‘Uh-huh.’

‘Biggsy in Traffic told me it’s because people always drive at what they’re looking at. You lose control on a bend and you see you’re skidding straight towards a tree, so you stare at the tree – and whoomph! You drive straight at it and hit it. If you’d stared past it instead, you’d have missed it.’

‘That so?’

Grace nodded. ‘Another thing a trauma specialist once told me is that the worst thing you can hit is a tree.’

‘Why’s that?’ Branson said, taking a sharp bend at a speed that nearly defied the laws of physics, as Grace warily eyed a very large beech ahead.

‘He said, always hit a wall, because that’ll collapse. But hit a tree and what that does is absorb the impact and then give it all straight back to you.’

‘You’d rather I hit a wall than a tree?’

‘Mate, can you just slow down, for Christ’s sake? I’d prefer neither.’

Fifteen minutes later, at a quarter to four, Glenn Branson pulled up the silver, unmarked Ford in Nevill Road, in front of the Paternosters’ house. Nodding at the Greyhound Stadium opposite, he asked, ‘Ever been to the dogs?’

Grace nodded. ‘Yep, last year Cleo and I went – I was asked to present the prizes for an evening that was fundraising for the Sussex Police Charitable Trust.’

‘Did you have a punt?’

‘I thought it would be polite – and it was for a good cause.’

‘How did you do?’

‘We were put at a table with a CSI who breeds racing greyhounds as a hobby. He gave me a tip – always bet on one you see having a dump before the race.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yep,’ Grace said.

‘Yeah? And?’

‘Lost every sodding race.’

Branson laughed. ‘Shit happens.’

‘Or maybe it didn’t.’

21

Monday 2 September

Roy Grace and Glenn Branson got out of the car and walked up to the Paternosters’ front door. The top half was frosted glass. Grace pressed the bell and heard musical chimes. Followed by the miaow of a cat.

They waited.

After several seconds, Grace rang again. A shadow appeared behind the glass, then the door opened, just a few inches. A male voice commanded, ‘Back! Back, Reggie!’

The door opened wider and they saw an unshaven, tired-looking man in his thirties with muscular arms, wearing denim shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops. He was stooping, holding a grey Burmese cat. On one wrist, Grace noticed, he wore an Apple Watch and on the other a Fitbit.

Looking up at them, he said, ‘Sorry, can’t let him out the front – the last one got run over and I was to blame.’

‘Mr Niall Paternoster?’ Grace asked.

‘Yes.’

Grace held up his warrant card and introduced himself and Branson.

Niall gave a smile. ‘Detective Superintendent? Major Crime Team? So, you’ve not palmed some junior lackey off on this?’ Then he hesitated as a thought seemed to strike him, and his face fell. ‘Oh my God – have you found her? Is that what—?’