

Entering the porch, Roy Grace pressed the doorbell – one of the modern ones, a Nest, with a built-in video. Even the chimes they could hear faintly sounded expensive. He half expected a butler to open the door.

A dog yapped. Followed by a man’s voice calling out, ‘Kiko! Kiko!’

Moments later the door opened a crack, then wider. A lean man in his mid-forties with an equine face, a dishevelled mop of thinning fair hair covering the front of his head, stood there. He was dressed in a T-shirt, running shorts and trainers, and clutching one of the smallest dogs Grace had ever seen – it was barely larger than a rat – to his sweaty chest. Despite his clear recent exertions, the man smelled of cologne. Staring at them without an ounce of welcome in his expression, he said flatly, ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Ned Watkins?’ Grace asked and held up his warrant card, as did his colleague. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Investigating Officer Sweeney of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘We would like to speak to your wife, Rebecca. Is she home?’ Grace said.

The dog, its eyes like wet marbles, was sizing them up.

‘What about?’ he asked.

‘Is your wife home?’ Grace repeated politely.

He hesitated then said, ‘She is, yes.’

‘We’d like to speak to her,’ Grace said.

‘Would you like to tell me what this is about?’ Ned Watkins said insistently.

‘It concerns a work colleague of hers, sir.’

‘The woman who’s gone missing?’

‘That’s correct, sir.’

He opened the door wider and stepped aside, ushering them in, still clutching the dog. Then he called out, quite stiffly, Grace noted, with no affection in his voice, ‘Becky!’

From somewhere in the house a voice, equally lacking in affection, called back, ‘Yes?’

‘It’s people from Sussex Police wanting to speak to you.’ Then he closed the door and set the dog down. It glared at Grace and Polly, yapped a couple of times, then scurried off, disappearing into a doorway.

‘OK!’ the voice called out. ‘Just on a call, be there in a sec.’

Ned Watkins looked at them both. ‘I’m just back from a run. Going to take a shower – I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Thank you, sir, we’re sorry to intrude.’

Without replying, Watkins walked down the hall and disappeared up the ornate, curved staircase at the far end.

The hall had a crisp, modern and arty feel. A polished oak floor with a black-and-white patterned runner carpet; abstract art on the grey walls; a chaise longue that looked like a giant lobster with its back hollowed out. Weird, Grace thought. Not something he’d want greeting him when he arrived home.

A woman appeared through the same doorway the dog had run into. She was barefoot, with razor-cut bleached blonde hair, dressed in stylish gym kit.

No mistaking her, Grace thought, glancing at Polly out of the corner of his eye. He recognized her instantly from the photographs Mark Taylor had sent through. An attractive, slim woman in her mid-thirties, she looked more like a model or an actress than someone who worked in a rather more mundane IT position in the insurance world.