Dead Man's Footsteps

by Peter James

  They seemed genuine, but she continued gripping the pepper spray tightly. She would put nothing past Ricky.

  Then she noticed the surly face of the elderly Polish caretaker, who was puffing up the stairs in his grubby sweatshirt and brown trousers.

  ‘I not paid to work weekends,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s the managing agents. I speak to them about this lift for months! Months.’ He looked at Abby and frowned. Jerked a finger with a blackened nail upwards. ‘Flat 82, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘The managing agents,’ he wheezed in his guttural accent. ‘They no good. I tell them, every day I tell them.’

  ‘How long you been in there, darlin’?’ her rescuer said.

  He was in his thirties, good-looking in a boy-band sort of way, with black eyebrows almost too neat to be real. She looked at him warily, as if he was too handsome to be a fireman, as if he was all part of Ricky’s elaborate deception. Then she found she was shaking almost too much to speak.

  ‘Do you have any water?’

  Moments later a water bottle was put in her hand. She drank in greedy gulps, spilling some so that it ran down her chin and trickled down her neck. She drained it before she spoke.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She held out the empty bottle, and an unseen hand took it.

  ‘Last night,’ she said. ‘I’ve been – since – I think – in this sodding thing – last night. It’s Saturday now?’

  ‘Yes. It’s 5.20, Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Since yesterday. Since just after 6.30 yesterday evening.’ She looked in fury at the caretaker. ‘Don’t you check the bloody alarm’s working? Or the bloody phone in the thing?’

  ‘The managing agents.’ He shrugged, as if every problem in the universe could be blamed on them.

  ‘If you don’t feel well you should go to A and E at the hospital for a check-up,’ the good-looking fire officer said.

  That panicked her. ‘No – no – I’m really fine, thank you. I – I just—’

  ‘If you’re really bad, we can call you an ambulance.’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No. I don’t need hospital.’

  She looked at her fallen-over boots, which were still in the lift, and at the damp stain on the floor. She couldn’t smell anything but she knew it must reek in there.

  His radio crackled again and she heard another call sign.

  ‘I – I thought it was going to plunge. You know? At any moment. I thought it was going to plunge – and I was going to be—’

  ‘Na, no danger. Got a back-up centrifugal locking mechanism, even if it did. But it wouldn’t have fallen.’ His voice tailed away and he seemed pensive for a moment, his eyes darting to the ceiling of the lift. ‘You live here?’

  She nodded.

  Relaxing his grip on her, he said, ‘You ought to check your service charges. Make sure the lift maintenance is on them.’

  The caretaker made a comment, something else about the managing agents, but she barely heard it. Her relief at being freed was only fleeting. Great that she was out of the bloody lift. But that did not remotely mean she was out of danger.

  She knelt down, trying to reach her boots without going back in the lift. But they were out of reach. The fireman bent down and hooked them out with the reverse of his axe. He clearly wasn’t stupid enough to go in there himself.

  ‘Who alerted you?’ she asked.

  ‘A lady in – ’ he paused to read a note on his pad – ‘flat 47. She tried to call the lift several times this afternoon, then reported she heard someone calling for help.’

  Making a mental note to thank her some time, Abby looked warily up the stairs, which were covered in the workmen’s dust sheets and littered with plasterboard and building materials.

  ‘You should get plenty of fluids down you, and eat something as soon as you can,’ the fireman recommended. ‘Just something light. Soup or something. I’ll come up to your flat with you, make sure you’re all right.’

  She thanked him, then looked at her Mace spray, wondering why it hadn’t fired, and realized she had not flipped the safety lock. She dropped it in her bag and, holding her boots, began to climb the stairs, carefully negotiating the builders’ mess. Thinking.

  Had Ricky sabotaged the lift? And the phone and the bell? Was it too far-fetched to think he had done that?

  All the locks were as she had left them, she was relieved to discover when she reached her front door. Even so, after thanking the fire officer again, she let herself in warily, checking the thread across the hall was intact before locking the door again behind her and securing the safety chains. Then, just to be sure, she checked each room in the flat.

  Everything was fine. No one had been here.

  She went to the kitchen to make herself some tea and grabbed a KitKat out of the fridge. She had just popped a piece in her mouth when the doorbell rang, followed immediately by a sharp rap.

  Chewing, nerves jangling in case this was Ricky, she hurried warily to the front door and peered through the spyhole. A slight, thin-faced man in his early twenties, with short black hair brushed forward, wearing a suit, was standing there.

  Who the hell was he? A salesman? A Jehovah’s Witness – but didn’t they normally come in pairs? Or he might be something to do with the fire brigade. Right now, dog tired, very shaken and ravenous, she just wanted to make a cup of tea, have something to eat, then down several glasses of red wine and crash out.

  Knowing that the man would have had to pass the caretaker and the firemen to get here eased her fears about him a little. Checking that the two safety chains were properly engaged, she unlocked the door and pushed it open the few inches it would travel.

  ‘Katherine Jennings?’ he asked in a voice that was sharp and invasive. His breath was warm on her face and smelled of peppermint chewing gum.

  Katherine Jennings was the name under which she had rented the flat.

  ‘Yes?’ she replied.

  ‘Kevin Spinella from the Argus newspaper. I wonder if you could spare a couple of moments of your time?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and immediately tried to push the door shut. But it was wedged open by his foot.

  ‘I’d just like a quick quote I could use.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘So you are not grateful to the fire brigade for rescuing you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say—’

  Shit. He was now writing that down on his pad.

  ‘Look, Ms – Mrs Jennings?’

  She didn’t rise to the bait.

  He went on. ‘I understand you’ve just had quite an ordeal – would it be OK for me to send a photographer round?’

  ‘No, it would not,’ she said. ‘I’m very tired.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow morning? What time wouldbegood for you?’

  ‘No, thank you. And please remove your foot.’

  ‘Did you feel your life was in jeopardy?’

  ‘I’m very tired,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Right, I understand, you’ve been through a lot. Tell you what, I’ll pop back tomorrow with a photographer. About 10 tomorrow morning suit you? Not too early for you on a Sunday?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want any publicity.’

  ‘Good, well, I’ll see you in the morning then.’ He removed his foot.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said firmly, then pushed the door shut and locked it very carefully. Shit, that was all she bloody needed, her photo in the paper.

  Shaking, her mind a maelstrom of thoughts, she pulled her cigarettes from her bag and lit one. Then she walked through into the kitchen.

  *

  A man seated in the rear of an old white van that was parked in the street below also lit a cigarette. Then he popped the tab of a can of Foster’s lager, being careful not to spray the expensive piece of electrical kit he had alongside him, and took a swig. Through the lens inserted in the tiny hole he had drilled in the roof of the van, he norm
ally had a perfect view of her flat, although it was partly obscured at this moment by a parked fire engine blocking the street. Still, he thought, it relieved the monotony of his long vigil.

  And he could see to his satisfaction, from the shadow moving back past the window, that she was in there now.

  Home sweet home, he thought to himself, and grinned wryly. That was almost funny.

  32

  11 SEPTEMBER 2001

  Lorraine, still wearing nothing but her bikini bottoms and gold ankle chain, sat on a bar stool in her kitchen, watching the small television mounted above the work surface, waiting for the kettle to boil. The butts from half a dozen cigarettes lay in the ashtray in front of her. She had just lit another and was inhaling deeply as she held the phone to her ear, talking to Sue Klinger, her best friend.

  Sue and her husband, Stephen, lived in a house that Lorraine had always coveted, a stunning detached mansion in Tongdean Avenue – considered by many people to be one of the finest residences in Brighton and Hove – with views across the whole city, down to the sea. The Klingers also owned a villa in Portugal. They had four gorgeous children, and, unlike Ronnie, Stephen had the Midas touch. Ronnie had promised Lorraine that if Sue and Stephen ever sold the house, he would find a way to come up with the money to buy it. Yep, sure. In your dreams, my love.

  They were replaying the images of the two planes striking the towers again, and then again, over and over. It was as if whoever was producing or directing this programme couldn’t believe it either, and had to keep replaying them to be sure it was real. Or perhaps someone in shock thought that if they repeated these images enough times, eventually the planes would miss the towers and fly past safely, and it would be just a normal Tuesday morning in Manhattan, business as usual. She watched the sudden orange fireball, the dense black clouds, feeling sicker and sicker.

  Now they were showing the towers coming down again. First the South, then the North.

  The kettle came to the boil but she didn’t move, not wanting to take her eyes off the screen in case she missed Ronnie. Alfie rubbed against her leg, but she ignored him. Sue was saying something to her, but Lorraine didn’t hear because she was peering at the screen intently, scanning every face.

  ‘Lorraine? Hello? You still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ronnie’s a survivor. He’ll be OK.’

  The kettle switched itself off with a click. Survivor. Her sister had used that word as well.

  Survivor.

  Shit, Ronnie, you’d better be.

  A beeping sound told her there was a call waiting. Barely able to contain herself she shouted excitedly, ‘Sue, that might be him! Call you straight back!’

  Oh, God, Ronnie, please be on the phone. Please. Please let this be you!

  But it was her sister. ‘Lori, I just heard that all flights in the US have been grounded.’ Mo worked as a stewardess for British Airways long-haul.

  ‘What – what does that mean?’

  ‘They’re not letting any planes in or out. I was meant to be flying to Washington tomorrow. Everything’s grounded.’

  Lorraine felt a new wave of panic. ‘Until when?’

  ‘I don’t know – until further notice.’

  ‘Does that mean Ronnie might not get back tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I’ll find out more later in the day, but they’re making all planes that are heading to the States turn back. Which means the planes will be in the wrong places. It’s going to be chaos.’

  ‘Great,’ Lorraine said glumly. ‘That’s just bloody great. When do you think he might get back?’

  ‘I don’t know – I’ll get an update as soon as I can.’

  Lorraine heard a child calling, and Mo saying, ‘One minute, darling. Mummy’s on the phone.’

  Lorraine crushed out her cigarette. Then she jumped down from the stool, still watching the television screen, pulled out a tea bag and a mug, and poured in the water. Still without taking her eyes from the screen, she stepped back and bumped her hip, painfully, into the corner of the kitchen table.

  ‘Shit! Fuck!’

  She looked down for a moment. Saw the fresh red mark among the uneven line of bruises, some black and fresh, some yellow and almost gone. Ronnie was clever, he always hit her in the body, never her face. Always made bruises she could easily hide.

  Always cried and begged forgiveness after one of his – increasingly frequent – drunken rages.

  And she always forgave him.

  Forgave him because of the deep inadequacy she felt. She knew how badly he wanted the one thing she had not been able, so far, to give him. The child he so desperately wanted.

  And because she was terrified of losing him.

  And because she loved him.

  33

  OCTOBER 2007

  It hadn’t been the best weekend of his life, Roy Grace thought to himself at 8 o’clock on Monday morning, as he sat in the tiny, cramped dentist’s waiting room, flicking through the pages of Sussex Life. In fact, it didn’t really feel as if the previous week had actually ended.

  Dr Frazer Theobald’s post-mortem had gone on interminably, finally finishing around 9 p.m. on Saturday. And Cleo, who had been fine during the post-mortem, had been uncharacteristically ratty with him yesterday.

  Both of them knew it was no one’s fault that their weekend plans had been ruined, yet somehow he felt she was blaming him, just the way Sandy used to blame him when he’d arrive home hours late, or have to cancel some long-term plan at the last minute because an emergency had come up. As if it was his fault a jogger had discovered a dead body in a ditch late on a Friday afternoon, instead of at a more convenient time.

  Cleo knew the score. She knew the world of the police and their erratic hours better than most – her own weren’t much different. She could be called out at any time of the day or night, and frequently was. So what was eating her?

  She had even got annoyed with him when he’d gone back to his own house for a couple of hours to mow the badly overgrown lawn.

  ‘You wouldn’t have been able to mow it if we’d been up in London,’ she’d said. ‘So why now?’

  It was his house that was the real problem, he knew. His house – his and Sandy’s house – still seemed a red rag to a bull with Cleo. Although he had recently removed a lot of Sandy’s possessions, Cleo still very rarely came round and always seemed uncomfortable when she did. They’d only made love there once, and it hadn’t been a good experience for either of them.

  Since then they always slept at Cleo’s house. The nights they spent together were becoming increasingly frequent, and he now kept a set of shaving kit and washing stuff there, as well as a dark suit, fresh white shirt, plain tie and a pair of black shoes – his weekday work uniform.

  It had been a good question and he didn’t tell her the truth, because that would have made things worse. The truth was that the skeleton had shaken him. He wanted to be on his own for a few hours, to reflect.

  To think about how he would feel if it was Sandy.

  His relationship with Cleo had gone way, way further than any other he had had since Sandy, but he was conscious that, despite all his efforts to move forward, Sandy remained a constant wedge between them. A few weeks ago at dinner, when they’d both had too much to drink, Cleo had let slip her concern about her biological clock ticking away. He knew she was starting to want commitment – and sensed she felt that, with Sandy in the way, she was never going to get it from him.

  That wasn’t true. Roy adored her. Loved her. And had begun seriously to contemplate a life together with her.

  Which was why he had been terribly hurt early yesterday evening when, having gone back to her house clutching a couple of bottles of their current favourite red Rioja wine, he had opened her front door with his key to be greeted by a tiny black puppy which sprinted towards him, put its paws around his leg and peed on his trainers.

  ‘Humphrey, meet Roy!’ she said. ‘Roy, meet Humphrey!’

&
nbsp; ‘Who – whose is this?’ he asked, bewildered.

  ‘Mine. I got him this afternoon. He’s a five-month-old rescue puppy – a Lab and Border Collie cross.’

  Roy’s right foot felt uncomfortably warm as the urine seeped in. And a strange hot flush of confusion swirled through him as he knelt and felt the dog’s sandpapery tongue lick his hand. He was totally astonished.

  ‘You – you never told me you were getting a puppy!’

  ‘Yep, well, there’s lots you don’t tell me either, Roy,’ she said breezily.

  *

  An elderly woman came into the waiting room, gave him a suspicious look, as if to say, I’ve got the first appointment, sonny boy, then sat down.

  Roy had a packed schedule. At 9 a.m. he was going to see Alison Vosper and have it out with her about Cassian Pewe. At 9.45, later than normal, he was holding the first briefing meeting of Operation Dingo – the random name thrown up by the Sussex House computer for the investigation into the death of the Unknown Female, as the skeleton in the storm drain was currently called. Then at 10.30 he was due at morning prayers – the jokey name given to the newly reinstated weekly management team meetings.

  At midday he was scheduled to hold a press conference on the finding of the skeleton. Not a huge amount to tell at this point, but hopefully by revealing the age of the dead woman, the physical characteristics and the approximate period when she died, it might jog someone’s memory about a mis-per from around that time. Supposing, of course, that it was not Sandy.

  ‘Roy! Good to see you!’

  Steve Cowling stood in the doorway in his white gown, beaming with his perfect white teeth. A tall man in his mid-fifties, with a ramrod-straight military bearing, immaculate hair becoming increasingly grey every time Roy saw him, he exuded charm and confidence in equal measure, combined always with a certain boyish enthusiasm, as if teeth really were the most exciting thing in the world.

  ‘Come in, old chap!’

  Grace gave an apologetic nod to the elderly lady, who looked distinctly miffed, and followed the dentist in to his bright, airy torture chamber.