Dead Like You

  The rush-hour gridlock up the London Road was being made worse than usual by new roadworks. The traffic light ahead had gone from green to red, to green to red again now, and they hadn’t moved in inch. She was still alongside the brightly lit window display of British Bookshops. She had time to look at her phone safely, she decided.

  Hope you win! XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  She smiled. The engine idled and the wipers alternated between a scraping and a screeching sound, flattening the droplets of rain that landed on the windscreen into an opaque smear. Benedict told her she needed new wiper blades and was going to get her some. She could have done with them now, she thought.

  She looked at her watch: 5.50. Shit. Normally, the half an hour she allowed to get from the charity’s offices in the Old Steine, where she had a free parking space, to the Withdean Sports Stadium was more than adequate. But this evening she had not moved an inch for over five minutes. She was due on court at 6 p.m. Hopefully it would be better once she was past the roadworks.

  Jessie wasn’t the only person being made anxious by the bad traffic. Someone waiting for her at the Withdean Sports Stadium, someone who was not her squash partner, was in a very bad mood. And it was worsening by the second.

  67

  Tuesday 13 January

  It was meant to be dark here! It had been dark when he’d checked it out last night. It was less than a month since the longest night of the year – only 13 January, for Christ’s sake! At 6 p.m. it should be totally dark. But the sodding car park of Withdean Sports Stadium was lit up like a sodding Christmas Tree. Why did they have to pick tonight to have bloody outdoor athletics practice? Hadn’t anyone told the stadium about global warming?

  And where the fuck was she?

  The car park was a lot fuller than he had expected. He’d already driven around it three times, checking that he had not missed the little black Ka. It definitely wasn’t here.

  She distinctly said on Facebook that she would meet Jax here at 5.45. The court was booked for 6 p.m. As usual.

  He’d looked up pictures of Roz on Facebook, too. View photos of Roz (121). Send Roz a message. Poke Roz. Roz and Jessie are friends. Roz was quite a sexy vixen, he thought. She rocked! There were some photos of her all dressed up for a prom night.

  He focused on the task in hand as his eyes hunted through the windscreen. Two men hurried across in front of him, each carrying sports bags, heads ducked low against the rain, going into the main building. They didn’t see him. White vans were always invisible! He was tempted to follow them inside, to check in case somehow he had missed Jessie Sheldon and she was already on court. She’d said something about her car, that it had been fixed. What if something had gone wrong with it again and she’d got a lift from someone instead, or taken a bus or a taxi?

  He stopped the van alongside a row of parked vehicles, in a position that gave him a clear view of the entrance ramp to the car park, switched the engine off and killed the lights. It was a God-awful cold, rainy night, which was perfect. No one was going to take any notice of the van, floodlights or no sodding floodlights. Everyone had their heads down, dashing for the cover of the buildings or their cars. All except the stupid athletes on the track.

  He was prepared. He was already wearing his latex gloves. The chloroform pad was in a sealed container in his anorak pocket. He slipped his hand inside, to check again. His hood was in another pocket. He checked that again too. Just one thing concerned him: he hoped that Jessie would have a shower after her game, because he didn’t like sweaty women. He didn’t like some of the unwashed smells women had. She must shower, surely, because she was going straight on to pick up a Chinese takeaway and then to watch a horror film with Roz.

  Headlights approached up the ramp. He stiffened. Was this her? He switched on the ignition to sweep the wipers over the rain-spattered screen.

  It was a Range Rover. Its headlights momentarily blinded him, then he heard it roar past. He kept the wipers going. The heater pumped in welcoming warm air.

  A guy in baggy shorts and a baseball cap was trudging across the car park, with a sports bag slung over his shoulders, engrossed in a conversation on his mobile. He heard a faint beep-beep and saw lights wink on a dark-coloured Porsche, then the man opened the door.

  Wanker, he thought.

  He stared again at the ramp. Looked at his watch: 6.05 p.m. Shit. He pounded the wheel with his fists. Heard a faint, high-pitched whistling sound in his ears. He got that sometimes when he was all tensed up. He pinched the end of his nose shut and blew hard, but it had no effect and the whistling grew louder.

  ‘Stop it! Fuck off! Stop it!’

  It grew louder still.

  Exceptionally diminutive manhood!

  Jessie would be the judge of that.

  He looked at his watch again: 6.10 p.m.

  The whistling was now as loud as a football referee’s whistle.

  ‘Shut up!’ he shouted, feeling all shaky, his eyes blurring with anger.

  Then he heard voices, suddenly, and the scrunch of shoes.

  ‘I told her he’s an absolute waste of space.’

  ‘She said she loves him! I told her, like, I mean, what??????’

  There was a sharp double beep. He saw a flash of orange over to his left. Then he heard car doors click open and, a few moments later, slam shut. The brief whir of a starter motor, then the rattle of a diesel. The interior of the van suddenly stank of diesel exhaust. He heard the blast of a horn.

  ‘Sod off,’ he said.

  The horn blasted again, twice, to his left.

  ‘Sod off! Screw you! Fuck you! Fuck off!’

  There was a mist in front of his eyes, inside his head. The wipers screeched, clearing the rain. More came. They cleared that too. More came.

  Then the horn blasted again.

  He turned in fury and saw reversing lights on. And then realized. A big, ugly people carrier was trying to reverse and he was parked right in front of it, blocking it.

  ‘Fuck you! Screw you!’ He started the van, crunched it into gear, jerked forward a few inches and stalled. His head was shaking, the whistling even louder, slicing his brain to bits like a cheese-wire. He started the van again. Someone knocked on the passenger door window. ‘Fuck you!’ He rammed the gear lever into first and shot forward. He carried on, almost blind with fury now, and hurtled down the ramp.

  In his haze of fury he was utterly oblivious of the headlights of the little black Ford Ka racing up the ramp, in the opposite direction, and passing him.

  1998

  68

  Wednesday 14 January

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, my darling,’ Roy Grace said, coming through the front door.

  ‘If I had a pound for every time you’ve said that, I’d be a millionaire!’ Sandy gave him a resigned smile, then kissed him.

  There was a warm smell of scented candles in the house. Sandy lit them most evenings, but there seemed more than usual tonight, to mark the special occasion.

  ‘God, you look beautiful,’ he said.

  She did. She’d been to the hairdresser’s and her long fair hair was in ringlets. She was wearing a short black dress that showed every curve of her body and she had sprayed on his favourite perfume, Poison. She raised her wrist to show him the slim silver bracelet he’d bought her from a modern jeweller in the Lanes.

  ‘It looks great!’ he said.

  ‘It does!’ She admired it in the mirror on the Victorian coat-stand in the hall. ‘I love it. You have great taste, Detective Sergeant Grace!’

  He held her in his arms and nuzzled her bare neck. ‘I could make love to you right now, here on the hall floor.’

  ‘Then you’d better be quick. There’s a taxi coming in thirty minutes!’

  ‘Taxi? We don’t need a taxi. I’ll drive.’

  ‘You’re not going to drink on my birthday?’

  She helped him out of his coat, slung it on a hook on the stand and led him by the hand into the sitting room. The juke box they’d
bought a couple of years earlier in the Saturday morning Kensington Gardens market, and had restored, was playing one of his favourite Rolling Stones tracks, their version of ‘Under the Boardwalk’. The lights were dimmed and candles were burning all around. On the coffee table sat an open bottle of champagne, two glasses and a bowl of olives.

  ‘I had thought we might have a drink before we went out,’ she said wistfully. ‘But it’s OK. I’ll put it in the fridge and we can have it when we get back! You could drink it off my naked body.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ he said. ‘It’s a lovely idea. But I’m on duty, darling, so I can’t drink.’

  ‘Roy, it’s my birthday!’

  He kissed her again, but she pulled away from him. ‘You’re not on duty on my birthday. You were on duty all over Christmas. You’ve been at work all day today since very early. Now you’re switching off!’

  ‘Tell Popeye that.’

  Popeye was his immediate boss, Detective Chief Inspector Jim ‘Popeye’ Doyle. The DCI had been appointed the Senior Investigating Officer on Operation Sundown, the investigation into the disappearance of Rachael Ryan, which was currently consuming all Grace’s working hours – and keeping him awake every night, his brain racing.

  ‘Give me his number and I will!’

  Grace shook his head. ‘My darling, all leave has been cancelled. We’re on this case around the clock. I’m sorry. But if you were Rachael Ryan’s parents, that’s what you’d expect of us.’

  ‘You’re not telling me you can’t have a drink on my birthday?’

  ‘Let me nip up and change.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere until you promise me you’re going to drink with me tonight!’

  ‘Sandy, if I get called out and someone smells alcohol on my breath, I could lose my job and get kicked off the force. Please understand.’

  ‘Please understand!’ she mimicked. ‘If I had a pound for every time you said that as well, I’d be a multi-millionaire!’

  ‘Cancel the cab. I’m going to drive.’

  ‘You are not bloody driving!’

  ‘I thought we were trying to save money for the mortgage and for all the work on the house.’

  ‘I don’t think one taxi’s going to make much bloody difference!’

  ‘It’s two taxis actually – one there and one back.’

  ‘So?’ She placed her hands on her hips defiantly.

  At that moment, his radio phone crackled into life with an incoming call. He tugged it from his pocket and answered.

  ‘Roy Grace.’

  She looked at him, giving him a Don’t you dare, whatever it is, glare.

  It was his DCI.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.

  The reception was poor, Jim Doyle’s voice crackly.

  ‘Roy, there’s a burnt-out van just been found in a field by a farmer out lamping for rabbits. The index shows it was stolen yesterday afternoon. There’s a body in it which he thinks is female – he was in the Tank Corps of the army out in Iraq and knows a bit about these things apparently. Sounds possible it could be our missing Rachael Ryan – we need to secure the vehicle immediately. It’s off the Saddlescombe Road, half a mile south of the Waterhall Golf Club. I’m on my way over now. Can you meet me there? How long would it take you?’

  Grace’s heart sank. ‘You mean now, sir?’

  ‘What do you think? Three weeks’ time?’

  ‘No, sir – it’s just – it’s my wife’s birthday.’

  ‘Wish her Happy Birthday from me.’

  69

  Wednesday 14 January

  Norman Potting entered MIR-1 carrying a coffee he had just made in the kitchenette along the corridor. He was stooping, holding the steaming mug out at arm’s length, as if mistrustful of it. He grunted a couple of times as he crossed the room, seeming to be about to say something, then changing his mind.

  Like most of the team, Potting had been at his desk since before 7 a.m. It was now coming up to 8.30 a.m., and the morning briefing. Temporarily absent from the room was Roy Grace, who had an early appointment with the ACC, Peter Rigg, and Julius Proudfoot, who was due at any moment.

  A phone rang, loudly, to the sound of a trumpet fanfare. Everyone looked around. Embarrassed, Nick Nicholl plucked his offending machine out and silenced it.

  As Roy Grace entered the room another phone went off. The ring tone was the Indiana Jones theme. Potting had the decency to blush. It was his.

  Mouthing an apology to Roy Grace, he yanked it out of his pocket and checked the display. Then he raised a finger. ‘I’ll just take this quickly . . . Someone who may have a lead.’

  Another phone rang. It was Julius Proudfoot’s. The forensic psychologist entered the room, extricating his mobile from his man bag as he walked, answered it and sat down, holding it to his ear.

  The last to arrive was the Sexual Offences Liaison Officer, Claire Westmore, who had been interviewing and spending time with each of the three rape victims. This was the first of the briefings she had attended.

  Potting, wedging his phone to his ear with his shoulder, was writing on his notepad. ‘Thank you. That’s very helpful. Thank you.’

  He replaced his phone and turned to Roy, looking pleased with himself. ‘We have another suspect, chief!’

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘It’s from a bloke I know, one of my contacts.’ Potting tapped the side of his nose. ‘Drives for Streamline Taxis. Told me there’s a bloke – he’s a bit of a joke among the other cabbies apparently – name of John Kerridge. But he calls himself by a funny nickname: Yac. Well, apparently this Yac fellow drives a journeyman night shift and is always going on about strange stuff – ladies’ shoes is one of his things.’

  Now he had the full attention of the room.

  ‘There have been a few complaints about him by passengers – he gets a bit too personal about things, in particular the toilets in their homes and their footwear. I’ve spoken to the Hackney Carriage officer in the council. He tells me this driver hasn’t actually propositioned anyone, but he’s a bit more personal than some of his passengers like. The council want people – particularly women – to feel safe in licensed taxis, not vulnerable. He says he’s planning to have a word with him.’

  ‘Do you have an address for Kerridge?’ Grace asked.

  Potting nodded. ‘Lives on a houseboat at Shoreham.’

  ‘Good work,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve got Suspects on the agenda, so we’ll add him to the list when we get to it.’ He put his briefing notes down on the work surface in front of him, along with his Policy Book. ‘OK, it is 8.30 a.m., Wednesday 14 January. This is our tenth briefing of Operation Swordfish, the investigation into the stranger rape of three persons, Mrs Nicola Taylor, Mrs Roxy Pearce and Miss Mandy Thorpe. I’ve asked the SOLO, Claire Westmore, to attend in order to update us on her interviews with the victims.’

  He nodded at her.

  ‘All three of them are, as you would expect, deeply traumatized by what they have been through – the assaults, and the intrusive procedures afterwards,’ the SOLO said in her soft Scouse accent. ‘I’ll start with the first victim, Nicola Taylor, who still has only very limited recall of the attack at the Metropole. Her trauma has deepened since the original interview with her, part of which you and DS Branson witnessed. At the moment she is under sedation at her home in Brighton, being cared for around the clock by a female friend, and has attempted twice to self-harm. She may have to be taken into psychiatric care for a while before we can start a full interview process.’

  She paused to look at her notes. ‘I think we are making some progress with Mrs Roxanna Pearce, who was attacked in her home in The Droveway last Thursday night. What is interesting in her situation is that when the offender struck, she was in the process of getting dressed up – while her husband was away on a business trip in Scandinavia. SOCO found evidence in her kitchen that she was expecting a guest.’

  There were a few raised eyebrows. Then Bella said, ‘She could simply have invited
a girlfriend round. Why the innuendo?’

  ‘Well,’ Claire Westmore said, ‘I don’t think the signs indicate an innocent evening with a mate. There were Italian hors d’oeuvres in a carrier bag on the kitchen table. Two steaks on plates. An open bottle of a very expensive wine and another bottle in the fridge. I’ve asked her who she was going to be cooking these steaks for and she goes very defensive. She keeps repeating that she’d bought them to give her husband a treat when he came home. But he wasn’t due home until the next day.’

  ‘You don’t let a wine breathe that long. It would be kaput,’ Michael Foreman said. ‘It’s one of my interests. Doesn’t matter what the quality, an hour or two perhaps. But that long? Never. I’ve had a look at the report. That opened bottle would cost over a hundred quid. That’s not plonk you drink over a casual supper.’

  ‘Yep, well, I don’t know much about wine,’ Westmore said, ‘but I would have to agree with you. I think she was expecting someone.’

  ‘You mean a lover?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

  ‘You don’t open a bottle of wine for someone who’s going to rape you,’ Emma-Jane Boutwood said.

  ‘Maybe she was planning a kinky sex session,’ Norman Potting interjected.

  ‘In your dreams,’ Bella Moy retorted.

  ‘She’s obviously not going to tell you the truth if she was up to something while her husband was away,’ Potting went on. ‘And she’s not going to want him finding out now, is she?’

  ‘Could we be looking at a kinky sex game gone wrong?’ Proud-foot asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Claire Westmore said. ‘Not from the way I’m reading her.’

  ‘So who was her mystery dinner guest?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

  ‘She’s denying there was one.’

  Glenn Branson spoke. ‘The Mercedes car that was seen leaving her house at around the time of the attack, for which we only have two digits and one letter of the alphabet. We’ve now narrowed that down to eighty-three vehicles registered in the Brighton and Hove area. All the registered keepers are being contacted and interviewed. Of course, we’ve no way of being sure this was a local car, but it seems probable.’