Dead Like You

by Peter James

  Then he turned to Glenn Branson. ‘Related to this, DS Branson’s been studying Dr Proudfoot’s report on the Shoe Man. What do you have for us, Glenn?’

  ‘It’s a real page-turner!’ Glenn picked up a heavy-looking document. ‘Two hundred and eighty-two pages of behavioural analysis. I’ve only had a chance to speed read it, since the chief tasked me with it earlier today, but there is something very interesting. There were five reported offences linked directly to the Shoe Man but Dr Proudfoot believes he could have committed a lot more that weren’t reported.’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Many rape victims are so traumatized they cannot face the process of reporting it. But here’s the really interesting thing: the first of the Shoe Man’s reported rapes, back in 1997, occurred in the Grand Hotel, following a Halloween ball there. He lured a woman into a room. Does that sound familiar?’

  There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. The Grand Hotel was next door to the Metropole.

  ‘There’s more,’ Branson went on. ‘The room at the Grand was booked by a woman – in the name of Marsha Morris. She paid cash and all efforts to trace her at the time failed.’

  Grace absorbed the information in silence, thinking hard. The room at the Metropole, where Nicola Taylor was raped on New Year’s Eve, was booked by a woman, according to the manager. Her name was Marsha Morris too. She paid in cash. The address she wrote in the register was false.

  ‘Someone’s having a laugh,’ Nick Nicholl said.

  ‘So does this mean it’s the same perp,’ Emma-Jane Boutwood said, ‘or a copycat with a sick sense of humour?’

  ‘Was any of this information released to the public?’ Michael Foreman asked.

  Grace shook his head. ‘No. The name Marsha Morris was never public knowledge.’

  ‘Not even to the Argus?’

  ‘Especially not to the Argus.’ Grace nodded for Branson to continue.

  ‘Here’s where it gets even more interesting,’ the DS said. ‘Another of the victims was raped in her home, in Hove Park Road, exactly two weeks later.’

  ‘That’s a very smart address,’ Michael Foreman said.

  ‘Very,’ Grace agreed.

  Branson continued. ‘When she arrived home, the burglar alarm was switched on. She deactivated it, went up into her bedroom and the offender struck – coming at her from out of a wardrobe.’

  ‘Just like Roxy Pearce’s attacker last night,’ Grace said. ‘From what we know so far.’

  No one spoke for several moments.

  Then Branson said, ‘The Shoe Man’s next victim was raped on the beach, beneath the Palace Pier. The one after that in the Churchill Square car park. His final one – if the chief’s assumption is right – was taken walking home from a Christmas Eve piss-up with her friends.’

  ‘So what you’re saying, Glenn,’ Bella said, ‘is that we should be taking a close look at car parks in a week’s time.’

  ‘Don’t go there, Bella,’ Grace said. ‘We’re not going to let this get that far.’

  He put on a brave, confident smile for his team. But inside he felt a lot less sure.

  1998

  38

  Tuesday 6 January

  ‘Does it work?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, course it works. Wouldn’t be selling it otherwise, would I?’ He glared at the lean man in the brown boiler suit as if he had just insulted his integrity. ‘Everything in here works, mate, all right? If you want rubbish I can point you up the street. In here I only do quality. Everything works.’

  ‘It had better.’ He stared down at the white chest freezer that was tucked away between the upturned desks, swivel office chairs and upended settees at the rear of the vast second-hand furniture emporium in Brighton’s Lewes Road.

  ‘Money-back guarantee, all right? Thirty days, any problems, bring it back, no quibble.’

  ‘Fifty quid you’re asking?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s your trade price?’

  ‘Everything here’s trade price.’

  ‘Give you forty.’

  ‘Cash?

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Taking it away with you? I’m not delivering for that price.’

  ‘Gimme a hand out with it?’

  ‘That your van outside?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Better get a move on. There’s a warden coming.’

  *

  Five minutes later he jumped into the cab of the Transit, a few seconds ahead of the traffic warden, started the engine and drove it with a bump off the pavement and away from the double yellow lines. He heard the clang of his new purchase bouncing on the hessian matting on the otherwise bare metal floor behind him and moments later heard it sliding as he braked hard, catching up the congested traffic around the gyratory system.

  He crawled passed Sainsbury’s, then made a left turn at the lights, up under the viaduct, and then on, heading towards Hove, towards his lock-up garage, where the young woman lay.

  The young woman whose face stared out at him from the front page of the Argus, on every news-stand, beneath the caption HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? Followed by her name, Rachael Ryan.

  He nodded to himself. ‘Yes. Yep. I’ve seen her!’

  I know where she is!

  She is waiting for me!

  39

  Shoes are your weapons, ladies, aren’t they? You use them to hurt men in so many ways, don’t you?

  Know what I’m saying? I’m not talking about the physical, about the bruises and cuts you can make on a man’s skin by hitting him with them. I’m talking about the sounds you make with them. The clack-clack-clack of your heels on bare floorboards, on concrete paving stones, on floor tiles, on brick paths.

  You’re wearing those expensive shoes. That means you’re going somewhere – and you’re leaving me behind. I hear that clack-clack-clack getting fainter. It’s the last sound of you I hear. It’s the first sound of you I hear when you come back. Hours later. Sometimes a whole day later. You don’t talk to me about where you’ve been. You laugh at me, sneer at me.

  Once when you came back and I was upset, you walked over to me. I thought you were going to kiss me. But you didn’t, did you? You just stamped your stiletto down hard on my bare foot. You drilled it right through the flesh and bone and into the floorboard.

  40

  Saturday 10 January

  He’d forgotten how good it had felt. How addictive it had been! He’d thought that maybe just one, for old times’ sake. But that one had immediately given him the taste for another. And now he was raring to go again.

  Oh yes!

  Make the most of these winter months, when he could wear a coat and a scarf, hide that Adam’s apple, strut around freely, just like any other elegant Brighton lady! He liked the dress he had chosen, Karen Millen, and the camel Prada coat, the Cornelia James shawl around his neck, the big shiny shoulder bag and the slinky black leather gloves on his hands! But most of all he liked the feel of his wet-look boots. Yep. He felt soooooo good today! Almost, dare he say it, sexy!

  He made his way through the Lanes, through the light drizzle that was falling. He was all wrapped up and snug against the rain and the cold wind, and, yes, sooooo sexy! He cast constant sideways glances at himself in shop windows. Two middle-aged men strode towards him, and one gave him an appreciative glance as they passed. He gave a coy smile back, snaking his way on through the throng of people in the narrow streets. He passed a modern jewellery shop, then an antiques shop that had a reputation for paying good prices for stolen valuables.

  He walked down past the Druid’s Head pub, the Pump House, then English’s restaurant, crossed East Street and turned right towards the sea, heading towards Pool Valley. Then he turned left in front of the restaurant that had once been the ABC cinema and arrived outside his destination.

  The shoe shop called Last.

  It was a specialist designer-shoe shop and stocked a whole range of labels to which he was particularly partial: Esska, Thomas Murp
hy, Hetty Rose. He stared at Last’s window display. At pretty, delicate, Japanese patterned Amia Kimonos. At a pair of Thomas Murphy Genesis petrol court shoes with silver heels. At brown suede Esska Loops.

  The shop had wooden floorboards, a patterned sofa, a footstool and handbags hanging from hooks. And, at the moment, one customer. An elegant, beautiful woman in her forties with long, flyaway blonde hair who was wearing Fendi snakeskin boots. Size five. A matching Fendi handbag hung from a shoulder strap. She was dressed to kill, or to shop!

  She had on a long black coat, with a high collar turned up and a fluffy white wrap around her neck. A pert snub nose. Rosebud lips. No gloves. He clocked her wedding band and her big engagement rock. She might still be married, but she could be divorced. Could be anything. Difficult to tell from here. But he knew one thing.

  She was his type. Yep!

  She was holding up a Tracey Neuls TN_29 Homage button shoe. It was in white perforated leather with a taupe trim. Like something Janet Leigh might have worn in the office before she stole the money in the original Psycho. But they weren’t sexy! They were sort of retro Miss America preppy, in his view. Don’t buy them, he urged silently. No, no!

  There were so many other much sexier shoes and boots on display. He cast his eye over them, looking appreciatively at each of their shapes, their curves, their straps, their stitches, their heels. He imagined this woman naked, wearing just these. Doing what he told her to do with them.

  Don’t buy those!

  Good as gold, she put the shoe back. Then she turned and walked out of the shop.

  He smelt her dense cloud of Armani Code perfume, which was like her own personal ozone layer, as she walked past him. Then she stopped, pulled a small black umbrella from her bag, held it up and popped it open. She had style, this lady. Confidence. She really, very definitely, could be his kind of lady. And she was holding up an umbrella, like a tour guide, just for him, so he could more easily spot her through the crowd!

  Oh yes, my kind of lady!

  The thoughtful kind!

  He followed her as she set off at a determined stride. There was something predatory about her walk. She was on the hunt for shoes. No question. Which was good.

  He was on the hunt too!

  She stopped briefly in East Street to peer in the window of Russell and Bromley. Then she crossed over towards L.K. Bennett.

  An instant later he felt a violent blow, heard a loud oath and he crashed, winded, down on to the wet pavement, feeling a sharp pain across his face, as if a hundred bees had stung him all at once. A steaming polystyrene Starbucks cup, its dark brown liquid spewing out, rolled past him. His head felt a rush of cold air and he realized, with panic, that his wig had become dislodged.

  He grabbed it and jammed it back on his head, not caring for a moment how it looked, and found himself staring up at a shaven-headed tattooed man-mountain.

  ‘Faggot! Why don’t you look where you’re frigging going?’

  ‘Screw you!’ he shouted back, totally forgetting for an instant to mask his voice, scrambled to his feet, one hand clutching his blonde wig, and stumbled on, aware of the smell of hot coffee and the unpleasant sensation of hot liquid running down his neck.

  ‘Fucking fairy!’ the voice called after him as he broke into a run, weaving through a group of Japanese tourists, fixated on the bobbing umbrella of the woman striding into the distance. To his surprise, she did not stop to look in L.K. Bennett, but headed straight into the Lanes.

  She took a left fork and he followed her. Past a pub and then another jewellery shop. He dug into his handbag, pulled out a tissue and dabbed the coffee from his smarting face, hoping it had not smeared his make-up.

  Blondie crossed busy Ship Street and turned right, then immediately left into the pedestrian precinct of expensive clothes shops: Duke Street.

  Good girl!

  She entered Profile, the first shop on the right.

  He peered into the window. But he wasn’t looking at the row of shoes and boots displayed on the shelves, he was looking at his own reflection. As subtly as he could, he adjusted his wig. Then he peered more closely at his face, but it seemed all right; no big, weird smears.

  Then he checked on Blondie. She was sitting on a chair, hunched over her BlackBerry, pecking away at the keys. An assistant appeared with a shoebox, opened it the way a proud waiter might lift the lid from a tureen, and presented the contents for her inspection.

  Blondie nodded approvingly.

  The assistant removed a tall, high-heeled, blue satin Manolo Blahnik shoe with a square diamanté buckle.

  He watched Blondie put the shoe on. She stood up and walked around the carpeted floor, peering at her foot’s reflection in the mirrors. She seemed to like it.

  He entered the shop and began browsing, breathing in the heady cocktail of tanned leather and Armani Code. He watched Blondie out of the corner of his eye, watched and listened.

  The assistant asked her if she would like to try on the left foot as well. Blondie said she would.

  As she strutted around the deep-pile carpeting, he was approached by the assistant, a young, slender girl with a dark fringe of hair and an Irish accent, asking if she could help her. He told her in his softest voice that he was just looking, thank you.

  ‘I have to give an important speech next week,’ Blondie said, in an American accent, he noticed. ‘It’s an after-lunch thing. I’ve bought the most divine blue dress. I think blue’s good for daytime. What do you think?’

  ‘Blue’s a good colour on you, madam. I can tell from the shoes. Blue’s a very good colour for daytime.’

  ‘Yeah, um-umm. I think so too. Um-umm. I should have brought the dress along, but I know these are going to match.’

  ‘They’ll go with a wide range of blues.’

  ‘Um-umm.’

  Blondie stared down at the reflection of the shoes in the mirror for some moments and tapped her teeth with her fingernail. Then she said the magic words, ‘I’ll take these!’

  Good girl! Manolos were cool. They were beautiful. They were just so much a class act. Most importantly, they had five-inch heels.

  Perfect!

  And he liked her accent. Was it Californian?

  He sidled up towards the counter as the purchase took place, listening intently, while pretending to study a pair of brown mules.

  ‘Are you on our mailing list, madam?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘Would you mind if I entered you on it – we can let you know in advance of our sales. You can get some privileged bargains.’

  She shrugged. ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘If I could have your name?’

  ‘Dee Burchmore. Mrs.’

  ‘And your address?’

  ‘Fifty-three Sussex Square.’

  Sussex Square. In Kemp Town, he thought. One of the city’s most beautiful squares. Most of its terraced houses were divided into flats. You had to be rich to have a whole house there. You had to be rich to buy the Manolos. And the handbag that went with it, which she was now fondling. Just the way he would soon be fondling her.

  Kemp Town, he thought. That was an old stomping ground!

  Happy memories.

  41

  Saturday 10 January

  Every time she bought a pair of shoes, Dee Burchmore got a guilty thrill. There was no need to feel guilty, of course. Rudy encouraged her to dress smart, to look great! As a senior executive of American & Oriental Banking, over here at its lavish new Brighton headquarters on a five-year posting to establish a foothold for the company in Europe, money was no object at all to her husband.

  She was proud of Rudy and she loved him. She loved his ambitions to show the world that, in the wake of the financial scandals that had dogged US banking in recent years, it was possible to show a caring face. Rudy was attacking the UK mortgage market with zeal, offering deals to first-time buyers that none of the British lenders, still smarting from the financial meltdown, was prepared to consider.
And she had an important role in this, in public relations.

  In the time Dee had in between taking their two children, Josh, aged eight, and Chase, aged six, to school and then collecting them, Rudy had tasked her with networking as hard as she could within the city. He wanted her to find charities to which American & Oriental could make significant contributions – and, of course, gain significant publicity as benefactors to the city. It was a role she relished.

  A respectable golfer, she had joined the ladies’ section of the city’s most expensive golf club, the North Brighton. She had become a member of what she had gleaned was the most influential of Brighton’s numerous Rotary Clubs and she had volunteered for the committees of several of the city’s major charitable institutions, including the Martlet’s Hospice. Her most recent appointment was to the fund-raising committee of Brighton and Hove’s principal hostel for the homeless, St Patrick’s, where they had a unique facility, offering Japanese-style pods to homeless people, including prisoners out on licence who were actively involved in retraining.

  She stood in the small shop, watching the assistant wrap her beautiful blue Manolos in tissue, then carefully lay them in the box. She could not wait to get home and try her dress on with these shoes and bag. She knew they were going to look sensational. Just the thing to give her confidence next week.

  Then she glanced at her watch: 3.30. Shit! It had taken longer than she thought. She was late for her appointment at the Nail Studio in Hove, on the other side of the city. She hurried out of the stop, barely clocking the weird-looking woman with lopsided blonde hair who was staring at something on display in the shop window.

  She never once looked behind her all the way to the car park.

  If she had, she might just have noticed this same woman following her.

  1998

  42