Dead Man's Footsteps

by Peter James

  ‘I don’t appreciate the tone of your voice, Roy.’

  ‘And I don’t appreciate SOCO officers crawling all over my home with a search warrant. You fucking stop them right now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Pewe said, getting a little more courageous after realizing Grace was not going to hit him. ‘But following my interview with your late wife’s parents, I’m not comfortable that every aspect of your wife’s disappearance has been investigated as thoroughly as it should have been at the time.’

  He smiled in conclusion, and Grace did not think he had ever hated anyone in all his life as much as he hated Cassian Pewe at this moment.

  ‘Really? Just what did her parents say to you that’s so new?’

  ‘Her father had quite a bit to say.’

  ‘Did he tell you his father was in the RAF during the war?’

  ‘Yes, actually, he did,’ Pewe said.

  ‘Did he tell you about any of the bombing sorties his father went on?’

  ‘In some detail. Fascinating. He sounds a character. He flew on some of the Dambusters missions. Extraordinary man.’

  ‘Sandy’s father is an extraordinary man,’ Grace confirmed. ‘He is a complete fantasist. His father was never in 617 Squadron – the Dambusters squadron. And he was an aircraft fitter, not a gunner. He never flew on a single mission.’

  Pewe was silent for a second, looking slightly uncomfortable. Grace stormed back out, crossed the corridor and marched straight into the Chief Superintendent’s office. He stood in front of Sker-ritt’s desk until his boss had finished a call and then said, ‘Jack, I need to talk to you.’

  Skerritt ushered him to a chair. ‘How was New York?’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Got some good information – I’ll circulate a report. I’ve literally just got back.’

  ‘Your Operation Dingo team seems to be making some headway. I see there’s a big operation going on today.’

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  ‘Are you letting DI Mantle run with it, or are you taking back command?’

  ‘I think today we’re going to need everyone,’ Grace said. ‘It’s going to depend on the geography to some extent who else we involve.’

  Skerritt nodded. ‘So, what did you want to talk about?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Pewe,’ he said.

  ‘Wasn’t my choice to bring him here,’ Skerritt said, giving Grace a knowing look.

  ‘I realize that.’ He was aware that Skerritt disliked the man almost as much as he did.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  Grace told him.

  When he had finished, Jack Skerritt shook his head incredulously. ‘I can’t believe he did this behind your back. It’s one thing to have an open investigation, and that can be a healthy thing, sometimes. But I don’t like the way this is being handled at all. Not one bit. How long has Sandy been missing now?’

  ‘Getting on for nine and half years.’

  Skerritt thought for a moment, then looked at his watch. ‘Are you going to your briefing meeting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll speak to him now. Come and see me straight after your meeting.’

  Grace thanked him, and Skerritt picked up the phone as he was leaving the office.

  115

  OCTOBER 2007

  At 9.15 Abby drove the black Honda diesel off-roader she had rented last night, on Ricky’s very specific instructions, up the hill towards Sussex House. Her stomach felt as if it was full of hot needles, and she was shaking.

  Taking deep, steady breaths, she tried her hardest to keep calm and not let another panic attack come on. She was on the verge of one, she knew. She had that slightly disembodied feeling that was always the precursor.

  It was ironic, she thought, that Southern Deposit Security was less than half a mile away from the building she was headed to now.

  She pulled the car up as instructed, in front of the massive green, steel gate and put the handbrake on. Sitting on the passenger seat was the plastic groceries bag she had put her mother’s medications in yesterday. Also inside it was a Jiffy bag. Her suitcase was back in her room at the hotel.

  Glenn Branson appeared and gave her a cheery wave. The gate began to slide open and, as soon as there was a large enough gap, she drove through. The DS signalled for her to park in front of a row of wheelie bins, then he held the door open for her.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  She nodded bleakly.

  He put a protective arm around her shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘I think you are a strong lady. We’ll get your mum back safely. And we’ll get your stamps too. He thinks he’s chosen a smart place, but he hasn’t. It’s dumb.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Ushering her through a door into a bare stairwell, he said, ‘He’s chosen the place to frighten you. That’s his priority, but it shouldn’t be. You’re frightened enough, so he doesn’t need to ratchet things up. He’s not thinking this through. He’s not doing it the way I’d do it.’

  ‘What if he sees any of you?’ she asked, walking along a corridor, struggling to keep pace with him.

  ‘He won’t. Not unless we have to show ourselves. We’ll only do that if we start to think you are in danger.’

  ‘He will kill her,’ she said. ‘He’s that spiteful. If anything goes wrong, he’d do it for the hell of it.’

  ‘We understand that. You have the stamps?’

  She lifted up the carrier bag to show him.

  ‘Didn’t want to risk leaving them in your car in a police station?’ He grinned. ‘Wise decision!’

  116

  OCTOBER 2007

  Cassian Pewe was already seated at the conference table in Jack Skerritt’s office when Grace returned after the briefing meeting. The two men avoided eye contact.

  The Chief Superintendent gestured for Grace to sit down, then he said, ‘Roy, Cassian tells me that he realizes he made an error of judgement by setting in motion what he did at your house. The team there has been instructed to leave.’

  Grace shot Pewe a glance. The man was steadfastly staring at the table, like a scolded child. He did not look as if he regretted anything.

  ‘He explained that he was doing it to help you,’ Skerritt went on.

  ‘To help me?’

  ‘He said that he feels there is an unhealthy amount of innuendo going on behind your back, about Sandy’s disappearance. That’s correct, isn’t it, Cassian?’

  Pewe nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes – er – sir.’

  ‘He says he felt that if he could prove, one hundred per cent, that you had nothing to do with her disappearance, it would end that once and for all.’

  ‘I’ve never heard any innuendo,’ Grace said.

  ‘With respect, Roy,’ Pewe said, ‘quite a few people think that the original investigation was a rushed job and that you had a hand in bringing it to a premature stop. They are asking why.’

  ‘Name one of them?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be fair on them. All I’m trying to do is to revisit the evidence, using the best modern techniques and technology we have, in order to totally exonerate you.’

  Grace had to bite his tongue; he could not believe the man’s arrogance. But this wasn’t the moment to start a slanging match. He needed to get away from here in a few minutes and into position for Abby Dawson’s rendezvous, which had been set for 10.30.

  ‘Jack, can we come back to this later? I’m not at all happy about it, but I have to get going.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking it might be a good idea if Cassian came with you, in your car. He could be invaluable to your team in the current situation.’ He turned to Pewe. ‘I’m correct, aren’t I, Cassian, that you are an experienced hostage negotiator?’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  Grace could hardly believe his ears. God help any poor sodding hostage who ends up with Pewe negotiating for him, he thought.

  ‘I think also it would be good for him to see how
we operate down in Sussex. We clearly handle some things in a different way from the Met. Might be a good learning curve for you, Cassian, I think, to observe how one of our most experienced officers handles a major operation.’ He looked at Grace and the message could not be clearer.

  But Roy was in no mood for smiling.

  117

  OCTOBER 2007

  It had been a long time since she had last come here, Abby thought, threading the car along the winding road that climbed steadily between fields of grass and vast areas of stubble. Maybe it was her heightened nerves, but the colours of the landscape seemed almost preternaturally vivid. The sky was a canopy of intense blue, with just a few tiny clouds here and there, scudding across. It felt almost as if she was wearing tinted glasses.

  She gripped the steering wheel hard, feeling the gusting wind buffeting the car, trying to push it off course. She had a lump in her throat and the needles in her stomach were burning even more fiercely.

  She also had a small lump on her chest. A tiny microphone, held in place by gaffer tape that was pulling uncomfortably on her skin with every movement she made. She wondered if Detective Sergeant Branson, or whichever of his colleagues were listening at the other end, could hear the deep breaths she was taking.

  The DS had at first wanted her to wear an ear-piece so that she could listen to any instructions they needed to give her. However, when she told him that Ricky had picked up some previous conversations she’d had, he decided it was too risky. But they would hear her, every word. All she had to do was ask them for help and they would move in, he assured her.

  She couldn’t remember when she had last prayed, but she found herself praying now, suddenly, silently. Dear God, please let Mum be OK. Please help me through this. Please, dear God.

  There was a car in front of her, driving slowly, an elderly maroon Alfa Romeo with two men inside, the passenger talking on what she presumed was his mobile phone. She followed it round a sharp left-hand bend, passing a hotel on the right, and the Seven Sisters river estuary below. The brake lights of the Alfa came on, as it slowed to let a delivery van cross a narrow bridge, then it accelerated again. Now the road was climbing.

  After a few more minutes she saw a road sign ahead. The brake lights on the Alfa came on once more, then its right-turn indicator began flashing.

  The sign read TOWN CENTRE A259, with an arrow pointing straight on, and SEAFRONT BEACHY HEAD, with an arrow pointing right.

  She followed the Alfa Romeo to the right. It continued to drive at a maddeningly slow pace, and she glanced at the car’s clock and her watch. The clock was a minute slower, but she knew her watch was accurate, she had set it earlier: 10.25 a.m. Just five minutes. She was tempted to overtake, worried that she would be late.

  Then her phone rang. Private number calling.

  She answered it on the in-car speaker plugged into the cigarette lighter which the police had given her so they could hear any conversation.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Where the fuck are you? You’re late.’

  ‘I’m only a few minutes away, Ricky. It’s not 10.30 yet.’ Then she added nervously, ‘Is it?’

  ‘I told you, she goes over the fucking edge at 10.30.’

  ‘Ricky, please, I’m coming. I’ll be there.’

  ‘You’d fucking better.’

  Suddenly, to her relief, the Alfa’s left-turn signal started flashing and it pulled over into a lay-by. She increased her speed to more than she was comfortable with.

  *

  Inside the Alfa, Roy Grace watched the black Honda accelerate off up the winding road. Cassian Pewe, in the front passenger seat, said into his secure phone, ‘Target One has just gone past. Two miles from zone.’

  The voice of the local Silver commander – the senior officer running the operation – replied, ‘Target Two just made contact with her. Proceed to Position Four.’

  ‘Proceeding to Position Four,’ Pewe confirmed back. He looked down at the Ordnance Survey map on his knees. ‘OK,’ he said to Grace. ‘Move on as soon as she is out of sight.’

  Grace put the car in gear. As the Honda crested a hill and vanished, he accelerated.

  Pewe checked the transmit button was off, then turned to his colleague. ‘Roy, you know, it is true what the Chief Super said. I was only doing it to protect you.’

  ‘From what?’ Grace said acidly.

  ‘Innuendo is corrosive. There is nothing worse than suspicion in a police force.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘If that’s what you believe, then I’m sorry. I don’t want to fall out over this.’

  ‘Oh, really? I don’t know what your agenda is, to be frank. For some reason, you think I murdered my wife, don’t you? Do you honestly think I would have buried her in my back garden? That’s why you were having it scanned, wasn’t it? For her remains?’

  ‘I was having it scanned to prove she wasn’t there. To end the speculation.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Cassian.’

  118

  OCTOBER 2007

  Abby drove up the headland. To her right was open grassland, with a few clusters of bushes and one dense copse of short trees, ending in chalk cliffs and a vertical drop to the English Channel. One of the sheerest, highest and most certain drops in the whole of the British Isles. To her left, there was an almost uninterrupted view over miles of open farmland. She could see the road threading through it into the distance. The tarmac was an intense black, with crisp broken white lines down the centre. It looked as if it had all been freshly painted for her today.

  Detective Sergeant Branson had told her earlier that Ricky had made a mistake choosing this location, but at this moment she could not see how. It struck her as a clever choice. From wherever he was, Ricky would be able to see anything that moved in any direction.

  Maybe the detective had just said it to reassure her. And she sure as hell needed that at this moment.

  She could see a building about half a mile away on her left, at almost the highest point of the headland, with what looked like a pub or hotel sign on a pole. As she got nearer she saw the red-tiled roof and flint walls. Then she could read the sign.

  BEACHY HEAD HOTEL.

  Drive into the car park of the Beachy Head Hotel and wait for me to contact you, were his instructions. At exactly 10.30.

  The place looked deserted. There was a glass bus shelter with a blue and white sign in front of it, on which was written in large lettering: THE SAMARITANS. ALWAYS THERE DAY OR NIGHT, with two phone numbers beneath. Just beyond was an orange and yellow ice-cream van, which had its sales window open, and a short distance further on there was a British Telecom truck, with two men in hard hats and high-visibility jackets carrying out work on a radio mast. Two small cars were parked by the rear entrance to the hotel; she assumed these belonged to staff.

  She turned left and pulled up at the far end of the car park, then switched off the engine. Moments later, her phone rang.

  ‘Good,’ Ricky said. ‘Well done! Scenic route, isn’t it?’

  The car was rocking in the wind.

  ‘Where are you?’ she said, looking around in every direction. ‘Where’s my mother?’

  ‘Where are my stamps?’

  ‘I have them.’

  ‘I have your mother. She’s enjoying the view.’

  ‘I want to see her.’

  ‘I want to see the stamps.’

  ‘Not until I know my mother is all right.’

  ‘I’ll put her on the phone.’

  There was a silence. She heard the wind blowing. Then her mother’s voice, as weak and quavering as a ghost’s.

  ‘Abby?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Is that you, Abby?’ Her mother started crying. ‘Please, please, Abby. Please.’

  ‘I’m coming to get you, Mum. I love you.’

  ‘Please let me have my pills. I must have my pills. Please, Abby, why won’t you let me have them?’

  It hurt Abby almost too much to l
isten to her. Then Ricky spoke again.

  ‘Start your engine. I’m going to stay on the line.’

  She started the car.

  ‘Accelerate, I want to hear the engine running.’

  She did what he said. The diesel clattered loudly.

  ‘Now drive out of the car park and turn right. In fifty yards you’ll see a track off to the left, up to the headland itself. Turn on to it.’

  She made the sharp left turn, the car lurching on the bumpy surface. The wheels spun for an instant as they lost traction on the loose gravel and mud, then they were up on the grass. Now she realized why Ricky had been so specific in instructing her to rent an off-roader. Although she did not understand why he had been so concerned it should be diesel. Fuel economy could scarcely have been something on his mind at this moment. To her right she saw a warning sign that said CLIFF EDGE.

  ‘You see a clump of trees and bushes ahead of you?’

  There was a dense copse about a hundred yards in front of her, right on a downward slope at the cliff edge. The bushes and trees had been bent by the wind.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stop the car.’

  She stopped.

  ‘Put the handbrake on. Leave the engine running. Just keep looking. We are in here. I have the rear wheels right on the edge of the cliff. If you do anything I don’t like, I’m throwing her straight back in the van and releasing the handbrake. Do you understand that?’

  Abby’s throat was so tight it was a struggle to get her voice out. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I said, yes.’

  She heard a roar, like wind blowing on a phone. A dull thud. Then there was movement in the copse. Ricky appeared first, in his baseball cap and beard, wearing a heavy fleece jacket. Then Abby’s heart was in her mouth as she saw the tiny, frail figure of her bewildered-looking mother, still in the pink dressing gown she had been wearing when Abby had last seen her.

  The wind rippled the gown, blew all her wispy grey and white hair up in the air so it trailed from her head like ribbons of cigarette smoke. She was rocking on her feet, with Ricky gripping her arm, holding her upright.