Dead Man's Footsteps

  Out of his peripheral vision he saw Cassian Pewe looking as if he had just bitten into a lemon.

  Grace knew that although his rank remained the same, covering for Jack in his absence and running HQ CID from time to time, was a big step up.

  ‘Jack, thank you. I – I’m delighted.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Is Alison Vosper OK with this?’

  ‘Leave Alison to me,’ Skerritt replied dismissively. Then he turned to Pewe. ‘Cassian, welcome aboard our team. Roy’s going to have his hands full with his extra workload, so I’d like you to start here by taking on his cold-case files – which means you will be reporting to Roy.’

  Grace was having trouble suppressing a grin. Cassian Pewe’s face was a picture. Rather like one of those television weather maps dotted with rain and thunderclouds and not a ray of sunshine in sight. Even his perma-tan seemed, suddenly, to have faded.

  The meeting ended on target, at exactly 11.30. As Grace was leaving, Cassian Pewe intercepted him in the doorway.

  ‘Roy,’ he said. ‘Alison thought it might be a good idea if I sat in with you today – at your press conference and at your evening briefing. To sort of find my feet. Get the general gist of how you do things down here. Still OK with you – in the light of what Jack’s just instructed me to do?’

  No, Grace thought. Not at all OK with me. But he didn’t say that. He said, ‘Well, I think it might be a better use of your time to familiarize yourself with my caseload. I’ll show you the cold-case files and you can make a start.’

  And then he spent a few moments thinking how very pleasant it might be to stick hot needles into Pewe’s testicles.

  But from the expression on Pewe’s face, it seemed that Jack Skerritt had just done that job for him.

  43

  OCTOBER 2007

  Grace kept the press briefing short. It was party political conference season and a lot of reporters, even if not directly interested in politics, were up in Blackpool with the Tories – who at this moment seemed likely to provide richer pickings than a skeleton in a sewer, for the nationals at any rate.

  But the Unknown Female was a good local story, particularly as the remains had been discovered beneath one of the biggest property developments ever in the city, and it had a whiff of both history in the past and history in the making. Analogies were being made to the Brighton Trunk Murders, two separate incidents in 1934 where dismembered bodies were found in trunks, earning Brighton the unwelcome sobriquet ‘Crime Capital of England’.

  One local television crew from the BBC had turned up, as did Southern Counties Radio, a young man with a video camera from a new Brighton internet television channel, Absolute Television, a couple of stringers from London papers whom Grace knew, a reporter from the Sussex Express and, of course, Kevin Spinella from the Argus.

  Although Spinella irritated him, Grace was beginning to develop a grudging respect for the young journalist. He could see that Spinella was a hard worker, like himself, and after an encounter on a previous case, when Spinella had honoured a promise to withhold some important information, he had shown himself to be a reporter the police could do business with. Some police officers viewed all press as vermin, but Grace felt differently. Almost every major crime relied on witnesses, on members of the public coming forward, on memories being jogged. If you handled the press correctly you could get them to do quite a bit of your work for you.

  With little information to give out this morning, Grace concentrated on getting a few key messages across. The age and as much description of the woman as they could give out, and an estimate of how many years she might have been down that storm drain, in the hope that a family member or friend might come forward with details of a person who had gone missing within that time frame.

  Grace had added that although the cause of death was unknown, strangulation was a possibility, and that whoever had murdered her would probably have had good local knowledge of Brighton and Hove.

  As he left the conference room, shortly before 12.30, he heard his name being called.

  Irritatingly, Kevin Spinella had taken to waylaying Grace after press conferences, cornering him in the corridor, out of earshot of the other journalists.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, could I have a quick word?’

  Roy wondered for a moment if perhaps Spinella had heard about his promotion. It should have been impossible for him to find out this quickly, but for some time now he had suspected that Spinella had an informer somewhere inside Sussex Police. He always seemed to know of any incident ahead of everyone else. At some point Roy was determined to get to the bottom of it, but that was no easy thing to do. When you started digging below the surface, you risked alienating a lot of your colleagues.

  The young reporter, as ever in a suit, shirt and tie, was looking sharper and more spruce than at his rain-soaked appearance at the site on Saturday morning.

  ‘Nothing to do with this,’ Spinella said, his teeth working on a piece of gum. ‘Just something I thought I ought to mention to you. On Saturday evening I got a call from a contact in the fire brigade – they were going into a flat in Kemp Town to rescue someone stuck in a lift.’

  ‘Boy, do you have an exciting life!’ Grace ribbed him.

  ‘Yeah, all go,’ Spinella replied earnestly, missing the barb, or deliberately ignoring it. ‘The thing is, this woman …’ He hesitated and tapped the side of his nose. ‘You got a copper’s nose, right?’

  Grace shrugged. He was always careful what he said to Spi-nella. ‘That’s what people say about police officers.’

  Spinella tapped his own nose. ‘Yeah, well, I got it too. A nose for a good story – know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grace looked at his watch. ‘I’m in a rush—’

  ‘Yeah, OK, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to alert you, that’s all. This woman they freed – late twenties, very pretty – I felt something wasn’t right.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She was very agitated.’

  ‘Not surprising if she’d been stuck in a lift.’

  Spinella shook his head. ‘Not that kind of agitated.’

  Grace looked at him for a moment. One thing he knew about local newspaper reporters was the range of stories they got sent to cover. Sudden deaths, road crashes, mugging victims, burglary victims, families of missing persons. Reporters like Spinella met agitated people all day long. Even at his relatively young age and experience, Spinella probably had learned to recognize different types of agitation. ‘OK, what kind?’

  ‘She was frightened about something. Refused to answer the door the next day when the paper sent a photographer round. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was in hiding.’

  Grace nodded. A few thoughts went through his mind. ‘What nationality?’

  ‘English. White – if I’m allowed to say that.’ He smirked.

  Ignoring the comment, Grace decided that ruled out her being an imprisoned sex slave – they were mostly from Eastern Europe and Africa. There were all kinds of possibilities. A million things could make you agitated. But being agitated wasn’t enough reason for the police to pay a call on someone.

  ‘What’s her name and address?’ he asked, then dutifully wrote down Katherine Jennings and the flat number and address on his pad. He would get someone to run it through PNC and see if the name got flagged. Other than that, all he could do was wait to see if the name appeared again.

  Then, as Roy pressed his card against the security panel to step through into the Major Incident Suite, Spinella called after him again. ‘Oh – and Detective Superintendent?’

  He turned, irritably now. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Congratulations on your promotion!’

  44

  11 SEPTEMBER 2001

  Ronnie stood in the sunshine on the empty boardwalk and checked once again that his mobile phone was switched off. Very definitely switched off. He stared ahead, past the benches and the beachfront railing, beyong the deserted golden sand, out across the expanse of rippling
ocean, at the distant pall of black and grey and orange smoke that was steadily staining the sky, turning it the colour of rust.

  He barely took any of it in. He had just realized that he had left his passport in the room safe back at his hotel. But perhaps that could be helpful. He was thinking. Thinking. Thinking. His brain was all jammed up with thoughts. Somehow he needed to clear his head. Some exercise might do it. Or a stiff drink.

  To his left the boardwalk stretched out as far as he could see. In the distance, to his right, he could see the silhouettes of the rides in the amusement park at Coney Island. Nearer, there was a messy-looking apartment building, covered in scaffolding, about six storeys high. A black dude in a leather jacket was engaged in a discussion with an Oriental-looking guy in a bomber jacket. They kept turning their heads, as if checking they weren’t being watched, and they kept looking at him. Maybe they were doing a drugs deal and thought he might be a cop. Maybe they were talking about football, or baseball, or the fucking weather. Maybe they were the only people on the fucking planet who didn’t know something had happened to the World Trade Center this morning.

  Ronnie didn’t give a shit about them. So long as they didn’t mug him they could stand there all day and talk. They could stand there until the world ended, which might be pretty damned soon, judging by the events of today so far.

  Shit. Fuck. What a day this was. What a fuck of a day to pick to be here. And he didn’t even have Donald Hatcook’s mobile phone number.

  And. And. And. He tried to shut that thought out, but it kept knocking on his door until he had to open up and let it in.

  Donald Hatcook might be dead.

  An awful lot of people might be fucking dead.

  There was a parade of shops, all with Russian signs on them, to his right, lining the boardwalk. He began walking towards them, towing his bag behind him, and then stopped when he reached a large sign in a green metal frame with an arched top, framing one of those YOU ARE HERE! maps. It was headed:

  RIEGELMANN WALKWAY. BRIGHTON BEACH. BRIGHTON 2ND STREET.

  Despite all that was going through his mind, he stopped and smiled wryly. Home from home. Sort of! It would have been fun to have someone take his photograph beside it. Lorraine would be amused. On another day, under different circumstances.

  He sat down on the bench beside the sign and leaned back in the seat, unfastened his tie, coiled it and put in his pocket. Then he opened the top button of his shirt. The air felt good on his neck. He needed it. He was shaking. Palpitating. His heart was thumping. He looked at his watch. Nearly midday. He began patting dust out of his hair and clothes and felt in need of a drink. He never normally drank in the daytime, well, not until lunchtime anyhow – most days. But a stiff whisky would slip down nicely. Or a brandy. Or even, he thought, thinking about those Russian signs, a vodka.

  He stood up, gripped the handle of his bag and carried on pulling it along behind him, listening to the steady bump-bump-bump of the wheels on the planks. He saw a sign on a shop ahead. The first shop in the parade. In blue, red and white were the words: moscow and bar. Beyond was a green awning on which was a name in yellow letters: TATIANA.

  He went into the Moscow bar. It was almost empty and felt gloomy. There was a long wooden counter to his right, with round, red leather bar stools on chromium feet, and to the left, red leather banquette seats and metal tables. A couple of men who looked like heavies from a Bond movie sat on bar stools. Their heads were shaven, they wore black, short-sleeve T-shirts and they were silently glued to a wide-screen television on the wall. Mesmerized by it.

  Shot glasses sat in front of them on the counter, along with a bottle of vodka wedged into a bed of ice in a bucket. Both held cigarettes and an ashtray filled with butts sat beside the ice bucket. The other occupants, two young hunks, both wearing expensive-looking leather jackets and sporting large rings, were seated at one banquette. They were both drinking coffee and one was smoking.

  It was a good smell, Ronnie thought. Coffee and cigarettes. Strong, Russian cigarettes. There were signs around the bar written in Cyrillic, banners and flags from football clubs, mostly English. He recognized Newcastle, Manchester United and Chelsea.

  On the screen was an image of hell on earth. No one in the bar spoke. Ronnie began watching as well; it was impossible not to. Two planes, one after the other, flying into the Twin Towers. Then each of the towers coming down. Didn’t matter how many times he saw it, each time was different. Worse.

  ‘Sir, yes?’

  Broken English. The barman was a shrimp with a fuzz of cropped black hair brushed forward, wearing a grungy apron over a denim shirt that needed ironing.

  ‘Do you have Kalashnikov vodka?’

  He looked blank. ‘Krashakov?’

  ‘Forget it,’ Ronnie said. ‘Any vodka, neat, and an espresso. You have espresso?’

  ‘Russian coffee.’

  ‘Fine.’

  The shrimp nodded. ‘One Russian coffee. Vodka.’ He walked with a stoop as if his back was hurting.

  A man was hurting on the screen. He was a bald, black guy covered in grey powder, with a clear breathing mask over his face, attached to an inflated bag. A man in a red helmet with a visor, a red face mask and a black T-shirt was urging him forward through grey snow.

  ‘So much shit!’ the shrimp said in broken English. ‘Manhattan. Unbelievable. You know about this? You know what happening?’

  ‘I was there,’ Ronnie said.

  ‘Yes? You was there?’

  ‘Get me a drink. I need that drink,’ he snapped.

  ‘I get you a drink. Don’t worry. You was there?’

  ‘Some part of that you don’t understand?’ Ronnie said.

  The barman turned away huffily and produced a vodka bottle. One of the Bond heavies turned to Ronnie and raised his glass. He was drunk and slurring his speech. ‘You know what? Thirty years ago I’d have said comrade to you. Now I say buddy. Know what I mean?’

  Ronnie raised his glass seconds after the barman put it down. ‘Not exactly, no.’

  ‘You gay or something?’ the man asked.

  ‘No, I’m not gay.’

  The man put his glass down and windmilled his arms. ‘I don’t have no problem with gays. Not that. No.’

  ‘Good,’ Ronnie said. ‘I don’t either.’

  The man broke into a grin. His teeth were terrible, Ronnie thought. It looked like he had a mouthful of rubble. The man raised his glass and Ronnie clinked it. ‘Cheers.’

  George Bush was on the screen now. He was wearing a dark suit with an orange tie, sitting at the back of a school classroom, in front of a small blackboard, and there were pictures stuck to the wall behind them. One depicted a bear with a striped scarf riding a bicycle. A man in a suit was standing over George Bush, whispering into his ear. Then the image changed to wreckage of a plane on the ground.

  ‘You’re OK,’ the man said to Ronnie. ‘I like you. You’re OK.’ He poured more vodka into his own glass, then held the bottle over Ronnie’s for a moment. He squinted, saw it was still full and set the bottle back down in the ice. ‘You should drink.’ He drained his glass. ‘Today we need to drink.’ He turned back to the screen. ‘This not real. Not possible.’

  Ronnie took a sip. The vodka burned his throat. Then, moments later, he tipped the glass back and drained it. The effect was almost instant, burning deep inside him. He poured another for himself and for his new best friend.

  They fell silent. Just watching the screen.

  After several more vodkas, Ronnie was starting to feel rather drunk. At some point he staggered off his stool, stumbled over to one of the empty booths and fell asleep.

  When he woke up, he had a blinding headache and a raging thirst. Then a sudden moment of panic.

  My bags.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Then, to his relief, he saw them, still standing where he had left them, by his vacated bar stool.

  It was 2 o’clock.

  The same people were still in the
bar. The same images were still repeating on the screen. He hauled himself back on to the bar stool and nodded at his friend.

  ‘What about the father?’ the Bond heavy said.

  ‘Yeah, why they don’t mention him?’ the other heavy said.

  ‘Father?’ the barman said.

  ‘All we hear is this Son of Bin Laden. What about the father?’

  Mayor Giuliani was now on the screen, talking earnestly. He looked calm. He looked caring. He looked like a man who had things under control.

  Ronnie’s new best friend turned to him. ‘You know Sam Colt?’

  Ronnie, who was trying to listen to Giuliani, shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘The guy invented the revolver, right?’

  ‘Ah, OK, him.’

  ‘Know what this man said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sam Colt said, Now I’ve made all men equal!’ The Russian grinned, baring his revolting teeth again. ‘Yeah? OK? Understand?’

  Ronnie nodded and ordered sparkling mineral water and coffee. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, he realized, but he had no appetite.

  Giuliani was replaced by stumbling grey ghosts. They looked like the grey ghosts he had seen earlier. A poem from way back at school suddenly came into his head. From one of his favourite writers, Rudyard Kipling. Yeah. He was the Man.

  Kipling understood about power, control, empire-building.

  If you can keep your head when all about you

  Are losing theirs …

  If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

  And treat those two impostors just the same …

  On the screen he saw a fireman weeping. His helmet was covered in grey snow and he was sitting, visor up, cradling his face in his hands.

  Ronnie leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the barman. He turned from the screen. ‘Uh huh?’

  ‘Do you have rooms here? I need a room.’

  His new best friend turned to him. ‘No flights. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Where you from anyway?’