The door was opening.

27

Monday 2 September

‘If you’re trying to sell me something, I’m not interested. OK?’

Norman Potting stared back calmly at the angry man with untidy hair standing in the doorway, dressed in a crumpled T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. ‘Must be your lucky night, sir,’ he said. ‘We’re not.’ He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Potting and Detective Sergeant Exton from the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.’

Niall Paternoster’s demeanour changed instantly. Anxiously, he blurted, ‘Have you any news of my wife? Eden? Has she turned up somewhere? Has she been found?’

‘Afraid not. Can we step into the house and have a word with you, sir?’ Potting replied.

Paternoster stepped aside to allow them in.

‘Niall Paternoster, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering your wife, Mrs Eden Paternoster. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

The man looked in total shock, Norman Potting thought. He was so stunned that he barely even noticed DS Exton stepping past him, seizing his wrists and cuffing his hands behind him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Niall said, looking genuinely bewildered. ‘This isn’t making any sense. I called you guys this morning because my wife had disappeared – and now you’re arresting me? On what grounds?’

‘Did you not hear what I just said?’ Potting asked.

He shook his head. ‘No – I—’

‘Would you like me to repeat it?’

‘Please,’ he said lamely. ‘Oh my God, is she dead? Please not, please tell me she isn’t. What’s happened? Have you found her body?’

He was crying. Potting thought, Crocodile tears?

‘We’ve not found your wife’s body, Mr Paternoster,’ he said. ‘We’re hoping you can help us with that.’

Niall shook his head, sobbing and sniffing. ‘I’m sorry, this is insane – completely ridiculous. Why would I murder her? Murder the woman I love?’

Ignoring his protestations, Potting said, ‘You will be entitled to legal representation if you don’t have your own solicitor, but I’m afraid I can’t say any more at this stage. We will now take you to the Brighton custody centre.’

‘What about the cat?’ Niall asked.

‘Cat?’ Potting queried.

‘Reggie. He’s about somewhere, probably asleep upstairs.’

‘Officers will be here and will take care of him, if you tell us what he needs.’

Niall Paternoster looked on, in even more bewilderment, as several men and women in oversuits, protective shoes, rubber gloves and face masks stood waiting on the pavement, while a uniformed officer stretched a line of blue-and-white crime scene tape across the front garden wall, pausing to let him and the two detectives leave, each officer holding an arm.

One of the men in oversuits approached, glanced at Paternoster’s wrists, and spoke to the two detectives.

‘When you book him in to custody can you have them bag the Fitbit and Apple Watch separately, and get them across to Digital Forensics ASAP?’