Ds Roy Grace 11 - You Are Dead

  He was feeling bad about the pressure the move – and the baby – was causing Cleo. She was taking it pretty stoically and coping, somehow. Last night’s outburst was rare, considering what she’d had to put up with recently. He couldn’t help but compare her to Sandy, who regularly got mad at him over his working hours. No one could predict when a murder would take place. Whether it was day or night, or in the middle of a birthday celebration, homicide detectives had to be prepared to drop everything and be gone within minutes, and then virtually live at work for the first days of the investigation, at least. That never went down well with spouses or partners. Because Cleo’s own role as Chief Mortician had involved the same instant callouts, 24/7, she had always understood.

  The sight of Norman Potting’s drained face didn’t help his mood either. The fifty-five-year-old detective sergeant sat at his place at the conference table, smartly dressed in some of the clothes Bella had helped him choose. He caught Grace’s eye and gave him a stoic smile.

  On the table in front of Grace was a copy of this morning’s Argus newspaper. It had not really bought into the Brighton Brander damage limitation slant. The dramatic front page splash read: BRIGHTON BRANDER POISED TO STRIKE AGAIN?

  All of the national tabloid press featured the story prominently, too. The Mirror asked whether Brighton was about to regain its former notoriety as the UK’s murder capital.

  Roy Grace opened his notebook. ‘For the benefit of all the team, especially as we have new members, I intend to run through both of the investigations, and the individual investigative leads for each case are here, should there be any further questions.’

  He then recapped the circumstances around the disappearance of Emma Johnson. ‘We’ve had very little intelligence or contact from the public in respect of Emma,’ he continued. ‘She has been missing before but I am sure that on this occasion the circumstances of her disappearance are more mysterious and linked to the man we have labelled the Brighton Brander. We’ve had no sightings of her since the last time that she was seen leaving her home address, and her whereabouts remain a mystery. Her disappearance has been included as part of the overall operation due to her description and similarities with the other missing girls.’

  He turned the page of his notebook and said, ‘We will now run through the lines of enquiry and updates on the female remains that were found near Hove Lagoon. She has been provisionally identified as Denise Patterson. She went missing in September 1984. Lucy Sibun is of the opinion that she was probably moved to a new body deposition site at the Lagoon in the mid-1990s.’ He went on to outline in more detail the forensic examination, post-mortem and other scientific processes that were being undertaken.

  Next, Roy Grace gave a concise summary of the investigation into the undetected murder from 1984 of Catherine Westerham. This case had been the subject of a cold-case review a couple of years earlier but no new leads had been identified. He outlined the actions that various members of the team were carrying out and updates were provided.

  Then he said, ‘I am now going to talk about the two most recent cases, that of Logan Somerville and Ashleigh Stanford, starting with Logan. It would seem fairly certain at this stage that her fiancé, Jamie Ball, is not involved. Like Emma, there have been no potential sightings of her and very little information has been forthcoming from the public. It is her appearance that links her to the possible serial killer.’

  He sipped some coffee. ‘In conclusion I will now deal with the fifth victim, Ashleigh Stanford. There have been no sightings reported since her disappearance in the early hours of Saturday morning in Hove, when it looks like she may have been abducted whilst cycling home from work. Her mobile phone has been found nearby and it is her appearance that again links her to the other young women.’ He ran through the details of her particular investigation.

  He paused for a moment to let several members of the team finish their notes. ‘OK, the next few days are going to be busy and you’ll all need to put in long hours. I’m hopeful that our strategy through the media to rile the killer will be successful. There will be the publication of photo-fits and twice-daily press conferences. I’m anticipating the response from the public to be huge, so we’ll need to focus on key elements of the investigation in order that we don’t get distracted. You should be ready for swift action with house raids, searches, and hopefully interviewing of suspects. You have all been working hard in difficult circumstances and Bella would be proud of you all, as am I.’

  Suddenly Grace noticed the conference room door opening, and his new assistant, Tish Hannington, peered in, then signalled to him.

  ‘Excuse me a moment everyone.’ He went over to the door.

  Tish was a slim, neatly dressed woman in her late thirties, with a seemingly unflappable demeanour. She was holding a small Jiffy bag in her hand. ‘Roy,’ she said, quietly. ‘The editor of the Argus has just sent this over, it was waiting for him when he arrived this morning. Someone had pushed it through the letter box during the night.’

  ‘Yep, well I’m not too pleased with the paper after that ridiculous scaremongering headline this morning – just what we don’t need. What’s in it?’

  ‘I think you’d better take a look, now.’

  He slipped his hand inside the envelope. Inside were two plastic sleeves. He looked down at them and read the small writing. He looked back at his assistant.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  64

  Wednesday 17 December

  Twenty minutes later, Roy Grace sat at his office conference table, along with DCI Sweetman and Tony Balazs. All three men were in dark suits, but unlike the two detectives with their short haircuts and sombre ties, the forensic psychologist had a mane of wavy silver hair and was sporting a brightly coloured bow tie. He looked, Grace thought, more like an antiques dealer than a shrink.

  All three of them were staring down at the two mottled green paper driving licences, each dating back thirty years. The first bore the name ‘Catherine Jane Marie Westerham’. The second, ‘Denise Lesley Anne Patterson’. Next to them lay a sheet of white A4 paper with the message printed on it:

  Tell Detective Superintendent Grace that he obviously needs help identifying the lady at the Lagoon. Ask him who’s the smart one now, after he recieves this. I don’t make mistakes.

  ‘He’s inverted the “i” and “e” in receive,’ Balazs said.

  ‘Is that indicative of anything?’ Grace quizzed him.

  Balazs nodded. ‘Yes, that he’s crap at spelling!’

  ‘So he does make mistakes!’ Grace said.

  All three men laughed, thinly.

  ‘Did the Argus have any CCTV footage from last night, Roy?’ Sweetman asked. ‘Did they catch whoever delivered it on camera?’

  ‘Yes, he looks like that old movie character The Invisible Man. Wearing a hat, dark glasses, a scarf around his face covering his – or her – nose. Haydn Kelly and a CSI are there now, seeing if they can get any footprints that match the one in the oil at Chesham Gate underground car park. There wouldn’t have been much footfall during the night where the Argus is located. We’re also having all CCTV cameras in the area checked to see if they’ve picked up a slow moving or parked vehicle.’

  Grace went over to his desk, picked up a folder, opened it and read it as he brought it over. ‘Denise Patterson was on this list of mispers we’d narrowed – which match UNKNOWN FEMALE’s age and description. With luck we’ll be able to officially confirm with either DNA or dental records that UNKNOWN FEMALE is Denise Patterson,’ he said. ‘The recovery of these driving licences gives us a definite link to the investigation. Is there anything you can tell from the note?’

  Balazs nodded. ‘Yes, he clearly has a big but fragile ego. Suggesting he has made mistakes has stung him in the way we had hoped. Also, the fact that he has retained the driving licences indicates he takes souvenirs.’ He looked down at them for some moments. ‘I wonder if he takes trophies as well.’

  Trophies could be locks
of a victim’s hair, jewellery, pieces of clothing or some of their skin. Grace knew that trophies could be indicative of someone who is a loner, substituting objects for friends.

  ‘He’s trying to gain the high ground again with this note,’ DCI Sweetman said.

  ‘I agree, the Brander thinks he has the high ground now,’ Balazs said. ‘In his egotistical mind he’s helped you to identify her. I think we need to deflate that.’

  ‘What about playing down the significance of the licences in our midday press conference in the hope he’ll send us more trophies? I’d just announce that the Argus received them anonymously in the post by someone purporting to be the Brander.’

  ‘If he’s as smart as we think he is,’ Sweetman said, ‘he’s going to know we are deliberately winding him up, and I think it’ll provoke him into action, to show us.’

  ‘What kind of action, Paul? Killing again?’ Grace said.

  ‘Very possibly. But we know he’s going to do that anyway, it’s just a matter of time. Hopefully by provoking him into going for his next victim sooner than he had planned, and less prepared, he’ll make a mistake, and that will be our best chance to stop him.’

  After the meeting was over, Grace called Cassian Pewe and informed him of the course of action he proposed to take, with DCI Sweetman’s full agreement, but he wanted the ACC’s sanction too.

  Pewe gave him an icy reception. ‘Roy, I don’t think you made a wise decision going public with this. Just as the Chief and I feared, the whole city is close to meltdown with panic.’

  ‘Sir, you, I and the Chief Constable agreed this strategy on Sunday evening.’

  ‘Have you no idea of the terror your announcement at the press conference yesterday has created?’ Pewe’s voice was sounding more nasal and high-pitched than ever. ‘We’re just one week from Christmas; I’ve had the head of Visit Brighton on the phone this morning. Hotels are getting cancellations pouring in; restaurants are losing Christmas lunch and New Year’s Eve bookings. You’ve scared the hell out of the city.’

  ‘With respect, sir, it’s our killer who is scaring the city, not me.’

  ‘Nicola Roigard rang me herself just a short while ago to express her concerns about the public reaction.’

  ‘I would expect the Police and Crime Commissioner to be concerned,’ Grace said. ‘It would be a bit strange if she wasn’t.’

  ‘Don’t try to be clever with me.’

  Grace lifted his phone away from his ear and stared at it for some moments, almost unable to listen to the whiny voice any more. He had broken all the rules in risking his own life to save Pewe’s last year. In this job you had to break rules and take risks. But now his boss was running for the hills at the first sound of gunfire. ‘Sir, if you would like to give me instructions I will obey them.’

  There was a long silence. Then finally in a reluctant tone Pewe said, ‘You’re running this operation, you have to make the decisions.’

  ‘I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I had your agreement on such a big decision, sir.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what you want me to agree to?’

  ‘My announcing at the midday press conference that the Argus received two driving licences, in the names of Katy Westerham and Denise Patterson, the body at Hove Lagoon. They supposedly came from our suspected serial killer. If the Brander wants to communicate with us, we would ask him to give us demonstrable proof that it is him. I intend to play down the significance of the driving licences and announce we had already identified the Lagoon victim before they arrived.’

  Grace then outlined his proposal for the conference and when he had finished, very reluctantly, Pewe gave him his sanction, and told him he would inform the Chief Constable and Police and Crime Commissioner.

  After he had hung up, Grace made a careful note of the date and time and content of this last telephone conversation in his policy book.

  65

  Wednesday 17 December

  The cramps in her legs were getting worse. Sometimes the pain was so acute Logan cried out; particularly her right leg. It was going into spasm again now. It felt at times as if the muscle was a giant elastic band that was about to snap and rip through the flesh. She desperately, so very desperately, wanted to be able to stretch her leg. To stand up.

  She fought the pain, gasping, breathing faster and faster until it subsided, leaving her spent, with tears that she could not wipe away stinging her eyes.

  How long? God, how long had she been here? She shivered from cold, from fear. Then she remembered something she had been taught, that deep breathing was a way to relax. She took in several deep breaths, filling her lungs, slowly. She had time to fill. So much time. Then she wriggled, as much as she could before the bonds cut into her wrists and ankles, raising her head the small distance the strap around her neck would allow.

  She tried to make plans in her head. If she could get the bastard to untie her, even if just for a few moments, she might be able to headbutt him. She had strong hands from her work; if she could momentarily stun him and get a grip on his neck she might be able to choke him.

  But if she tried and failed, what then?

  She thought about it constantly, turning it over and over. At some point, surely, he was going to have to untie her. Wasn’t he?

  To pass some of the time, and to try to get back into a positive mood, she played a game of thinking back on different happy moments in her life. The summer holidays when she was a kid going with her parents to the cottage they rented every year in Cornwall. Rowing on the river and picnicking beside it with her parents and her brother and sister. Peeling a hardboiled egg and dunking it in a little mound of salt on her paper plate, then biting into it; followed by a mouthful of buttered crusty bread; then a bite of a tomato picked from the greenhouse that morning.

  She was salivating. Craving, suddenly, a hardboiled egg with bread and butter. Anything other than the bland-tasting protein shakes her captor had been giving her. She tried to switch her mind to Jamie. To the happy day she had first met him, at a dismal birthday party in an upstairs room of a pub. It had been an old school friend’s birthday, but there had been barely anyone in the room she knew, and the people she had talked to seemed universally dull. She was mooching around a table laden with blocks of Cheddar, pickles and slightly stale baguettes, holding a plastic beaker of warm white wine, about to go outside to have a cigarette and maybe to find some better company, when her mate John Southern suddenly appeared alongside her with Jamie and introduced them, before going off to find another beer.

  ‘You look about as bored as I feel,’ he had said.

  ‘You can join my escape committee,’ she’d replied.

  ‘Willingly, but I think it might be rude to leave before the speeches.’

  ‘I’m going to nip out for a cigarette – do you smoke?’ she had asked.

  ‘No, but I’ll come out with you.’

  Logan thought, for a fleeting instant, she could smell the sweet aroma of cigarette smoke. But then it was gone. The memory of Jamie faded. Then suddenly she heard a faint sound.

  Splashing. A scraping sound of something being dragged. Footsteps. Rustle of clothing. A flashlight beam jigging. Something was happening! Hope rose inside her. Something was happening! Had the police come for her?

  Then the light went out. She was surrounded once more by darkness and silence.

  ‘Hello?’ she cried. ‘Hello? Help. Help me! Please help me, someone, please help me!’

  66

  Wednesday 17 December

  At 3 p.m., one and a half hours after his press conference had ended, Roy Grace checked the online version of the Argus newspaper and was pleased with what he saw. True to her word, the reporter Siobhan Sheldrake had given him the headline he had asked for.

  BRIGHTON BRANDER PROVIDES VITAL CLUES

  The story beneath quoted Grace at the press conference, stating that certain items had been received, purporting to have been sent by the killer of Katy Westerham and the victim from Hov
e Lagoon, believed to be Denise Patterson.

  Grace said this was a major mistake by the killer, providing the police with the potential to identify vital forensic evidence.

  The words had been carefully chosen by the psychologist Tony Balazs, and Grace had quoted them. Hopefully they would provoke a response. In the meantime forensic work was taking place on the note that had accompanied the driving licences, and the packaging they had come in.

  Having again taken no lunch break, Grace hurried down to the car parking area at the front of Sussex House, deciding to pop home very quickly and see if he could talk with Cleo – and give her at least a little help with the packing. As he drove he munched a very old Twix, with white flecks on the chocolate, which he had found amid a ton of parking receipts in the glove box. It tasted stale but he didn’t mind. He was so hungry, he realized suddenly, that almost anything would have tasted good.

  When he opened the front door of the house, clutching a large bunch of flowers he had bought on the way, he stopped and stared in amazement. Two of Cleo’s friends, her sister, Charlie, and her parents were there, all seemingly frenetically at work, wrapping their very personal items in tissue paper and placing them in boxes. Upstairs he could hear Noah screaming.

  ‘Roy, hi!’ Charlie greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks. He had always liked her; she was a younger, chubbier version of Cleo and seemed to be permanently cheerful. She pointed a finger at the stairs. ‘Noah’s in a total grump – I think he’s teething, poor thing.’ She looked at the flowers. ‘Those from you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good plan,’ she said. ‘It might save your marriage.’ She grinned.

  He said a hello and thank you to Cleo’s parents and her two friends, then hurried up the stairs and into Noah’s room. And was shocked by how tired and drawn Cleo looked, sitting on a chair beside the cot, holding Noah in her arms and rocking him sideways, trying to soothe his grizzling. She gave Roy a desultory nod.