Her husband had the time wrong?

Or he was lying?

A-B-C.

That mantra from the Murder Manual replayed in his head as it did so often when confronting a potential crime scene. Assume nothing. Believe no one. Check everything.

Grace’s phone rang. He saw on the display it was Norman Potting.

‘Need to take this,’ he said and stepped outside the office.

The DS sounded upset. ‘It’s bad news, Roy,’ he said, his voice low, almost a growl.

‘I’ll come now. Meet you in Bill’s in Lewes in thirty minutes.’

‘No, please don’t worry, I just thought you should know – in case I have to take any time out.’

‘I’m meeting you at Bill’s in thirty minutes. That’s an order!’

Roy put his head back through the door. ‘I’m sorry, mate, something’s come up. Can you deal with this and I’ll see you back at HQ.’

After Grace apologized to Edgerton and left, Branson asked her to replay all the digital recordings from 3 p.m. to 3.30 p.m. yesterday, just for belt and braces.

Half an hour later, they were still in the same place. Nothing.

Branson then asked her to play again all the footage up to 4.30 p.m. They saw a man with tousled hair, dressed in a faded T-shirt – an old Pink Floyd one – and cut-off jeans approach the front entrance and speak to Tim outside, then go in.

‘That’s the husband,’ Corinne said. ‘He came in and questioned members of staff, after which they did a thorough search for her.’

‘Could you print me off an image of him?’ Branson asked.

‘Sure, though it won’t be great quality, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s fine,’ he said.

Next, they went to her office. Branson was conscious it was Monday lunchtime and the store was busy. But Corinne was anxious to help him. Over the following hour she had the entire staff of the store come in one by one and look at the photograph of Eden Paternoster.

Each of them shook their head in turn. No one had seen this woman yesterday.

19

Monday 2 September

Bill’s was a cafe-restaurant, occupying a corner site on cobbled Cliffe High Street in Lewes, the county town of East Sussex. It had a green-and-white frontage, flanked by outside tables beneath its awnings. As Roy Grace arrived there at 1.45, with the lunchtime rush tailing off, he was pleased to see several tables free. He chose an end one, well spaced from the next table, which was also unoccupied, and sat down.

He pulled out his phone to check his messages, but before he had a chance, he saw the bulky figure of Norman Potting lumbering towards him. He stood to shake his colleague’s hand. Usually irrepressibly cheerful, Potting looked gloomy. ‘Thanks, chief,’ he said, pulling up the chair opposite and lowering his frame onto it.

A waitress appeared. Potting ordered an Americano with hot milk and Grace a tuna sandwich and sparkling water. Potting didn’t want any food.

‘Tell me?’ Grace said.