You Are Dead

  By the time his first patient of the day was in his waiting room at 9 a.m., he had already worked through his outstanding e-mails, and read most of the endless mountains of bureaucracy that were heaped on him, and every other family doctor in the UK.

  Every new directive made him more and more angry. And it did not take a lot to make him angry this morning. Just after he thought everything was settled with his bitch wife, she had come back with a whole set of new demands. He was beginning to feel all over again as if it was himself versus the world. Or, at least, against her.

  But he never let his anger show to his patients. To them he was always—in his mind—Mr. Charming, Mr. Attentive, Mr. Perfect Bedside Manner. When the regulators finally had their way, and he was forced into becoming part of the litigation culture, all that would change. But for now he continued in the way he always had.

  “You really want a gastric sleeve, Rosamund?” he said to the forty-year-old, straggly-haired woman seated in front of him, whose more than ample figure inside a dress the size of a small marquee overflowed either side of the chair. During the fifteen years she had been his patient, she had been growing steadily fatter, and now seated in front of him, she reminded him of a giant jellyfish covered in seaweed he’d seen on the beach recently when walking Smut.

  “I can’t help myself, I just keep eating. Ever since my husband left me, it’s all I do.”

  Maybe that’s why he left you, he thought, but did not say. It was hard to remember how pretty she had once looked, a mere nine-stone, slender blonde. “When did you last take any exercise?”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It hurts my legs too much.”

  “But you walked in here.” Waddled would have been a better description, he thought.

  “Coz I couldn’t get my mobility scooter up the steps to your surgery.”

  “Mobility scooter?”

  “It helps me get around. To the shops.”

  “To buy food?” He shook his head. “Rosamund, a gastric sleeve will shrink your stomach, which will make you eat less.”

  “That’s why I want it.”

  He gave her a kindly smile. “There’s something else that would achieve the same result for you, but in a much better way.”

  “There is? Pills?”

  “Not pills, no.” He tapped the side of his head. “In here. Mission Control.”

  “Mission Control?”

  “Your brain, my dear! The boss inside your head. Willpower.”

  “I don’t have any.” She looked down, a little shame-faced. “I need help, Dr. Crisp.”

  “Last time I saw you, you wanted a full check-up.” He looked at his computer screen. “That was three weeks ago. Since then you’ve had an abdomen, pelvis and virtual colonoscopy CT scan, a CT heart scan and a CT chest scan. Your colon is clear, you have a brilliant coronary artery calcium score of zero. Your liver is normal, as are your pancreas and kidneys. Your lungs are in fine order.”

  By some bloody miracle he would have liked to have added. “I’ve seen patients, similarly overweight to yourself, who are virtual invalids. I don’t want to see you like that. You are a healthy woman in the process of destroying your health. In another five years you’ll have diabetes and cardiovascular disease will follow. Is that what you want?”

  “No, that’s why I need a gastric sleeve.”

  He looked at his screen again. “You live in Wilbury Villas, about half a mile away, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forget the gastric sleeve. Drive home in your mobility scooter, stick it in the garage and put it up for sale on eBay. Then take up walking.”

  “Walking?” She looked at him as if he was mad.

  “Have you planned your funeral?”

  “My funeral? What are you saying?”

  “Take up walking—your heart can stand it. Take it up or else start planning your funeral.”

  “I came here for help, Dr. Crisp—I don’t like what you’re telling me.”

  “Bitter medicine, eh? Come back in two years’ time and tell me then that you don’t like it. Then we’ll look at a gastric sleeve.” He glanced at his watch.

  “That’s all you’re going to do for me?”

  “Rosamund, the first rule of medicine is Do no harm. I’m not sanctioning surgery when the boss inside your head can do a much better job. You just have to let it!”

  * * *

  Midway through his morning list of patients, just as a pregnant young woman had left his office, his secretary phoned through on his intercom. “Dr. Crisp, there’s a police officer—a detective—who would like to have a word with you. Shall I tell him to come back at the end of your surgery?”

  “Police officer? What about?”

  “Apparently you were at Hove Lagoon last Thursday night and gave the police some assistance.”

  “Ah—yes—yes of course, Jenni. Send him in now, I doubt it will take long.”

  He beamed broadly as the door opened and his secretary ushered in Norman Potting.

  The doctor stood and reached a welcoming hand out across his desk, clasping the detective’s rough hand and giving it a firm shake. “How very nice to see you again, Detective Sergeant.”

  “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”

  “No problem at all—have a seat. We’ll have to be brief, I have a long list of patients waiting. So tell me, how is everything going with the investigation?”

  Norman Potting lowered himself into one of the two chairs in front of the doctor’s desk and stared, briefly, at a skeleton to the right of it, wondering if it was real or plastic.

  “We’re making progress, thank you. That’s a nasty-looking bruise on your face, Doctor.”

  Crisp laughed, dismissively. “Yes, I fell over in the bloody shower! A friend of mine told me never to fall over in a shower, because that’s what old people do!”

  The way the detective stared at him made him feel uncomfortable.

  “End of,” Crisp said.

  Potting nodded. “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.” He shrugged. “I apologize for intruding on your busy working day. Last Thursday night you were kind enough to certify as dead human remains that were found close to the Big Beach Café at Hove Lagoon. Subsequently I took a statement from you.”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid there wasn’t much to that. A long time back I was a police surgeon, I often used to get called out at all hours to do the same thing—certify death. Frankly, with that poor woman’s remains at the Lagoon it was a bit silly, really. But I understand you need to do everything belt and braces.”

  The detective pulled a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and jotted something down. Then he said, “I have a few more questions. Could you tell me, Dr. Crisp, you were walking your dog across Hove Lagoon last Thursday night—is that a regular place for you to do that?”

  “In winter, yes. It’s too crowded in summer. Bloody kids everywhere. She loves the beach.”

  Potting smiled and looked down at the sleeping mongrel. “You always take her to the office?”

  “Since my wife left me.” He jerked a finger at a framed photograph on his desk of an attractive-looking woman with long, dark hair, flanked by two similar-looking teenage girls. “Not fair to leave her at home all day—and most of my patients like her. It’s particularly good to have her here for breaking the ice with my younger patients.”

  “I’ve been there too—wife leaving me,” Potting said. “A few times.”

  “Ah, didn’t Oscar Wilde say that to lose one wife was unfortunate, to lose two was carelessness?” quipped Crisp.

  “I thought the line was about parents,” Potting retorted. “The Importance of Being Earnest?”

  “Aha, a cultured man! Quite right!”

  “How long ago did your wife leave, Dr. Crisp?”

  “About six months—she’d been having an affair—but—that’s how it goes, eh?”

  “Women!” Potting said.

  “Indeed.” The doctor shrugged.
r />   Changing the subject back, Norman Potting said, “Your dog—does she need a lot of exercise?”

  “I take her round the garden in the morning—I’ve got a large garden that she loves. Then at lunchtime I usually walk her down to the beach and have a bite at my club, the Hove Deep Sea Anglers, or else at the Big Beach Café at the Lagoon.”

  “The Deep Sea Anglers is close to the Lagoon, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “Where do you live, Dr. Crisp?”

  “Tongdean Villas.”

  “Nice street—it’s where I’d choose to live if I won the Lottery. There must be good money in private medicine.”

  “In some fields, yes, but not for general practitioners. I have private means, fortunately.” Crisp smiled.

  “So at this time of year, you take your dog down to the Lagoon twice a day?”

  “Yes, at lunchtime and after I finish work in the evening.”

  “Like clockwork?”

  “Like clockwork.” He smiled. “You seem very interested in my dog-walking habits, Detective Sergeant. Is there some reason why?”

  Potting shrugged and gave him a baleful smile. “I recently lost my fiancée, in a fire. I’m thinking of getting a dog as a companion, but I’m wondering if I would have the time to look after it properly.”

  “A fire? Was she a police officer?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “I read about that—it was very recent? Just a few weeks ago? She was trying to rescue a child—and a dog? I’m so sorry.”

  Potting nodded and sniffed.

  “Are you all right? Are you being looked after?” Crisp said, with concern. “Are you sleeping?”

  “Not really, no,” Norman Potting said.

  “Oh dear, oh dear. Do you have a doctor helping you?”

  Potting shook his head.

  “I can give you something to help you sleep, if you would like. Sleep when you are suffering grief is very important. I can give you a mild sedative that will help you get back into a natural rhythm.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’m coping. Just about.”

  “Is there anything at all I can do for you?”

  Potting hesitated. “Well, there is one thing. I shouldn’t be telling you this, it’s not very professional of me. But I’ve recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer, and I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to do. I’m getting a lot of conflicting advice about different treatments.” He fell silent for a moment. “You see, the thing is, I’m concerned about some of the routes, which would give me a risk of a loss of—you know…” He fell silent.

  Crisp waited patiently, with a gentle smile. “Erectile dysfunction?”

  Potting nodded. “Yes, exactly. Winky action.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifty-five.”

  “Well, I know some very good specialists I could refer you to. If you’d care to send me all the details of your diagnosis, and who you’ve seen so far, I’d be happy to try to help you—with absolutely no charge.”

  “That’s very good of you, doctor. I rather feel I’m imposing on you.”

  “Not in the slightest. As I said, I was a police surgeon for a number of years, and I have the greatest respect for police officers. I would be only too happy to help. I have your card that you gave me last time. I’ll send you some information on a few organizations that offer help and advice to prostate cancer sufferers.”

  “That’s very kind of you. If I could have some contact details? Could you let me have your mobile phone number?”

  “Of course.” Crisp wrote it down on a Post-it note, licked his finger to separate the note from the pad, tugged it clear and handed it to the detective.

  Potting folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

  80

  Friday 19 December

  Coming up to 1 p.m., Roy Grace turned his car off the A27, halted at the roundabout, then took the second left into Dyke Road Avenue, a street lined on both sides with mansions, some privately owned, many now turned into nursing homes, and halted behind a queue of traffic at a police roadblock.

  Chief Superintendent Nev Kemp, Brighton and Hove’s Divisional Commander, was doing a fine job of providing police reassurance to the city, he thought. Police vehicles—cars, vans and motorcycles—along with officers and PCSOs in hi-viz jackets were everywhere. It felt similar to what it must be like to enter a war zone.

  When it came to his turn, he held up his warrant card and was waved on, past a car with two officers peering into its opened boot. His car radio was tuned to Radio Sussex, monitoring their broadcasts. The presenter, Danny Pike, was at this moment interviewing the Police and Crime Commissioner in his normal courteous but incisive style.

  She was standing up to his interrogation well, he thought.

  “Tell me, Commissioner,” Pike quizzed, “don’t you think in the light of the latest developments, that you should order a curfew after dark in this city?”

  “Danny, we don’t as yet have enough evidence to connect the incident in Hove last night with the other offenses we are so deeply concerned about. And of course the police do not have the powers to order curfews.”

  “Why not? I understand the woman who was attacked in her home fits exactly the profile of the previous victims. Are you getting pressure from commercial interests in Brighton and Hove to sort this out?”

  “The only consideration at this stage is for the safety of all citizens of this city, and visitors. The police are doing everything within their powers to find the offender as quickly as possible and put him safely behind bars.”

  “Are you sure he’s not having a laugh on you? The detective in charge of the case taunted him openly in a press conference, and the offender’s response was to deliver two more victims. Do the police actually know what they are doing? Is Detective Superintendent Roy Grace the right man for a case of this magnitude?”

  “I have every confidence in the SIO appointed to this case. And you should know, Danny, that he is not operating in a vacuum. We have also drafted in the Metropolitan Police’s most experienced officer in dealing with serial killer offenders to provide support to the investigation, as well as a highly experienced forensic psychologist.”

  “So are you saying, Commissioner, that you are close to an arrest?”

  “No, I am not saying that, but I have every confidence in my police force. Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team is doing a fine job. There is no need for panic in this city, nor in the rest of the county, but I would like to repeat the warnings given out in last night’s press conference, that women should avoid being on the streets of Brighton alone at any time of the day or night wherever possible, not taking unnecessary risks; they should let people know where they are; they should be accompanied at all times. I’d also like to repeat the appeal to any members of the public who see anything suspicious, or who think they know who this person is, to call Sussex Police or, alternatively, if they want to be anonymous, call Sussex Crimestoppers.” She gave out the numbers.

  Grace turned right and headed down a leafy street with smart, detached houses on either side, toward Hove Park, one of the city’s largest recreation areas. He saw a Radio Sussex outside broadcast van as well as BBC South and Latest TV vans parked along the curb. He passed them and turned left onto the rough, almost rural surface of Hove Park Lane.

  Ahead of him he saw the huge truck of the Specialist Search Unit, the smaller white Scientific Support Unit van, and two marked police cars. A barrier of crime scene tape, fronted by a PCSO scene guard, closed off the far end of the lane near the house where Freya Northrop had been attacked was sited. Several newspaper reporters, photographers and cameramen were milling around.

  He halted his car and then dialed Cleo. She answered, sounding harassed.

  “How’s it all going?” he asked.

  “One of the removals men just smashed Marlon’s bowl.”

  He felt a sudden wrench in his gut. Ridiculous with all else that was going o
n to feel distressed over a goldfish. But Marlon represented far more than that to him. “Is he OK?”

  “Yes, your sodding goldfish is fine. He’s in a bucket at the moment.”

  “Thank God!”

  She blew him a kiss. “Go back to saving the world. We’re fine. Marlon’s going to be traveling in style. He likes the bucket.”

  Roy Grace smiled. As he left his car, the press members all turned toward him. Siobhan Sheldrake, from the Argus, closely followed by the senior Latest TV reporter, Tim Ridgway, and a cameraman, hurried toward him.

  “Detective Superintendent,” Sheldrake said. “How close are you to arresting Freya Northrop’s attacker from last night? The man you call the Brighton Brander?”

  “Sorry, I’ve nothing to say at this moment, we’ll be holding another press conference as soon as we have more information.”

  He eased his way past them and hurried along to the CSI van, where he gowned up, and snapped on a pair of gloves. Then he approached the scene guard, who recorded his name and the time on the log, as he ducked under the tape and headed to the house. His absolute priority right now was to establish, urgently, whether this attack was linked. In Tony Balazs’s view, a failed attack would have a big psychological impact on the offender. It would either send him to ground for a while, or, if they could provoke him sufficiently, they might be able to goad him into another rushed attempt. Neither scenario made Grace happy.

  The Crime Scene Manager, David Green, in a similar blue protective oversuit and overshoes to everyone else inside, took him around, and told him that they had found several spots of blood on the hall carpet, from which he was confident of getting a good DNA profile of the offender. But both of them accepted this would only be of value if the offender’s DNA was already on record.

  As evidence of just how seriously Grace was viewing the attack, the place was crawling with CSIs. They were searching every inch of every room, and fingerprinting every object. Green led him, on the gridded track laid down by the CSIs to prevent contamination of the carpets, upstairs to the master bedroom, and then through into the bathroom and pointed out the shower cubicle where the attack on Freya Northrop had begun. Then back out to the bedroom, where a sliding, mirrored wardrobe door was open, with several dresses fallen to the floor.