Dead Like You

by Peter James

  ‘How many have been eliminated so far?’ Roy Grace asked.

  ‘Seventy-one, sir,’ said a young DC, Alan Ramsay. ‘We should have the rest covered in the next twenty-four hours.’

  ‘So it could be the offender – or her dinner guest,’ Grace said.

  ‘If it was her guest, why did he drive away, do you think, boss?’ Michael Foreman asked.

  ‘Sounds like, if Claire is right, we might get a chance to ask him that directly.’ Grace looked at her. ‘Any more on the third victim?’

  ‘Mandy Thorpe is still in hospital, under observation for her head injury, but she’s improving – physically if not mentally, sir,’ the SOLO said. ‘But she’s responding well to questioning.’

  ‘Anything new from her?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I’m still not happy about the link with the first two and her. I’m just not convinced it is the same offender.’ Grace looked at Proudfoot, who said nothing. ‘OK, let’s move on to the suspect list. First, can I have an update on where we are with Darren Spicer?’

  Glenn Branson spoke again. ‘Me and DC Nicholl interviewed him again last night at the St Patrick’s shelter – we checked first he had been at work all that day at the Grand Hotel, just to see if he was keeping his word about wanting to go straight. We asked him why he’d taken the shoes of his last victim – Marcie Kallestad – after sexually assaulting her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said it was to stop her chasing him.’

  There was a titter of laughter.

  ‘Did you believe him?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Not as far as I could throw him. He’ll tell you whatever he wants you to hear. But I didn’t get the impression he took them for any kinky reason.’

  He turned towards Nick Nicholl, who shook his head and said, ‘I agree.’

  ‘Did he say what he did with them?’

  Nicholl nodded. ‘He said he flogged them to a shop down Church Street.’

  ‘Is it still there?’ Grace asked. ‘Could we get them to verify that?’

  ‘Think they’re going to remember a pair of shoes twelve years later, sir?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Good point. OK. Norman, what can you tell us about this taxi driver, Johnny Kerridge – Yac?’

  ‘He’s a piece of work, from what I’ve gathered. I’m planning to go and have a chat with him this morning.’

  ‘Good. If you have enough for an arrest, bring him in. The ACC’s blowing smoke up my backside. But only if you really feel you have enough, understand?’

  ‘Yes, chief.’

  ‘What about a search warrant? Take him by surprise and stop him getting rid of any evidence.’

  ‘I don’t know if we have enough, chief,’ Potting said.

  ‘From what I’ve heard we’ve enough to justify. We’re going in hard on all suspects now, so that’s your next action, Norman.’ Grace looked down at his notes. ‘OK, where are we with other sex offenders on the register? Has anyone moved up the offender status?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Ellen Zoratti said. ‘We’re working through the list. I’ve got a possible in Shrewsbury four years ago – very similar MO and no suspect ever apprehended, and another in Birmingham six years ago. I’m waiting for more details.’

  Grace nodded. ‘One important question, Ellen, is have we captured all offences so far in our territory? Are we sure we haven’t missed any? We know for a fact that only 6 per cent of rapes get reported. How are we going to get crucial information from the other 94 per cent? We’ve talked so far to our neighbouring forces, Kent, Surrey, Hampshire and the Met as well. That hasn’t yielded anything.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You’ve been trawling SCAS for stranger rapes – any joy there?’

  SCAS was the Serious Crime Analysis Section, which covered every county in the UK except for the London Metropolitan Police, who were not linked in on it.

  ‘Nothing so far, sir,’ she said, ‘but I’m waiting on several forces to get back to me.’

  ‘Let me know as soon as you have anything.’

  Proudfoot coughed and then spoke. ‘As I said, I’d be very surprised if our man hasn’t offended elsewhere in these past twelve years. Very surprised indeed. You can take it as a given that he has.’

  ‘Offended as in rape?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood asked.

  ‘Urges don’t just go away,’ Proudfoot said. ‘He’ll have needed outlets for his urges.’ His phone rang again. After a quick look at the display, he silenced it. ‘I presume you’re in contact with Crimewatch, Roy? They could be helpful here.’

  ‘We have an excellent relationship with them, Julius,’ Grace replied. ‘Unfortunately, it’s two weeks until they are on air again. I want to have our offender potted long before then.’

  He could have added, but did not, that so did the ACC, Peter Rigg, the Chief Constable, Tom Martinson, and the Chief Executive of Brighton and Hove Corporation.

  Suddenly, his own phone rang.

  It was his former boss from 1997, Jim Doyle, who was now part of the recently formed Cold Case Team.

  ‘Roy,’ he said. ‘Those missing pages from the Rachael Ryan cold-case file – about the white van seen near her flat on Christmas morning, 1997?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve found out who last signed that file out. I think you’re going to like this rather a lot.’

  70

  Wednesday 14 January

  ‘I’m all ears,’ Roy Grace said.

  The next words from Jim Doyle stunned him. Totally stunned him. After they had fully sunk in, he said, ‘You’re not serious, Jim.’

  ‘Absolutely I am.’

  In his nineteen years in the police force to date, Roy Grace had found his fellow officers tended to be good, decent people and, for the most part, people whose company he enjoyed both at work and socially. Sure there were a few prats: some, like Norman Potting, who at least had the redeeming feature of being a good detective, and others, very occasionally, who were a total waste of space. But there were only two people he could really genuinely say that he did not like.

  The first was his acerbic former ACC, Alison Vosper, who seemed to have made her mind up from the start that she and Grace were not going to get on; the second was a London Metropolitan Police detective who’d had a brief sojourn here last year, and had tried very hard to stick the boot into him. His name was Cassian Pewe.

  Grace excused himself and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Cassian Pewe? Are you serious, Jim? You’re saying that Cassian Pewe was the last person to sign that file out?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Cassian Pewe. He was working here in the autumn, wasn’t he?’ Doyle said. ‘Hadn’t he moved here from the Met, to help you out on cold cases?’

  ‘Not to help me out, Jim, to take over from me – and not just on cold cases, but on everything. That was his plan, courtesy of Alison Vosper! He was out to eat my sodding lunch!’

  ‘I heard there was a bit of friction.’

  ‘You could call it that.’

  Grace had first met Pewe a few years ago, when the man was a detective inspector. The Met had sent in reinforcements to help police Brighton during the Labour Party Conference, Pewe being one of them. Grace had had a big run-in with him and found him supremely arrogant. Then, to his utter dismay, last year Pewe had moved down to Sussex CID with the rank of detective superintendent, and Alison Vosper had given him Grace’s cold-case workload – plus the clear signal that the former Met officer would be taking over more and more of Grace’s duties.

  Cassian Pewe fancied himself as a ladies’ man. He had golden hair, angelic blue eyes and a permanent tan. He preened and strutted, exuding a natural air of authority, always acting as if he was in charge, even when he wasn’t. Working secretly, behind Grace’s back, Pewe had taken it upon himself to ruin Grace’s career by trying to reopen investigations into Sandy’s disappearance – and point suspicion at him. Returning from a trip to New York last October, Grace found, to his utter incredu
lity, that Pewe had assembled a Police Search Unit team to scan and dig up his garden for Sandy’s suspected remains.

  Fortunately, that had proved a step too far. Pewe left Sussex CID and returned to the Met not long after, with his tail between his legs.

  After a few more questions to Jim Doyle, Grace hung up and then stood thinking for some moments. There was no way, at this stage, he could mention anything openly to his team. Questioning another officer as high-ranking as Pewe as a suspect would have to be done discreetly, regardless of his personal feelings towards the man.

  He would do this himself and it would be a pleasure.

  71

  Wednesday 14 January

  twitter

  jessiesheldonuk

  Working late today. Audit review – soooo boring! But Benedict taking me out after for sushi meal at Moshi Moshi. Yayyyy!

  He read the text which had just Tweeted through on his phone. Sushi, he thought disdainfully. He didn’t understand that stuff. What was the point of going to a restaurant to eat uncooked fish? Seemed like easy money for the chef. He’d read somewhere that in Japan there were restaurants where you could eat sushi off the naked bodies of women. He could think of much better things to do with naked women.

  He was looking forward to doing those things with Jessie Sheldon.

  Too bad Jessie was going to be busy tonight. But it didn’t matter. Dee Burchmore was making her speech at the Martlets lunch tomorrow. She would be wearing her blue satin Manolo Blahniks with the diamanté buckles. He knew where she was going to park and the place was perfect. He was going to enjoy her.

  Meantime, Jessie Sheldon would be keeping in touch. She had 322 followers on Twitter. It was so thoughtful of her to let him know all her movements.

  72

  Wednesday 14 January

  Back in his office after the morning briefing, Roy Grace was deep in thought. Was it possible that a serving police officer could be the Shoe Man?

  There had been bad apples in the Sussex Police, as in all other forces around the country in the past, at some time or other. Murderers, rapists, thieves, porn merchants, drug dealers and fraudsters hiding behind one of the ultimate façades of respectability and trust. It was rare, but with a team of over 5,000 people in Sussex alone, it could never be ruled out.

  And it fitted. The inside information that had been fed to the press on the Shoe Man back in 1997, and now on the current investigation, could have been supplied by anyone with the access codes to the Sussex Police computer network. Cassian Pewe had access to them back in October last year. Who knew what he could have copied or taken then?

  He dialled the central internal number for the London Metropolitan Police, his thoughts on what he planned to say crystal clear.

  After two minutes of being shunted around various extensions, he heard Detective Superintendent Pewe’s voice, as sharp and invasive as a dentist’s drill, and as charming as a pipette full of sulphuric acid.

  ‘Roy! How good to hear from you! Need me back, do you?’

  Cutting to the chase, he said, ‘No, I need some information from you. When you were with us, you logged out a cold-case file from the storeroom. You are the last signature on the form. It’s regarding a missing person, Rachael Ryan, who disappeared on Christmas morning, 1997. Ring a bell?’

  ‘I looked at a lot of files in the brief time I was with you, Roy.’ His voice sounded pained.

  ‘Well, there are two pages missing from this one, Cassian. Just wondering if by any chance you had given them to anyone else? A researcher perhaps?’

  ‘Let me think. No, absolutely not. No way! I wanted to review everything myself.’

  ‘Did you read that particular file?’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember.’

  ‘Try harder.’

  Pewe sounded uneasy suddenly. ‘What is this, Roy?’

  ‘I’m asking you a question. Did you read that file? It’s only a few months ago.’

  ‘It rings a faint bell,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Would you have noticed if the last two pages were missing?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course I would.’

  ‘So they weren’t missing when you read them?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you remember what they said?’

  ‘No – no, I don’t.’

  ‘I need you to remember what they said, because they may now be crucial to a current investigation.’

  ‘Roy!’ He sounded pained. ‘Come on. Do you remember stuff you read three months ago?’

  ‘Yes, actually, I do. I have a good memory. Isn’t that what detectives are supposed to have?’

  ‘Roy, I’m sorry. I’m really busy at the moment on a report I need to have finished by midday.’

  ‘Would it help to refresh your memory if I had you arrested and brought you back down here?’

  Grace heard a sound like the blade of a lawnmower striking a half-buried flint. ‘Ha-ha! You are joking, aren’t you?’

  On an operation last October, Roy Grace had saved Cassian Pewe’s life – at considerable risk to himself. Yet Pewe had barely thanked him. It was hard to imagine that he could ever feel more contempt for any human than he felt for this man. Grace hoped it wasn’t clouding his judgement, although at this moment he didn’t really care that much if it was.

  ‘Cassian, Tony Case, our Senior Support Officer, whom you will remember from when you were with us, has informed me that since Sussex House became operational, back in 1996, all cold-case files have been kept down in a secure storeroom in the basement. Access is strictly controlled, for chain-of-evidence purposes. A digital alarm protects it and anyone entering needs access codes, which are registered. He has a log, signed by you, showing that you returned the Shoe Man’s file to one of his assistants last October. No one has looked at that file subsequently, until the Cold Case Team this week. OK?’

  He was greeted with silence.

  ‘You were in Brighton during the Labour Party Conference of 1997, weren’t you? On secondment from the Met when you were working for Special Branch. You then continued working in Brighton straight after that, on an inquiry into a series of armed jewellery raids in London that were linked with Brighton. You bought a flat, with a view to living here. Correct?’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘The dates you were in this city coincide exactly with the dates that the Shoe Man committed his offences. You spent Christmas Eve, 1997, in Brighton, didn’t you?’

  ‘I can’t remember without checking my diary.’

  ‘One of my staff can verify that, Cassian. Bella Moy? Remember her?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You tried to shag her in the back of your car at about midnight, after a boozy night out with a bunch of local officers. You drove her home, then tried to stop her getting out of your car. Remember now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Probably a good thing. She remembers it well. You’re lucky she didn’t press charges for sexual harassment.’

  ‘Roy, are you trying to tell me you’ve never snogged a girl pissed?’

  Ignoring him, Grace said, ‘I want to know what you did after you left Bella outside her mother’s house. Those hours between midnight and Christmas morning? I want to know what you did on Halloween, 1997. I have more dates for you. I want to know where you were a fortnight ago on New Year’s Eve. Where were you last Thursday evening, 8 January? Where were you last Saturday evening, 10 January? I hope you are writing all those down, Cassian.’

  ‘You’re wasting police time, Roy!’ He tried to sound good-humoured. ‘Come on. Do you really expect me to be able to tell you where I was at any given moment twelve years ago? Could you tell me where you were?’

  ‘I could, Cassian. I could tell you exactly. So tell me, this past New Year’s Eve – where did you spend it?’

  There was a long silence. Then Pewe said reluctantly, ‘In Brighton, actually.’

  ‘Can someone vouch for you?’

  There was another long
silence before Pewe said, ‘I’m sorry, Roy, I’m not prepared to continue this conversation. I don’t like your tone. I don’t like your questions.’

  ‘And I don’t like your answers,’ Grace replied.

  73

  Wednesday 14 January

  Yac was tired. At 3 a.m. the city had been quiet. The second Tuesday in January and people were staying home. He’d cruised around because the man who owned the taxi got angry if he stopped too early, but he’d only had two fares since midnight – barely enough to cover the cost of the fuel. He’d been about to head home when a call had come in to take two people up to Luton Airport. He’d only got back to the boat just before 7 a.m. Exhausted, he’d fed the cat and crashed out in his berth.

  Footsteps woke him. A steady clump, clump, clump on the deck above his head. He sat up and looked at the clock. It showed 2 p.m.

  Tea! was his first thought. His second was, Who the hell is up there?

  He never had visitors. Ever. Apart from the postman and delivery men. But he was not expecting any deliveries.

  It sounded like a whole group of people up there. Was it kids? Kids had been on the boat a few times, jeering and shouting at him, before he’d chased them off.

  ‘Go away!’ he shouted at the ceiling. ‘Piss off! Sod off! Screw off! Fuck off! Take a hike! Get lost, kids!’ He liked using words he heard in the taxi.

  Then he heard knocking. A sharp, insistent rap, rap, rap.

  Angrily, he swung his legs out of his bunk and staggered into the saloon, padding across the wooden floor, partially covered with rugs, in his underpants and T-shirt.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  ‘Go to hell!’ he shouted. ‘Who are you? Didn’t you hear me? What do you want? Are you deaf? Go away! I’m asleep!’

  Rap, rap, rap!

  He climbed up the wooden steps, into the sun lounge at the top. It had glass patio doors and a big brown sofa, and windows all around with views out on the grey afternoon across the mudflats. It was low tide.

  A man in his fifties, balding, with a comb-over, wearing a shabby tweed jacket, grey flannel trousers and scuffed brown brogues, was standing outside. He held up a small black leather wallet and mouthed something at him that Yac did not understand. Behind him stood a whole group of people wearing blue jackets with POLICE written on them, and helmets with visors. One of them was lugging a big yellow cylinder that looked like a fire extinguisher.