Gecko looked up at him. ‘You’ve got the wrong guy, officer. I found this dog wandering on the street. I’m taking it to Raystede, the animal charity rescue centre.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  The officer tapped his stab vest. ‘Know who I am?’

  Gecko shook his head.

  ‘I’m the Pope.’

  97

  Wednesday 31 March

  ‘Maybe we should pray,’ Chris said, seated beside Katy in the Relatives Room, head in his hands. His words sounded like they were dropping into a void.

  There was no response from Katy.

  After a few moments he shrugged. ‘You know, ask God to help us – to make this work and save Bluebell.’

  There was a long silence before she responded. ‘When did you last pray? I don’t mean kneeling in church at a wedding or funeral, mumbling into your hands – when did you last really pray – properly pray – to a God you believed in?’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Honestly? I don’t remember. Maybe when I was ten. Perhaps a little older.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  He remained with his head in his hands. ‘It probably sounds really shallow. I was a good sprinter, always used to win the 100 metres at every school sports day. But there was this guy, David Browne, who used to win all the other distances and the hurdles and the long jump. Every year. I asked God to let me beat him just once, just for this sports day when my grandparents were coming, and I wanted them to be super proud of me. You know what happened?’

  ‘I can guess.’

  ‘He beat me at the 100 metres, which he’d never done before, and as usual, everything else.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought about it afterwards. Maybe David Browne had prayed too, and God had to decide between us – and went with him. It’s like the farmer and the organizer of an outdoor charity concert, isn’t it? The farmer’s praying for rain for his crops, the concert guy is praying for it to be fine. Who does God choose – He can’t answer both requests, can He? So, what the hell was the point in prayer, I thought. I’ve never prayed again.’

  ‘But you’re suggesting doing it now?’ Katy said bleakly.

  Chris looked at his watch. An hour since Bluebell had gone into theatre. ‘What about you – when did you last pray?’

  She shook her head. ‘You know my dad. His whole view on religion is about whose imaginary friend is better than the other. My mother had faith. All the way through the breast cancer that killed her at forty-two, she held her faith.’

  They sat in charged silence for some moments.

  Then Chris stood up and paced around the tiny room. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry, Katy, I’m so sorry. This is all my bloody fault.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You weren’t keen when Bluebell wanted a puppy. I was the one who thought it would be great for her to have another pet to look after, and wonderful to have another dog, because we missed our dear Phoebe. You were hesitant, because you thought she’d probably get bored of it, and we’d be the ones ending up looking after it.’

  Katy reached out a hand and gently touched his leg. ‘It’s not your fault at all. I went along with it, I agreed, I wanted us to have another dog, too. If anyone’s to blame it’s me, for ignoring all the RSPCA guidelines and thinking it was a good idea to look online for a puppy.’

  He sat back down and put his arm around his wife. ‘It’s going to work, Katy, what they’re doing. I trust Dr Pallant and Dr Shah. It is going to work, it is.’

  ‘It works for very few.’

  ‘Yep, well it’s going to work for Bluebell because she’s one in a million!’

  She stared ahead. ‘I wish I could share your optimism, but we need to get real, darling, manage our expectations – God, I hate that phrase.’

  ‘It’s not about managing expectations,’ he said. ‘It’s about being positive. We need to think positively for her. We need to believe.’

  ‘I just keep thinking about all the stuff Dr Shah and Dr Pallant told us. That if she doesn’t die, she might have so much brain damage she’d just be a—’ She hesitated, unable to say the word. ‘One moment I think, yes, she’s going to be one of that twenty per cent, then next I think we’re grasping at sodding straws and need to get real.’

  He turned to her, put his hands either side of her face and held it tightly. ‘My darling, I hear you. This protocol may have saved the lives of only a few victims, but it saved them! It wasn’t a miracle. I don’t think you believe in miracles and I sure as hell don’t. But I do believe in science and medicine. This is going to work. It is. It bloody well is.’

  Katy looked back at him. ‘I wish I could believe you. I wish it more than anything, ever.’

  ‘I do, too,’ he said.

  ‘She’s going to be in a coma for days or even weeks. And then, if she survives that it will be at least another week to two weeks before we know if—’ Katy said.

  ‘If it’s worked?’ Chris finished the sentence for her.

  She nodded. ‘If she’s going to have any quality of life.’

  They were both silent for a short while. Chris looked at his watch again: 10.30 a.m. This little room, with its bright colours and posters on the wall and hard furniture, was feeling right now like the loneliest place on earth.

  98

  Wednesday 31 March

  Roy Grace felt strangely nostalgic passing his old stomping ground, as he turned into the approach to the Brighton Custody Centre, on the Hollingbury industrial estate. He pulled up in front of the tall green gate with spikes that meant business along the top.

  To his left was the three-storey rectangular building, Sussex House, the former CID headquarters, where he had spent over ten years of his service in the police. A few years back, budget cuts had forced the sale of the building, and the Major Crime Team had been shoehorned into the old dormitory buildings of the Sussex Police HQ at Lewes, where there was not enough parking, and no convenient ASDA superstore two minutes across the road.

  Glenn Branson, beside him, said, ‘I miss this building. Funny, isn’t it. We all hated it at the time with its crap air-con and heating, but I’d move back in a heartbeat if we had the option.’

  Grace smiled. ‘And me.’

  The gate slid open and he drove the Alfa up the steep ramp into the custody block enclosure, parking well clear of the doors of the receiving bays for newly arrested suspects.

  Inside, in the large reception area, all was typically calm for an afternoon, mid-week. A world-weary custody sergeant was seated in an elevated position at the futuristic custody desk, from which he could look down at all suspects being booked in. The height made it near-on impossible for anyone to vault it and assault a custody officer, and, Grace knew, it had the dual effect of intimidating any suspect being processed here.

  There was just one at the moment, a thin man, with crew-cut hair and heavily tattooed, in a baggy tracksuit and filthy trainers. He looked like he had come ready-dressed for prison, Grace thought wryly. The suspect’s uniformed arresting officer stood behind him.

  It had been a long while since he had last been in here, normally leaving interviews of newly arrested suspects to members of his team. But Grace was on a fact-finding mission and wanted to see what – if anything – he could get from Gecko about John Peat and Appletree and Long Acre farms.

  The detectives were led by a custody officer to one of the small, windowless interview rooms on the far side of the reception area. Entering, they saw two men, Gecko and his solicitor, Paul Donnelley, seated side by side at the metal table, facing them.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Grace said. They sat down opposite them, Grace facing Gecko, who was wearing an olive sweatshirt beneath a padded puffer.

  He viewed Donnelly’s presence with mixed feelings. In his experience, on-call solicitors fell into two brackets. The Government’s Legal Aid payment tariff was so low that the majority of these lawyers ended up, despite all their experience, earning less than the minimum wage on the cases they were obliged to take on. For some, in Grace’s view, it was all they deserved, because they were too rubbish at their job to ever make a higher grade.

  But others, like Donnelley, were different. These were intelligent people who could have made vast salaries practising a different kind of legal work – such as corporate law in London – but chose instead to dedicate their entire careers to helping some of life’s underdogs.

  Smartly suited, with receding grey hair and a poker face, Paul Donnelley was one of the latter. The solicitor, in his late forties, had a confident, authoritative and calm, but almost avuncular presence. He would have looked equally at home as a bank manager or even a school headmaster. Much though Grace viewed lawyers as the enemy, he had a sneaking admiration for the dedication of ones like Donnelley.

  Dispensing with any introduction, he leaned forward and pressed the record button. ‘The time is 2.45 p.m. Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson interviewing Marion Willingham in the presence of his solicitor, Paul Donnelley.’ Looking at each of them, he asked, ‘Would you please state your names for the recording?’

  ‘Paul Donnelley,’ the solicitor said.

  The Detective Superintendent indicated for Gecko to speak. In response, he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue partially out. Grace momentarily recoiled in disgust as he saw a large fly stuck to it. An instant later, Gecko closed his mouth and made a swallowing motion.

  ‘On a high-protein diet, are you?’ Branson quipped.

  Grace watched Gecko’s eyes carefully. ‘Marion Willingham, are you sometimes known as Gecko?’ Grace asked.

  The man stared insolently back at him and said nothing.

  Sensibly, Donnelley interjected. ‘I can confirm my client is referred to by that name.’

  ‘When you were booked in, a Rolex watch you were wearing was taken from you. I have it here.’ Grace showed him a plastic exhibit bag containing the watch. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Is this relevant, Detective Superintendent?’ Donnelly interjected.

  ‘It is.’

  Gecko said, with an insolent smile, ‘Family heirloom – was me dad’s.’

  His body language indicated what Grace already knew, that he was lying. ‘Are you sure you didn’t steal it from Brighton Antique and Modern Watch Co, last Thursday?’

  ‘What does this have to do with why my client has been arrested?’ Donnelley demanded.

  ‘Quite a lot,’ Grace answered. ‘If you’d like to see the CCTV footage from inside the jeweller’s I can show it to you now?’

  The solicitor shook his head.

  Grace then arrested and cautioned Gecko on suspicion of robbery. ‘I’ll rephrase my question,’ Grace said to Gecko. ‘Did you steal that watch, along with a Verbalise talking watch, from Brighton Antique and Modern Watch Co in East Street, Brighton, last Thursday at approximately 5 p.m.?’

  Donnelly leaned across and whispered to his client.

  ‘No comment,’ Gecko answered.

  It was the response Grace always hated in suspect interviews. But today he was ready for it. ‘I really think you and your client should take a look at the CCTV from inside the shop,’ he said and turned to Branson, who leaned down, pulled his laptop out of his bag, and set it on the table. Turning the screen so that both Donnelley and Gecko could see it, the DI hit the keys and a video began to play.

  The resolution wasn’t perfect but was good enough. It showed a man, dressed almost identically to how Gecko was now, wearing a black beanie pulled low down his forehead and a scarf, enter the shop.

  It was clearly Gecko.

  They then watched the rest of the sequence, as the assistant appeared and passed him a watch. There was some conversation. The assistant and proprietor bent down behind the counter, then they popped back up and Gecko appeared to have put something in his mouth. He opened his mouth and the two men backed away. The assistant jumped over the counter, Gecko punched him in the face and then ran off with two watches.

  Glenn Branson froze the recording.

  Grace looked quizzically at Gecko. ‘Has that jogged your mind at all? Was that you in the Antique and Modern Watch Co in East Street, Brighton, last Thursday at approximately 5 p.m.?’

  ‘Fake news,’ Gecko said.

  ‘That’s what you really think, Marion?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Just cos I look different. Fake news,’ he replied again.

  Grace tried another tack. ‘Marion, because you are under arrest – on suspicion of the theft of dogs and of two watches – we are entitled to search your residence.’

  ‘Elvira won’t like that,’ he blurted.

  ‘Is Elvira your girlfriend, Marion?’ Grace went on.

  Gecko did not reply.

  ‘You often stay over at her house, right?’

  ‘No comment,’ he said.

  ‘Elvira’s partially sighted, isn’t she? Is she wearing the watch you stole for her, Marion?’ Grace pressed, and glanced at Donnelley, half expecting him to say something, but he was impassive.

  ‘Didn’t steal it, bought it on eBay,’ he replied.

  ‘So, you’ll have the transaction history on your computer, will you?’

  Gecko stared back at him defiantly.

  ‘I’m very flattered,’ Donnelley said laconically, ‘as I’m sure my client is, that he is being interviewed for relatively minor offences by the head of the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team and his deputy, when ordinarily we might expect a lower-ranking pair of interviewers. Is there a negotiation to be had here, possibly?’

  Grace smiled at him. ‘You know I can’t influence a judge.’

  ‘But you can put in a good word for my client,’ Donnelley came back at him.

  ‘Indeed. Personally, and off the record, I’m not just interested in your client’s theft of the watches. I’m also at this moment not just interested in the multiple thefts of dogs from around the Brighton and Hove area, including my own family pet, in which he is the prime suspect. I would like to know his involvement – if any – with Terry Jim at Appletree Farm in East Sussex, and with his son, Dallas, at Long Acre Farm. If he’s willing to cooperate with information, I would be very happy to talk to the Crown Prosecution Service to let them know that your client has cooperated and this can be brought to the attention of the judge who will deal with him, but obviously we can give no guarantees.’

  ‘Understood. Give me five minutes with my client.’

  Grace and Branson left the room.

  99

  Wednesday 31 March

  Despite Dr Shah’s attempts to assure them that Bluebell would be aware of nothing for the next few days, Katy was feeling torn between staying at the hospital, to be close to her, and dealing with a couple of her very vulnerable clients to whom she felt a duty of care. Khalid had managed to get adjournments on both their court hearings, but both were at risk from abuse by their spouses, which was playing on her mind. She asked Khalid to check up on them with a call and see if they were OK.

  Throughout the rest of today, and through the night, the anaesthetist, Kyle Dougherty, would steadily be introducing doses of ketamine and other paralysing agents, suppressing Bluebell’s brain until it was almost completely shut down – effectively switched off. The medical team were following the strict protocol, attempting to stop the rabies virus which had installed itself in her brain from being able to send any instructions to other parts of her body, where it was also installed. And then let Bluebell’s natural immune system set to work and destroy the virus. And hope against hope that during this highly dangerous procedure Bluebell did not go into cardiac arrest.

  As she drove, in slow traffic, past the Peace statue she tried to focus back on her clients. But it was impossible. She kept being drawn back to Bluebell. To Doctors Shah and Pallant.

  And the statistics.

  Thirty per cent of rabies victims went into cardiac arrest and died during the process of inducing the coma. Another thirty per cent died from cardiac arrest during the following days when their immune systems were battling the virus. And another twenty per cent came out of the coma with severe brain damage.

  Suddenly, a quote she had heard years ago and which she had always loved, popped into her mind. It was from Martin Luther, a German priest who had died in the sixteenth century. Even if I knew the world would end tomorrow, I would still plant my apple tree.

  Hope.

  Always keep that hope.

  Bluebell was the apple tree that she and Chris had planted in this ever-uncertain world.

  100

  Thursday 1 April

  Roy Grace, digital clicker in one hand, laser pen in the other, stood below a large, wall-mounted screen in the HQ staff canteen, which could hold 200 people. There were thirty-five police officers currently seated on the rows of fold-up chairs put out for this briefing. It was being held here because the conference room in the Major Crime Suite was not big enough to accommodate the teams he had assembled for raids on Appletree and Long Acre farms, the following morning.

  He was flanked on one side by Glenn Branson and on the other by the ACC, Hannah Robinson, who was there to show her support for Roy and demonstrate by her presence the magnitude and importance of tomorrow’s operation. She was also there to apprise the Police and Crime Commissioner so that she wouldn’t be caught unawares in the morning.

  Maps on whiteboards either side of the screen showed aerial images of the two farms. On a third whiteboard were large photographs of a Ford Ranger pickup truck and an older-model Range Rover. On the fourth were photographs of Terry and Dallas Jim.

  Grace glanced at his watch. A few minutes past two. He waited for the last few stragglers to come in and sit down. In addition to his Major Crime Team members, a sea of mostly uniformed officers, of all shapes and sizes, faced him. There were the elite Public Order officers, highly trained for riots, for putting in doors and carrying out arrests, all of them there because they were tough as nails and loved few things more than getting into a good bundle. The rest included Armed Response Unit supervisors, drone operators, dog handlers and search officers. There was also a member of the police media team, taking notes for briefings to the press and media which would be given after the raids. The RSPCA also had officers present to deal with any animals that might be found at the premises.