The Devil’s Dice: The most gripping crime thriller of 2018 – with an absolutely breath-taking twist. Roz Watkins
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to get control of himself and pointedly relaxed back into his chair, but if he was a dog, you would not approach. Jai scribbled something in his notes.
‘What about his charging?’ I said. ‘Were you concerned about that?’
‘Not really. He’d charged out fewer hours recently but it’s normal to have ups and downs.’ He had himself back inside the cocoon, firmly zipped up.
‘So, was there anything else you noticed?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
I fought a wave of annoyance. He was giving us nothing.
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?’
‘No, of course not. But surely it was suicide?’
*
‘I remembered something else,’ Wendy said. We were in Reception arranging a meeting with Edward Swift, the teensy bit autistic other partner, who was working from home. ‘It’s probably not relevant, but a man came here one lunchtime last week asking for Peter. Rather an odd man.’
‘Odd in what way?’ I said.
‘He was wearing a straw boater hat which was very inappropriate, and he had on a floppy coat like tramps wear and shoes that looked too big. He looked like a tramp in fact. And he definitely smelt like a tramp.’
‘And he wasn’t a client?’
She smiled. ‘No. I mean we do get some clients who look like tramps, but he wasn’t one of them. He said his name was Sebastian. I remembered because of Brideshead Revisited. I loved that on the television. Anyway, Peter came down and hurried him out. I heard him say he shouldn’t have come here.’
‘What did you think they were up to?’
‘I really had no idea. He seemed a funny sort of person for Peter to be spending time with. And Peter was angry. He was trying to hide it but I could tell by the colour of his face.’
‘I bet he’s a shit if you get on the wrong side of him.’
I’d been right. Jai was not a fan of Felix Carstairs. I pulled out of the car park and set off towards Edward Swift’s house. He lived in a much resented new development a few miles south of Eldercliffe.
‘Murderous type of shit?’ I said. ‘Or just your common-or-garden one?’
‘Hard to tell. But if he did murder you, I reckon he’d do it neatly and competently, with no excessive emotion involved.’
‘What, you mean like poisoning in a cave, for example?’
‘That kind of thing. Although with colleagues like Felix Carstairs and clients like that woman in reception, maybe the poor bastard did top himself after all.’
We arrived at Edward Swift’s house – a mock Georgian hunk of a building, squatting at the end of a curved driveway, in a gated complex of similar houses like something from Desperate Housewives.
‘I’ll lead on this one,’ I said. ‘I’m used to strange, slightly autistic types.’
Jai laughed. ‘I’m glad your Oxbridge education wasn’t wasted.’
We pulled up in the expansive parking area and headed for the pretentious, columned entrance. The door opened and a hefty, well-groomed woman took a step towards us. She had the look of someone scaring off raccoons. When she saw our ID, her face softened but it looked fake-soft, like quick-setting concrete.
‘DI Meg Dalton and DS Jai Sanghera,’ I said. ‘Here to see Edward Swift.’
Her cheek twitched. ‘Oh yes. He won’t like being disturbed. He’s doing an urgent draft.’ She had an American accent with a southern twang.
‘We know. Are you his wife?’
‘Yes. Grace Swift.’ She stood stiffly as if wondering whether to let us into the house. Then she relaxed. ‘Sorry, come in, come in. So sad about Peter. What a terrible thing to happen. Edward’s in his office. I’m just with the children in the living room. Actually, I know Alex would love to meet you, if you have a moment?’
‘Alex?’
‘Our son. We home-school him. And he’s decided he wants to be a detective when he grows up.’
‘Right.’ Him and half the other kids in the land. ‘We’ll need to talk to your husband first, then if we’ve got time, we’ll have a chat with Alex.’ I could feel unenthusiastic vibes emanating from Jai, but I thought it was always best to keep wives on side – they often knew more about their husbands’ lives than the husbands themselves did. Besides, Jai was the kid-expert. He had two of his own.
We stepped into a hallway the approximate size of my house. A child of about ten bounced into view. He had spectacularly orange hair and the luminous skin that so often went with that look. ‘Mum! I’ve finished my calculus. Can we do—’ He stopped abruptly and stared at us as if we were biological specimens.
Jai spoke first. ‘Alright, mate?’
The child gave him an uncertain look.
‘Alex, these people are detectives,’ Grace said. ‘They’ve agreed to have a little chat with you if they have time, after they’ve spoken to Dad.’
The child had a bird-like fragility. If he had the misfortune of being good at maths as well as ginger, he’d be the main prey-animal in the playground. Maybe home-schooling made sense. ‘I’m going to be on next year’s Child Genius!’ he said.
I winced as if I’d been caught out. The programme had been a guilty pleasure for me, watching with wine in hand, booing at the most horrible parents. The children were pitted against one another like fighting cocks, trying to win the title of Britain’s cleverest child.
‘Oh,’ I said weakly. ‘Make sure you find time to play outside with your friends as well.’
A flash of annoyance crossed Grace’s face before it reverted to the placid mumsy look. ‘This way,’ she said.
We followed her into a vast kitchen complete with granite worktops, slate floor and the aroma of fresh bread. It was the kind of kitchen you see in those awful, aspirational homes magazines at the dentist, the ones designed to make you dissatisfied with your perfectly adequate house – if indeed you have an adequate house, which I didn’t.
Grace installed us at the table and asked if we wanted coffee. I nodded and she popped a sparkling burgundy capsule into a sleek, black machine.
‘I know they’re an ecological disaster, but…’ She looked round and shrugged. I shrugged back – the shrug that defined the whole of Western civilisation.
She presented us with coffee, disappeared from the room, and reappeared a few moments later. ‘He’s outside staring at his fish. Would you like to go out or shall I bring him in?’
Jai and I exchanged a look. ‘Staring at fish?’ I said. ‘I thought he had urgent work to do.’
‘It’s based on the optimum efficiency of the human mind. He works for a set time, takes a short break, walks, works, stares at his fish. He has a timetable mapped out so he operates at peak performance. He’s a wonderfully diligent and organised man.’
‘Wow. Okay.’
‘Here he is.’
A man stepped through an open patio door from a bright garden and approached the kitchen table, notepad and pen in hand, as if he’d come to interview us. He had a startled look, with prominent raised eyebrows above pale blue eyes, and light blond hair with just a hint of his son’s ginger. ‘Can we be quick?’ he said. ‘I have some urgent drafting to do.’
Grace