‘His wife, Eden, is the one with the money, here, you told me?’ Cleo said.

‘Yes.’

‘Sounds very straightforward to me,’ Cleo said. ‘He murdered his partner in Australia, netted some loot and came to England. Found himself a wife with some assets, then did the same again. A pattern?’

‘On the face of it, yes. But there are some anomalies that don’t fit. Cassian Pewe wants an update tomorrow, should be interesting.’

‘When is he going to be—?’ She made a cut-throat gesture.

‘Any time now – the wheels of internal investigations by Professional Standards grind slowly, if thoroughly, especially when two different forces are involved. It will happen and it will be very sweet. But until then I still have to kowtow to the corrupt creep.’

‘I don’t know how you do it.’

Grace smiled. ‘Remember when you were a small child, what it felt like going to bed on Christmas Eve? Waiting for your stocking to arrive? Waiting for Christmas Day? All that excitement? That’s pretty much how I’m feeling. Or I was, until dear Bruno.’

He looked around the room, then continued. ‘Mr Greenhaisen talked about including some of Bruno’s favourite things in the funeral. His music, toys, his passions.’

‘His Munich football team,’ Cleo said, glancing down at the bedspread.

‘Definitely,’ Grace said. ‘What else?’

‘Something else that he loved,’ Cleo said. ‘Maybe his favourite toy, his Porsche? And a photo of his mum?’

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Let’s do that.’ He kissed her and stood up. Stared around the room sadly. ‘Life sucks sometimes, doesn’t it? Let’s go and eat that food.’

‘Yeah, good idea. You know, I heard a quote today that I love, from the author Chuck Palahniuk, about how it’s hard to forget pain, but harder to remember happiness – because we don’t have scars for happiness.’

For some moments it sent Roy Grace spiralling back into memories of Sandy. The good times. The good years. No scars to show for that.

But plenty of scars since her disappearance and all that had happened subsequently. Scars, he knew, that would be with him for life.

88

Friday 6 September

There were scars that Eden Paternoster would have all her life. They were on her left arm, both above and below the elbow. She’d had severe bruises and fractures to her arm and two ribs after Niall had punched her in a drunken rage in her swollen abdomen, sending her hurtling backwards down the stairs. She had seen flashes of his frightening temper before, with him lashing out physically at his supposed friends, but it was on that night that Eden had first suspected Niall was capable of killing her.

They’d planned to have an early meal that summer evening as Eden had a horribly early start to drive to a sales conference in North London in the morning. Instead – and not unusually, in those months following the start of his business decline – the loss of a major printing contract after a disagreement and the banks threatening to foreclose his loans – Niall, railing at the injustices of the world, had arrived home from the pub. It was just after 10 p.m. and he was drunk and abusive – and hungry.