Dead Man's Footsteps

He realized, also, that he had left more stuff behind in his room at the W. His plane tickets, as well as his passport, and some of his underwear. But instead of being concerned, he was rather pleased.

  He looked down at his mobile phone, checking for the thousandth time that it was switched off. Getting paranoid that it might, somehow, of its own volition, have switched itself back on. That suddenly Lorraine’s voice would be on the other end, screaming with joy or, more likely, cursing him for not having called her.

  He saw something scurrying across the carpet. It was a dark brown roach, about half an inch long. He knew that cockroaches were among the few creatures that could survive a nuclear war. They had reached perfection through evolution. Survival of the fittest.

  Yep, well, he was pretty fit too. And now that his plan was taking shape, he knew exactly what his first step was going to be.

  He walked over to the waste bin and removed the plastic bag that lined it. Then he took the red folder from his briefcase and dropped it in, figuring he was unlikely to be mugged for the contents of a plastic bag. He was well aware of the risk he had run towing his briefcase and suitcase all this way. He stopped and listened. The item of news he was most interested in was now coming up on the television. The repeated information that all non-military flights in and out of America were grounded. Indefinitely.

  Perfect.

  He pulled on his jacket and left the room.

  It was 6.45. Dusk was beginning to fall, but it was still broad daylight as the walked along, swinging the carrier bag at his side, retracing his steps to the busy main street with the L-Train overpass.

  He still hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, but he wasn’t hungry. He had a job to do first.

  To his relief, Mail Box City was still open. He crossed the street and went in. To his right was the floor-to-ceiling wall of metal safe-deposit boxes. At the far end, the same long-haired man he had seen earlier was busy on one of several internet terminals. Two empty phone booths were beyond him. To Ronnie’s left, three people were queuing at the counter. The first, a man in a white hard hat and dungarees, held out a strange-looking passbook and was receiving a wad of banknotes. Behind him stood a grim-faced old woman in a denim skirt, and behind her was a strung-out girl with long orange hair who kept looking around with blank, glazed eyes, rotating her hands every few moments.

  Ronnie joined the queue behind her. Five minutes later the grizzled man behind the counter handed him a key as thin as a razor blade, and a slip of paper, in exchange for fifty dollars. ‘Thirty-one,’ he said in guttural English, and jerked a finger. ‘One week. You come back, otherwise open box. Take. Understand?’

  Ronnie nodded and looked at the slip of paper. The date and time, down to the minute, were printed on it. Along with the expiry date.

  ‘No drugs.’

  ‘Understood.’

  The man gave him a long, sad stare, his demeanour softening suddenly. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yep, I’m OK.’

  The man nodded. ‘Crazy. Crazy today. Why they do this to us? It’s crazy, yes?’

  ‘Crazy.’

  Ronnie turned away, found his deposit box and unlocked it. It was deeper than he had imagined. He slid his package in, then glanced around to make sure no one was observing him, closed the door and locked it. He had a sudden thought and went back to the counter. Having paid for thirty minutes’ internet connection time, he sat down at a terminal and logged on to Hotmail.

  Five minutes later he was all set up. He had a new name, a new email address. This was the start of his new life.

  And now, he realized, he was ravenous. He left the store and went in search of a burger and fries. And a gherkin. For some reason, he suddenly could have killed for a gherkin. And fried onions. Ketchup. The works. And a Coke.

  Champagne would come later.

  56

  OCTOBER 2007

  ‘Come in,’ Alison Vosper said, in response to the knock on her door.

  Cassian Pewe had selected his clothes carefully for this meeting. His sharpest blue suit, his best white shirt, his favourite tie, pale blue and white geometrics. And he had sprayed on so much Calvin Klein Eternity cologne he smelled like he had been marinated in the stuff.

  You could always tell when you really connected with someone, and Pewe knew that he had with this particular lady Assistant Chief Constable from the very first time they met. It was at a Metropolitan Police conference on counter-terrorism and the Islamic threat in Britain’s cities back in January. He had sensed more than a frisson of sexuality between them. He was quite sure that the reason she had so enthusiastically and proactively encouraged his move to the Sussex CID – and championed his promotion to Detective Superintendent – was because she had extracurricular activities in mind.

  Quite understandably, of course. He knew just how attractive to women he was. And throughout his career to date, he had always focused on the women in power in the police force. Not all were malleable; in fact some were as steely as their male counterparts, if not more so. But a fair percentage were normal women, intelligent and strong, but with emotional vulnerabilities. You just had to press the right buttons.

  Which made the coldness of the ACC’s reaction as he entered her office all the more surprising.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said, without looking up from the array of morning papers fanned out on her desk like a poker hand. ‘Or perhaps I should say, “Take a pew.”’

  ‘Oh, that’s very witty,’ Pewe cooed.

  But no smile cracked her icy expression. Seated behind her huge rosewood desk, she continued reading an article in the Guardian, holding him at bay with her elegantly manicured hand.

  He eased himself down into the black leather armchair. Although it was four months since the taxi he had been travelling in had been T-boned by a stolen van, fracturing his left leg in four places, it was still painful to stand for prolonged periods of time. But he kept that to himself, not wanting to risk his future career chances by being marked as a semi-invalid.

  Alison Vosper continued reading. Pewe looked at the framed photographs of her husband, a burly, shaven-headed police officer several years older than her, and her two children, boys in school uniform wearing rather goofy spectacles.

  Several framed certificates bearing her name hung on the walls, along with a couple of old Brighton prints, one of the racecourse, the other of the long-gone chain pier.

  Her phone rang. She leaned forward and stared at the display, then hoisted it from its cradle, barked, ‘I’m in a meeting, call you back,’ replaced it and continued reading. ‘So, how are you getting on?’ she asked suddenly, still reading.

  ‘So far, great.’

  She glanced up and he tried to hold and maintain eye contact, but, almost immediately, she looked down at something else on another part of her desk. She reached over, picked up and then shuffled through some sheets of typewritten papers, a report of some kind, as if she was trying to find something. ‘I understand you’ve been allocated cold cases?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was dressed in a short, tight-fitting black jacket over a white, Mandarin-collared blouse, which was closed at the neck by an opal in a silver clasp. Her breasts, which he had fantasized about, were almost flattened. Then she looked at him and smiled. A long, almost come-on smile.

  Instantly he melted. Then lost eye contact again as she looked down and began shuffling through the papers once more.

  There was something intensely fragrant about her, he thought. She wasn’t beautiful, but he was powerfully attracted. Her skin was silky white and even the small wart just above the neckline of her blouse, her one tiny blemish, intrigued him. She was wearing a citrus fragrance that was setting off fireworks deep in his belly. She looked pure, and strong, and exuded authority. He wanted to go around the far side of that desk, rip her clothes off and roll around with her on the carpeted floor.

  He was getting an erection at the thought.

  And she was still looking down at her desk, shu
ffling through the damn papers!

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said gently, as a prompt.

  He left an expectant gap. Was she was feeling the same way about him and just being coy? Maybe she was going to suggest a place where the two of them could meet later for a drink. Somewhere cosy.

  He could invite her over to his pad at the Marina. With its view of the yachts, it was pretty cool.

  Now she was reading the Guardian again.

  ‘Are you looking for something?’ he asked. ‘Is there some mention of Sussex Police?’

  ‘No,’ she said dismissively. ‘Just trying to catch up on the day’s news.’ Then, without looking up, she said, ‘I presume you’re starting an audit of how many cold cases are outstanding?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, yes, absolutely.’

  ‘Murders, suspicious deaths? Long-term missing persons? Other undetected serious crimes?’

  ‘All of those.’

  She moved on to the Telegraph and scanned the front page.

  He stared at her uncertainly. There was an invisible barrier between them and he felt completely thrown. ‘Look, I – I was wondering if I could speak to you off the record.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ She turned several pages in rapid succession as he spoke.

  ‘Well, I know I’m meant to report to Roy Grace, but I have concerns about him.’

  Now he had her full attention. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You know about his missing wife, of course,’ he said.

  ‘The entire force has lived with it for the past nine years,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, I went to interview her parents last night. They are deeply concerned. They don’t feel that anyone in Sussex Police has carried out an impartial investigation.’

  ‘Can you elaborate?’

  ‘Yes. Well, here’s the thing. In all that time, the only officer in Sussex Police who has taken responsibility for reviewing the investigation into her disappearance is Roy himself. To me, that doesn’t sit right. I mean, that wouldn’t have happened in the Met.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘Well,’ Pewe continued unctuously, ‘her parents are deeply uncomfortable about this. Reading between the lines, I think they suspect Roy is hiding something.’

  She looked at him for some moments. ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I’d like your permission for me to prioritize this. Dig further. Use my discretion to take whatever investigatory steps I consider necessary.’

  ‘Granted,’ she said. Then she looked back down at her papers and dismissed him with a single wave of her hand. The one with the diamond solitaire and wedding band.

  When he stood up, his hard-on had gone but he felt a whole new kind of excitement.

  57

  OCTOBER 2007

  The light and the extractor fan had been on for what seemed like hours and hours. In the tiny, windowless room, Abby had lost all track of time. She didn’t know if it was still the middle of the night or morning. Her mouth and throat were parched, she was ravenously hungry and almost every part of her body was numb or hurting from the bindings.

  She was shivering with cold in the constant icy draught. She desperately needed to blow her nose, which was blocked and getting increasingly hard to breathe through. No air at all came in through her mouth and, breathing faster and faster, she was sensing another panic attack coming on.

  She tried to calm herself down, to slow her breathing. She was beginning to feel she wasn’t totally inside her body, that she was dead and floating above it. As if the naked person bound with tape was someone else, not her any more.

  She was dead.

  Her heart was pounding. Hammering. She tried to say something to herself and heard the muffled humming sound inside her mouth. I am still alive. I can feel my heart.

  Inside her skull, she could feel a band tightening around her brain. She felt clammy and unable to focus her eyes clearly. Then she began shaking uncontrollably. A cold sweat of fear erupted on her skin as the thought hit her like a sledgehammer.

  What if he has gone and left me here?

  To die …

  When she had first met Ricky she thought that, like Dave, his violence was just big talk, swagger, keeping up with their gangster friends. Then one night when she was with him, he’d caught a spider in the bathtub and burned each of its legs off with a cigarette lighter, then left it, alive in a glass jar, to die of thirst or hunger.

  The realization that he was quite capable of doing the same to her made her struggle against the bonds with a sudden, new urgency. Her panic was deepening.

  Concentrate.

  Focus.

  Remember it is just a panic attack. You are not dying. You are not out of your body. Say the words.

  She breathed in, out, in, out. Hi, she thought the words. I am Abby Dawson. I am fine. This is just a wonky chemical reaction. I’m fine, I am in my body, I am not dead, this will pass.

  She tried to focus on each of the bindings in turn, starting with the one around her forehead. Her neck was increasingly painful from her head being pulled back so far. But try as hard as she could, she could not move it an inch in any direction.

  Next she tried her hands, which were taped to her thighs. Her fingers were splayed out and taped too, making it impossible to get a purchase on anything. She tried to move her legs, but they were taped together so hard they felt like they were in a cast. Nothing gave. There was no slack anywhere.

  Where had he learned about bindings? Or had he just winged it as he went along? Smiling as he worked?

  Oh yes, smiling for sure.

  And she could hardly blame him.

  She was wishing desperately, suddenly, that she had never agreed to this. She wasn’t strong enough, she realized. Nor smart enough. How the hell had she ever thought she could succeed? How could she have been so stupid?

  A clank interrupted her thoughts, then the squeak of a rubber shoe and a shadow fell across the door. Ricky was looking down at her, holding a large, plastic ASDA carrier bag in one hand and a tall, white mug of coffee in the other. She could smell the aroma. God, that was so good.

  ‘Hope you had a good night’s rest, Abby. I want you fresh for today. Did you?’

  She made a lowing moan.

  ‘Yes, sorry about the tape. But the walls in this place aren’t that thick. I can’t take any risks, I’m sure you understand. So – maybe the bed was a little hard? Still, very good for your posture, that position. Straight back. Did anybody ever tell you about the importance of good posture?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘No, well, I don’t suppose the word straight features much in your vocabulary. He put the carrier bag down on the floor. It made a heavy clank, followed by the rattle of metal objects inside.

  ‘I’ve brought along a few things. I’ve never actually done torture before. Seen it in films, of course. Read about it.’

  Her throat tightened.

  ‘I just want you to understand, Abby, that I don’t have to hurt you. All you have to do is tell me where it is. You know, what you took from me. Like, my entire stash.’

  She was silent. Trembling.

  He picked up the bag and shook it, with a loud, metallic rattle. ‘Got all kinds of stuff in here, but most of it’s pretty primitive. Got a power drill that could go right through your kneecaps. I’ve got a packet of needles and a small hammer. Could whack those up inside your fingernails. Got some pliers for your teeth. Or we could be a bit more cultural.’

  He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a black iPod. Then he held it up close to her eyes. ‘Music,’ he said. ‘Have a listen.’

  He inserted the ear-pieces, checked the display and pressed the start symbol. Then he turned up the volume.

  Abby heard a song she recognized but could not immediately name.

  ‘“Fool for Love”,’ Ricky helped her. ‘Could be me, really, couldn’t it?’

  She looked at him, almost incoherent with terror, not sure what reaction he wa
s expecting. And trying not to let him see how scared she was.

  ‘I like this record,’ he said. ‘Do you? Remember, eyes right for yes, left for no.’

  She moved her eyes right.

  ‘Good, now we’re cooking with gas! So, is it here, or somewhere else? How about I make the question simple. Is it here, in this flat?’

  She moved her eyes left.

  ‘OK. Somewhere else. Is it in Brighton?’

  She moved her eyes right.

  ‘In a safe-deposit box?’

  Again she moved her eyes right.

  He dug his left hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small, thin key. ‘Is it this key?’

  Her eyes told him it was.

  He smiled. ‘Good. Now all we need to establish is the bank and the address. Is it NatWest?’

  Eyes left.

  ‘Lloyds TSB?’

  Eyes left.

  ‘HSBC?’

  Her eyes moved left. And she nixed Barclays too.

  ‘OK, I think I get it,’ he said, and moved away from the doorway. A short while later he returned holding a copy of the Yellow Pages, open at the listings page for security companies. His finger ran down, stopping and getting a negative from Abby at each name. Then it came to Southern Deposit Security.

  Her eyes moved right.

  He studied the name and address, as if memorizing it, then closed the directory.

  ‘OK, good. All we need now is to establish a few more details. Would the account be in the name of Abby Dawson?’

  Eyes left.

  ‘Katherine Jennings?’

  Her eyes went right.

  He smiled, looking much happier now.

  Then she stared at him, trying to signal. But he wasn’t interested.

  ‘Hasta la vista, baby!’ he said cheerily. ‘That’s from one of my favourite movies. Remember?’ He peered at her intently.

  She moved her eyes right. She remembered. She knew this film, this line. It was Arnie Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. She knew what it meant.

  See you later!

  58