5. Mapping
6. Scene assessment
7. House-to-house
When he had finished the entire list, he made his way through to the conference room. He had decided to hold the briefing here, partly to contain the large number of team members he had assembled, and partly not to disturb Glenn Branson and his team. Although he had a feeling—which he could not explain or rationalize at the moment—that the two inquiries might not be as disconnected as the three-decade span between them suggested.
Most of the twenty-five members of his team were already seated around the large rectangular table when he entered the conference room. Several whiteboards, brought along from MIR-1, were up on easels. On one were two photographs of Logan Somerville, one just of her, the other with her fiancé, on a beach.
There were also two CSI photographs of a very dark footprint. The first was of the whole print, the second a close-up showing a distinctive zigzag tread pattern.
On another board was an association chart, with representative male and female figures, labeled Logan Somerville and Jamie Ball. On the third was a timeline chart.
Grace took his place at the far end of the table, with his back to a row of blue screens bearing the Sussex Police crest, nodded at several of his regular members and welcomed the latest member of his team, a stocky forty-five-year-old DS with whom he had worked before, Kevin Taylor, who had just served a two-year stint away from Major Crime on Professional Standards.
He stared down at the notes his Management Support Assistant, Tish Hannington, had prepared. He waited until 6:30 p.m., when the rest of the team had arrived and seated themselves, then he began. “This is the second briefing of Operation Haywain, the investigation into the disappearance of Logan Somerville. According to her fiancé—or as we have subsequently learned, her former fiancé, Jamie Ball—Logan has been missing since around 5:30 p.m. yesterday evening. It is still too early to conclude that she has been abducted—although the evidence points that way. Ball may be an unreliable witness. Both her best friend and her mother have informed us that although Logan broke off their engagement, as we’ve seen ourselves from her Facebook post, Ball was reluctant to accept this. Whatever the truth, we have grave concerns for her safety, and I am unhappy that over twenty-four hours have now elapsed without any word from her. It is unlikely that she has been kidnapped—her family aren’t well off and I would have expected to have received a ransom note or some demand or communication by now. So abduction, quite possibly sexually motivated, is the most likely scenario.”
He paused and sipped his coffee. “I want to make one observation at this point, which may or may not have any relevance. Logan Somerville is twenty-four years old. As you can see from her photographs, she has long brown hair. Two weeks ago another young woman in West Sussex, Emma Johnson, a regular misper, disappeared again. She is twenty-one years old, and the reason I am mentioning her is that she is of similar age and appearance, with an almost identical hairstyle. This may not take us anywhere, but there is an historic pattern of women being abducted who have similar looks. The victims of American serial rapist and killer Ted Bundy, who was executed in 1989, all looked similar, with identical hairstyles. I was at the post-mortem of the victim found at Hove Lagoon last night, and it seems she also had long brown hair. I’m not jumping to any conclusions here, but I want a search done. Start with Sussex and then the southeast for outstanding mispers with a similar appearance, age and hairstyle to Logan Somerville. Begin with the last twelve months, and then back five years.”
He turned to the researcher, Annalise Vineer. “I’m giving you that as an action, Annalise.”
It was a huge task. “Yes, sir.”
Then he turned to DS Batchelor. “Guy, Glenn Branson is the SIO on the case of the skeletal remains of a young woman found at Hove Lagoon yesterday. I want you to liaise with Glenn and see if we can eliminate this woman from any connection with our current inquiry.”
“What makes you think there might be a connection, boss?”
“Little more than a hunch at the moment, Guy. It would be helpful if you could report back on her identity as soon as it is known.” Then he turned to Potting, mindful of the man’s current mental state, but wanting to give him a task he could get his teeth into and his head around as a distraction from his current woes. “Norman, I want you as an action to get me full details on every reported female misper, once Annalise has given you the names. Start with those in the age group sixteen to forty-five.”
Suddenly the James Bond theme played. Norman Potting dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He gave Grace an apologetic nod, stood up and stepped away. Moments later he returned. “Sorry about that, guv. The undertaker—about the music for Monday.”
There was a respectful silence. Then Potting sat back down, seemingly consumed by his inner thoughts.
Grace waited several moments, as Potting settled, before moving on to DC Jane Wellings, who had been allocated the CCTV work. “Have you come up with any more on the Volvo from CCTV and ANPR, Jane?”
“We’re still analyzing the footage to see if we can find a match for that time and area.”
The Crime Scene Manager, John Morgan, then pointed at the two photographs of footprints on the whiteboard. “The two images are the same footprint, one showing it in entirety, the other showing the detail of the tread pattern. I’ve sent copies to the National Footwear Reference Collection, who should be able to give us the manufacturer.”
“And size?” asked DS Exton.
“We might get that from the manufacturer,” Roy Grace replied. “That zigzag pattern—there’s probably a different number of them on each shoe sole, according to the size.”
“Are you going to bring in the forensic gait analyst again?” DS Batchelor asked. “Haydn Kelly?”
Grace nodded. “I’ve e-mailed the pictures to Kelly to ask him if he thinks he can get anything from the footprint.”
“Do we have enough to question this Jamie Ball character again, boss?” DS Jon Exton asked.
“We do. And I’m still not happy with him. But I’m not convinced he’s the offender. The initial search of Logan’s social networking sites hasn’t taken us any further. His alibi is that he was driving down the M23, close to Gatwick Airport, when Logan phoned him. We know from the phone company’s records that a call to her fiancé’s number was made from Logan’s phone, and it was made in the vicinity of their apartment building. We also know that Ball’s phone was answered in the geographic location where he claims to have been. But we cannot be sure at this point that it was Logan Somerville who made the call—we only have Ball’s word on that. And we only have his word that it was he who answered it and spoke to her.” As he looked around the faces of his inquiry team, he felt a sudden deep pang of sadness at the absence of DS Bella Moy. And the absence of the familiar rattle of the box of Maltesers that always sat in front of her, and that she ate constantly.
“You’re speculating that Ball may have orchestrated this whole thing?” Guy Batchelor asked. “That whoever took Logan Somerville made the call—let’s for a moment say it was Jamie Ball—and it was an accomplice who answered at the other end, driving Ball’s car down the exact route Ball would have driven home from work himself?”
“It’s one hypothesis,” Grace said. “It’s most unlikely but still needs to be checked out. I’m going to speak to one of our source handlers to see if there is any word out on the street about Ball. People who are jilted can get very angry. Let’s see if he’s been out shopping around for a hitman. Ideally, we want to eliminate him from the inquiry if he is not involved.”
The youngest member of the team, DC Jack Alexander, raised a hand. “Sir, what about getting a warrant and searching the couple’s flat again? If we found a shoe with a matching tread pattern, that would put Jamie Ball at the scene, wouldn’t it?”
Grace smiled back at him. He’d made similarly naive deductions in his early days. “Not quite sure what that would tell us, Jack
, since he lives there.”
There was a titter of laughter, and the young Detective Constable’s face turned the color of beetroot. But he persevered, and said, “Yes, but it would still be interesting if we find one of Ball’s shoes in the flat had made the fresh mark in the sludge.”
Grace nodded. “Well recovered, Jack—and also to make sure it doesn’t belong to any of our officers!”
DS Tanja Cale, a glamorous new addition to his regulars, who had been brought in to temporarily replace Bella Moy, raised her hand. Cale had been tasked with running the outside inquiry team. “Sir,” she said, “we have something that may be of interest. A PCSO tipped us off that an elderly lady in Chesham Avenue—five houses along from the entrance to the Chesham Gate underground car park—has a police CCTV camera installed, looking down at the street. She’s been having trouble with kids in the area—I gather she shouted at them a few months ago for throwing litter in the street. Since then they’ve been making her life a misery by daubing her car with graffiti, as well as on one occasion leaving a dead cat in her front garden with a threatening note attached.”
“Was the camera on last night?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s aimed low, principally at her little front garden and the pavement beyond. But it picked up the bottom half of a car just after 5:30 p.m. yesterday, traveling at high speed. The image is in black and white, so we’re not able to get the color, but it’s a dark color and two Traffic officers have identified it as an old model Volvo estate, about ten years old.”
“Any view of the license plate?”
“No,” she said, “unfortunately not.”
Grace felt a beat of excitement at this development, confirmation of a car seen leaving at speed. “Good work. OK, I’m giving you an action—get a list of every Volvo estate between five and fifteen years old that’s owned by a Brighton resident. And see what similar cars CCTV might have picked up in the Brighton area an hour either side of this time.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
During the course of the next twenty minutes, Grace ran through the lines of inquiry. When he had finished it was 7:05 p.m. Just over twenty-five hours since Logan had disappeared.
Statistics would have her already dead by now. But for Grace, that thought wasn’t an option. He had to believe she was still alive, and he had to find her while she still was alive. Quite apart from his own determination, he had pressure from the ACC, and from the Police and Crime Commissioner, Nicola Roigard. And soon, after the impending retirement of the Chief Constable, Tom Martinson, which was an open secret, he would be having a new Chief putting pressure on him, as well.
Not to mention all the people with vested interests in this city, such as the head of Visit Brighton, the tourist board, who would be wanting a quick and conclusive result—and not to see this beautiful seaside resort yet again splashed across the national newspapers and television screens for another grim crime. They wanted Logan Somerville back, at all costs.
Alive.
So did he. He’d never in all his life been a defeatist, but the odds of finding her alive, he knew, were not good.
31
Friday 12 December
Jamie Ball sat on one of the sofas, laptop open, glass of red wine in his hand, alternating between his Facebook page and staring at the constantly changing images on the digital photo frame. There were a few landscapes, a picture of Logan’s parents’ dog, a happy-looking black labradoodle, and a photograph taken at their engagement party of both sets of parents and siblings, but most of the pictures were of Logan and himself.
He topped the glass up with a shaking hand. His tiredness was really starting to kick in, but instead of calming him, the alcohol seemed to be having the reverse effect, making him increasingly jittery, as if it were strong coffee, shrinking his scalp so tightly around his skull that pains were shooting down it. His eyes were raw and gritty and he could barely focus. Unconsciously he drummed the fingers of his left hand continuously on the coffee table.
His parents had invited him over, but he didn’t want to sit in their gloomy house. Logan’s parents and her sister and brother had all been very slightly cold and remote to him—not cold enough to sound actively hostile, but enough to hint to him that they were suspicious. A couple of his mates, concerned for him, had invited him out for company to the Coach House in Middle Street for the evening. It was a pub he had been to many times in the past—in happier days—with Logan. But for now he preferred to sit here, alone. He didn’t want any company at this moment.
He refreshed the Facebook page, where late last night he had posted the message, “Please help me find my missing beautiful fiancée, Logan,” beneath a row of photographs of her. He saw that another fifteen “likes” had come in during the past half hour, as well as six new friend requests, in response to his post.
“Good,” he said, suddenly, to no one.
Then his phone rang. He jumped up and grabbed the receiver with his hand shaking so much it dropped and fell to the wooden floor, a piece of the casing breaking off. He knelt and picked it up.
“I wonder if I could please speak to Mr. James Ball?” It was the voice of an elderly man, courteous but quite firm.
Few people called him James—he had been Jamie for as long as he could remember.
“Yes, speaking, who is this?” He’d already had several crank calls. One from a medium telling him she’d had a vision of Logan in the hold of a ship loaded with timber. Another from someone claiming to be a private detective, demanding one thousand pounds up front, but guaranteeing to find her. Yep, right.
“I’m Logan’s uncle—my name is Jacob Van Dam. She may have mentioned me?”
“Ah, yes,” he replied. “Yes, she has.” She had indeed mentioned her uncle, the psychiatrist, to him on many occasions, although she’d told Jamie she had not seen him for several years. He was the one famous member of her family.
“I’m going to ask you a rather personal question about Logan, James, but I have a good reason for this, so please bear with me.”
Ball frowned. Was this shrink about to start playing some clever mind games with him? “OK,” he said, guardedly.
“Does Logan have a mark or words—maybe a tattoo—anywhere on her body?”
He was silent for some moments, wondering where this was going. “A tattoo?”
“Yes. A mark or tattoo.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Are you absolutely certain? Perhaps on her right thigh?”
“Yes, I am sure, there’s nothing there.”
“What about any writing or script?”
“No, she doesn’t have. Why are you asking, Mr. Van Dam?”
“I have a reason.”
“No, she has no tattoo. OK?” The man’s insistent voice was irritating him, and making him feel even edgier.
“You’ve been very helpful, I’m sorry to have troubled you. Thank you.”
Ball stared into the receiver as the call ended. Into the tiny holes in the mouthpiece. What was that all about, he wondered?
* * *
Jacob Van Dam sat for a long time at his desk, in silence, deep in thought. In his opinion, Ball’s reaction had been that of someone distraught because his loved one was missing.
Nevertheless, he had the feeling he was hiding something. But what?
32
Friday 12 December
After the briefing, Roy Grace went back to his office, deep in thought, needing some quiet time to reflect. On Monday he had to speak at Bella’s funeral, which was going to be emotional, he knew. One of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Then on Tuesday, the removals company were due to be delivering all the packing cases, both to Cleo’s house and to his own, in advance of their move the following Friday. Somehow he was going to have to find the time to be at home to help Cleo pack everything up. He was also going to have to supervise the packing of all his belongings in his own house, near the seafront—very close to the Lagoon—which he had shared with Sandy
prior to her disappearance.
But all he could think of was Logan Somerville. Her long brown hair. And Emma Johnson, who was missing and had a similar hair-style. Was there a possible link with the body of the woman at the Lagoon—with the strands of long brown hair too?
He tried to dismiss that. He didn’t want any links. A solo murder victim was a tragedy, but a one-off nonetheless. The victim of a sexual assault, a revenge attack, a random attack by someone mentally ill, a domestic dispute, a robbery or a jealous lover. These were some of the reasons people killed—and got killed. Single, brutal, final acts.
Linked murders could be game changers. Three or more, in different locations and with time between them, and you had a serial killer by definition. They hadn’t had one in this city for a very long time, not in all of his career, to date—at least that the police had heard about.
Earlier he’d told Cleo there was no way he’d be home early tonight, even though she’d tried to tempt him by telling him she’d been planning some of his favorite dishes, a prawn and avocado cocktail, then grilled Dover sole. He was feeling hungry and would have dearly loved to have headed straight back—to see Noah, have a couple of glasses of wine and a nice meal, and an evening doing what he loved most, spending time with Cleo.
His phone rang.
He answered instantly. It was Glenn Branson. “All right?” the DI said.
“Not great. You?”
“Well, actually, I’ve got a bit of a development. Might be nothing—but I wanted to run it by you.”
“Tell me?”
“Fancy a drink? I kind of need one. I’m going off duty.”
“Friday night?” Grace said. “So you don’t have a hot date with that Argus reporter—what’s her name—Siobhan Sheldrake?”
“Haha, very funny.”
“I need one, too. Have to make it quick and it’ll have to be a soft one. Black Lion?”
“Fifteen?”
“Give me three quarters of an hour, I need to swing by my house to pick up some stuff I’m taking to a charity shop.”