They had a date tomorrow. It was difficult in the evenings, because of having to be back for lock-in, but tomorrow they would be spending all day together. She shared a room in a little flat up off the Lewes Road and, giggling, had told him her room-mate was going to be away for the weekend. Tomorrow, with luck, he reckoned, they’d be shagging all day.
He had another whisky to celebrate, a quality one this time, a single malt, Glenlivet. Mustn’t drink too much, he knew, because arriving back at St Patrick’s drunk was a sure way to get thrown out. And now he was getting close to his coveted MiPod. So just the one Glenlivet. Not that money was no object – but the old cash situation was improving all the time.
He’d managed to get himself on to room maintenance at the hotel, because they were short of staff. He had a plastic pass key to get him into every guest room in the building. And he had today’s takings from the room safes he’d opened up tucked in his pocket. He’d been cautious. He was going to keep his promise to himself to stay out of prison this time for good. All he took was a tiny fraction of any cash he found in the safes. Of course he had been tempted by some of the fancy watches and jewellery, but he’d stuck to his guns, and was proud of his self-discipline.
In these past four and a half weeks, he’d stashed away nearly four grand in his chained suitcase in the locker at St Patrick’s. Property prices had come down, thanks to the recession. With what Tia earned, and with what he could put down as a cash deposit in, say, a year’s time, he should be able to buy a little flat somewhere in the Brighton area. Or even move right away to somewhere a lot cheaper. Perhaps warmer.
Perhaps Spain.
Maybe Tia would like to be in a warm country.
Of course it was all a pipe dream. He hadn’t talked about any future with her yet. The thought of hopefully shagging her tomorrow was about as far as he had got. But he felt good about her. She gave off a warmth that made him feel happy every time he stood near her or talked to her. Sometimes you needed to go with your instincts.
And his instincts, ten minutes later, as he turned right off Western Road into Cambridge Road told him that something was not good.
It was the shiny silver Ford Focus estate double-parked almost outside the front door of the St Patrick’s night shelter, with someone sitting in the driving seat.
When you spent your life trying not to get nicked, you developed a kind of second sense, your antennae always up for spotting plain-clothes police and their vehicles. His eyes locked on the four short antennae on the roof of the Ford.
Shit.
Fear crashed through him. For an instant, he debated whether to turn and run, then empty his pockets. But he’d left it too late. The burly, bald, black detective who was standing in the doorway had already clocked him. Spicer decided he’d have to try to bluff it out.
Shit, he thought again, his dream fading away. And tomorrow’s shag with sweet Tia. The grim, green walls of Lewes Prison closing around his mind.
‘Hello, Darren,’ Detective Sergeant Branson greeted him, with a big cheery grin. ‘How’s it going?’
Spicer looked at him warily. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Yeah.’
‘Wonder if I could have a word with you.’ He pointed at the door. ‘They’re letting us use that interview room – OK with you?’
‘Yeah.’ Spicer shrugged. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Just a little chat. Got a bit of news I thought you might like to hear.’
Spicer sat down, shaking, very uneasy. He couldn’t think of any news that Detective Sergeant Branson could bring him that he would like to hear.
Branson closed the door, then seated himself across the table, facing him. ‘Dunno if you remember when we spoke – you were giving me the nod about the lock-up behind Mandalay Court? About the white van inside it?’
Spicer looked at him warily.
‘I mentioned to you there was a reward, right? Fifty thousand pounds? For information leading to the arrest and conviction of the man who attempted to attack Mrs Dee Burchmore? Put up by her husband.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, I’ve got good news for you. It looks like you’re in line for it.’
Spicer broke into a grin, relief flooding through him. Incredible relief.
‘You’re shitting me?’
Branson shook his head. ‘Nope. Actually, Detective Superintendent Grace, the SIO, has put your name forward himself. It’s down to you that we’ve potted our suspect. He’s been arrested and charged.’
‘When do I get the money?’ Spicer asked incredulously.
‘When he’s convicted. I think a trial date’s been set for this autumn – I can let you know when I have the details. But there’s not much doubt we’ve got the right man.’ Branson smiled. ‘So, sunshine, what are you going to do with all that loot? Shove it up your nose, right, as usual?’
‘Nah.’ Spicer said. ‘I’m going to buy a little flat, you know, as an investment for the future. I’ll use the money towards the deposit. Magic!’
Branson shook his head. ‘In your dreams. You’ll spend it on drugs.’
‘I won’t. Not this time! I’m not going back inside. I’m going to buy a place of my own and go straight. Yeah.’
‘Tell you what, invite us to your house-warming. Just to prove you’ve changed, all right?’
Spicer grinned. ‘Yeah, well, that could be difficult. If it’s a party, you know – like – there might be stuff here. You know, like – party stuff. Could be embarrassing for you to be there – you being a cop and all.’
‘I don’t embarrass easily.’
Spicer shrugged. ‘Fifty grand. Incredible! Fucking incredible!’
The DS fixed his eyes on the old lag. ‘You know what? I heard they didn’t bother changing the sheets in your cell. They know you’re going to be back.’
‘Not this time.’
‘I’ll look forward to the invitation. The Governor of Lewes Prison will know where to send it.’
Spicer grinned. ‘That’s very witty.’
‘Just the truth, sunshine.’
Glenn left the room and went outside, to where Roy Grace was waiting in the car. He was looking forward to an end-of-week drink with his mate.
123
I’ve started talking. Just for one reason, to get even with you, Detective Smug Superintendent Roy Grace.
It’s not great in here on the remand wing. People don’t like guys like me in this place. Nonces, they call us. I cut my tongue open on a piece of razor blade that was in my Irish stew. I hear rumours that people piss in my soup. One guy’s threatened to put my other eye out.
I’m told it will be better after my trial. Then if I’m lucky (ha) I’ll be put into the nonces’ wing, as it’s known. All of us sexual deviants together. How great will that be! Party-party-party!
Some nights I don’t sleep at all. I have all this anger everywhere – all around me in this place and deep inside me. I’m angry at whoever it was who did that rape on the ghost train. It meant that the pier was swarming with police afterwards, completely messing up my plans. It was all going so nicely until then. It just didn’t go nicely after that.
I’m angry that the bitch escaped the humiliation that she would have faced, being known as my wife. Something’s not right about that. Although I don’t really care and I don’t suppose anyone else does.
But I have even bigger anger inside me that is directed at you, Detective Superintendent Grace. You thought you were clever, telling the world about the size of my dick. You can’t be allowed to get away with something like that.
That’s why I’m talking now. I’m fessing-up to all the other times I raped and took the shoes. In particular the ghost train. You won’t be able to get me on any trick questions – word seems to have got around about all the crimes the Shoe Man perpetrated – the recent ones – every detail of what he did to the women. Including every detail of what happened in the ghost train.
So I’m briefed!
You didn’t understand wh
y I changed my MO, from taking one shoe and panties to taking both shoes. You weren’t meant to understand, see? I wasn’t going to make your job easy for you by just repeating exactly the same stuff over again. Variety’s the spice of life, right?
I’m your man, all right! I’m just going to hope that the creep who raped that woman on the ghost train strikes again.
You’ll have egg all over your face, Detective Superintendent Grace.
And I’ll have a big grin on mine.
And who will have the smaller dick then?
124
Sunday 22 February
‘It’s good to see you relaxed, my darling,’ Cleo said.
It was the evening now. They’d spent the afternoon together, working on the wedding list. Roy Grace had his feet up, a glass of red wine in his hand, and was watching The Antiques Road Show, one of his favourite programmes. Most of all he enjoyed watching people as they were given the valuation of their treasured – or otherwise – heirloom. The look of astonishment when some tatty bowl they’d been using to feed the dog was valued at thousands. The look of dismay when some splendid painting, which had been in the family for generations, was pronounced a fake worth only a few quid.
‘Yep!’ He smiled and just wished he felt relaxed. But he didn’t. Doubt was still gnawing away at him, despite the Shoe Man having been caught. And there were still ripples from Starling’s wife’s suicide. He’d listened to the prison tape, where she’d talked about going home and topping herself. It had sounded like an idle threat. But then she had gone and done it. No note, nothing.
‘I mean,’ she said, gently lifting Humphrey out of the way and curling up next to him on the sofa, ‘as relaxed as you’re ever going to be.’
He shrugged, then nodded. ‘At least the Shoe Man’s had some comeuppance. He’s permanently blinded in one eye.’
‘How sad is that? Shame that young woman didn’t castrate him while she was at it,’ Cleo retorted. ‘All of his victims are maimed in some way and one’s dead.’
‘I just wish we knew who all of them are,’ he said. ‘He’s coughed, but I somehow don’t think he’s telling us everything. He’s one of the nastiest creeps I’ve ever come across. His home and office computers are full of weird shit. All kinds of foot- and shoe-fetish sites and chatlines – a lot of it sadistic. And he’s got a whole cocktail of sleeping and date-rape drugs in his office fridge.’
‘Is he going to plead guilty and spare his victims the ordeal of giving evidence?’
‘I don’t know. Depends on his brief – good old Ken Acott again. We’ve a ton of evidence against him. The lock-up’s in his name. We’ve found missing pages from the Shoe Man’s 1997 files in a safe in his office. There are links to Facebook and Twitter sites of some of his recent victims on his computer and iPhone. DNA evidence from Rachael Ryan’s body.’
He drank some wine.
‘But we’re going to have to wait for psychiatric evaluations as to whether he is fit to stand trial. Great! Garry Starling’s able to run one of the biggest companies in the city, to be vice-captain of his golf club and treasurer of his Rotary Club – but he might not be fit to stand trial! Our legal processes suck.’
Cleo smiled sympathetically. She understood some of his frustrations at the criminal justice system.
‘Jessie Sheldon should get a medal. How is she? Has she survived her ordeal OK?’
‘Remarkably well. I went to see her at home this afternoon. She’s had surgery on her ankle and hopefully it will be fine in time. In fact she seemed in very good spirits, considering. She’s looking forward to her wedding this summer.’
‘She was engaged?’
‘Apparently. She told me it was her determination to get married that kept her going.’
‘So don’t feel bad about his injury.’
‘I don’t. Not about his injury, no. I just don’t feel we’ve nailed it. Not completely.’
‘Because of those other shoes?’
‘I’m not so concerned about those. If we can get him to talk more, eventually, maybe we’ll clear those up.’
He sipped some more wine and glanced at the television.
‘Is it the one on the ghost train who’s bothering you? What’s her name?’
‘Mandy Thorpe. Yes. I still don’t believe it was the Shoe Man who raped her. Even though he says he did. The forensic psychologist is wrong, I’m still convinced.’
‘Meaning the perpetrator is still out there?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly the problem. If Proudfoot’s wrong, then he’s still out there. And might attack again.’
‘If he is out there, you’ll get him. One day.’
‘I want to get him before he attacks again.’
Cleo pouted her lips playfully. ‘You’re my hero, Detective Superintendent Grace. You’ll always get them eventually.’
‘In your dreams.’
‘No, not in my dreams. I’m a realist.’ She patted her tummy. ‘In about four months’ time, our little Bump is going to be born. I’m depending on you to make it a safe world for him – or her.’
He kissed her. ‘There are always going to be bad guys out there.’
‘And bad girls!’
‘Them too. The world is a dangerous place. We’re never going to lock them all up. There’ll always be evil people who get away with their crimes.’
‘And good people who get locked away?’ she said.
‘There will always be blurred boundaries. There are plenty of good bad guys and bad good guys. Life’s not clear and it’s seldom fair,’ he said. ‘I don’t want our child growing up under the illusion that it is. Shit happens.’
Cleo smiled at him. ‘Shit used to happen. It stopped happening the day I met you. You rock!’
He grinned. ‘You’re full of it. Sometimes I wonder why you love me.’
‘Do you, Detective Superintendent Grace? I don’t. Not for one moment. And I don’t think I ever will. You make me feel safe. You have from the day I met you and you always will.’
He smiled. ‘You’re so easily pleased.’
‘Yeah, and I’m a cheap date. I don’t even have one pair of designer shoes.’
‘Want me to buy you some?’
She stared at him quizzically
He looked back at her and grinned. ‘For the right reasons!’
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD
‘Stranger rape’ is actually extremely uncommon. In Sussex, the county in which Dead Like You is based, attacks such as those described are, thankfully, rare. It is in fact the very sad truth that virtually all rapes are committed by men known to the victim. The vast majority of rape survivors describe being attacked by a friend or someone they are in a long-term relationship with. The betrayal of trust caused as a result can undermine their ability to form a new relationship subsequently.
It is impossible to generalize about the way victims will respond to being raped, because there is no ‘normal’ reaction to such an abnormal act. The trauma can manifest itself in many different ways and there are specialist organizations, such as Rape Crisis, that exist to support victims. One local to Sussex is The Lifecentre, which aims to ‘rebuild’ survivors of rape. I have chosen to support them because I feel they provide a critical service which, incredibly, is not government-funded. Donations are always welcome. Go online and visit their website at www.lifecentre.uk.com if you wish to help. Thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As ever, there are many people I have to thank for helping me in my research for this novel.
My first thank-you is to Martin Richards, QPM, Chief Constable of Sussex, who allows me such invaluable access to the world of his police force.
My good friend former Detective Chief Superintendent David Gaylor has, as ever, been a brick, a pillar of wisdom, and at times has wielded a bigger stick than my publishers in keeping me to my deadlines!
As always, so many officers of Sussex Police have given me their time and wisdom, and tolerated me hanging out with them and answered my en
dless questions, that it is almost impossible to list them all, but I’m trying here, and please forgive any omissions. Detective Chief Superintendent Kevin Moore; Chief Superintendent Graham Bartlett; Chief Superintendent Chris Ambler; DCI Trevor Bowles, who has been an absolute star and a brick; Chief Inspector Stephen Curry; DCI Paul Furnell; Brian Cook, Scientific Support Branch Manager; Stuart Leonard; Tony Case; DI William Warner; DCI Nick Sloan; DI Jason Tingley; Chief Inspector Steve Brookman; Inspector Andrew Kundert; Inspector Roy Apps; Sgt Phil Taylor; Ray Packham and Dave Reed of the High-Tech Crime Unit; Lex Westwood; Sgt James Bowes; PC Georgie Edge; Inspector Rob Leet; Inspector Phil Clarke; Sgt Mel Doyle; PC Tony Omotoso; PC Ian Upperton; PC Andrew King; Sgt Sean McDonald; PC Steve Cheesman; Sgt Andy McMahon; Sgt Justin Hambloch; Chris Heaver; Martin Bloomfield; Ron King; Robin Wood; Sue Heard, Press and PR Officer; Louise Leonard; James Gartrell.
DS Tracy Edwards has been incredible in helping me to understand the reality of the suffering of rape victims, as have Maggie Ellis of the Life Centre and PCs Julie Murphy and Jonathan Jackson of the Metropolitan Police, London.
Eoin McLennan-Murray, former Governor of Lewes Prison, and Deputy Governor, Alan Setterington, helped me greatly with the psychology of my suspects, as did Jeannie Civil and Tara Lester, who helped me so much with the psychology of the perpetrators, and barrister Richard Cherrill. I had huge help also with the psychology of the perpetrators from Dr Dennis Friedman.
A special thank-you to Caroline Mayhew, and to the team at the St Patrick’s Night Shelter, in particular Emma Harrington, Theo Abbs and Amanda Lane.
And, as always, I owe an extremely special and massive thanks to the terrific team at the Brighton and Hove City Mortuary, Sean Didcott and Victor Sindon. And also to Dr Nigel Kirkham; forensic archaeologist Lucy Sibun; Dr Jonathan Pash; Coroner Dr Peter Dean; forensic pathologist Dr Benjamin Swift; Dr Ben Sharp; Marian Down.
Thank you to my terrific consultants on autism, Vicky Warren, who gave me so much of the inspiration for Yac; Gareth Ransome; Tony Balazs; and to wonderful Sue Stopa, manager of Hollyrood – the Disabilities Trust’s flagship autism-specific residential home – and its staff and residential clients.