Dead Like You

by Peter James

  If Kerridge stopped for a passenger, that meant he wasn’t hunting. Yet it seemed curious that he had turned into the very area where they suspected the next attack would take place.

  Coincidence?

  He wasn’t so sure. Something about this John Kerridge character bothered him. From his years of experience, offenders like the Shoe Man often turned out to be oddball loners and Kerridge ticked that box. They might have had to let him go because of lack of evidence at this moment, but that did not mean he wasn’t their man.

  If I was driving a cab, plying for fares, why would I drive along almost deserted Eastern Road at this time on a Friday night? Why not along St James’s Street, one street to the south, which was always teeming with people? Or North Street, or London Road, or Western Road?

  He phoned Streamline Taxis, stated who he was and asked if John Kerridge had been sent to Eastern Road to do a pick-up. The controller confirmed back to him that he had.

  Grace thanked her. So there was an innocent explanation for the taxi driver’s presence here.

  But he still had a bad feeling about him.

  89

  Friday 16 January

  Spicer was perspiring, despite the cold. The innocuous-looking Tesco supermarket carrier bag, filled with his tools, weighed a ton, and the walk from St Patrick’s to the junction with The Drive and Davigdor Road seemed much further tonight than it had on Sunday. The two pints of beer and the whisky chaser, which an hour ago had fuelled his courage, were now sapping his energy.

  The old apartment block loomed on his left. The traffic on the road was light and he had passed few pedestrians on his way here. Half a dozen vehicles on his right, travelling north up The Drive, were waiting for the red light to change. Spicer slowed his pace, also waiting for it to change, not wanting to risk anyone noticing him, just in case. You never knew . . .

  Finally the cars moved off. Hurriedly, he turned left, down the steep driveway beside the apartment block, crossed the car park at the front and walked around the side of the building, towards the row of lock-up garages around the corner at the rear that were in almost total darkness, lit only by the glow of lights from some of the apartment windows above.

  He walked along to the one at the far left end, the one that had interested him so much on his recce on Sunday. All of the others had just a single, basic lock inset into their door handles. But this one had four heavy-duty deadlocks, two on each side. You didn’t put locks like that on a garage unless you had something of serious value inside.

  Of course, it could just be a vintage car, but even then he knew a dealer who would pay good money for instruments from vintage cars; steering wheels, gear levers, badges, bonnet mascots and anything else that could be removed. But, if he was lucky, he might find a stash of valuables of some kind. He knew from his years of experience that burglars like himself favoured anonymous lock-up garages as storage depots. He’d used one himself for many years. They were good places to keep valuables that could be easily identified by their owners until things had quietened down and he could then fence them, maybe a year or so later.

  He stood still in the darkness, looking up at the apartment building, checking for shadows at the window that might signal someone looking out. But he could see no one.

  Quickly, he delved into his bag and set to work on the first of the locks. It yielded after less than a minute. The others followed suit, equally easily.

  He stepped back into the shadows and again checked all around him and above. No sign of anyone.

  He pulled open the up-and-over door, then stood still in astonishment, for some moments, absorbing what he was looking at. This was not what he had expected at all.

  He stepped inside nervously, yanked the door down behind him, pulled his torch out of his carrier and switched it on.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he said, as the beam of light confirmed it for him.

  Scared as hell, he backed out, his thoughts in a whirl. With trembling hands he locked it up again, not wanting to leave any tracks. Then he hurried away into the night.

  90

  Saturday 17 January

  Facebook

  Jessie Sheldon

  View photos of me (128)

  Jessie now has 253 friends on Facebook

  Benedict’s meeting my parents tonight at charity ball for first time. I’m nervous!!! Got my early-evening kick-boxing class first, so if there are any issues and they start being horrible to him, they’d better watch out. And . . . will be wearing my new Anya Hindmarch shoes with five-inch stilettos!!!!

  He read Jessie’s latest Facebook entry with a thin smile. You are so good to me, Jessie. You let me down at the Withdean Sports Stadium, but you won’t let me down tonight, will you? You will finish your kick-boxing at the usual time, then walk back the half-mile to your Sudeley Place flat and change into your beautiful dress and your new shoes – dressed to kill. Then you will step out into Benedict’s car, which will be waiting outside. That’s your plan, isn’t it?

  Sorry to be a party pooper . . .

  91

  Saturday 17 January

  Because of the surveillance operation, Roy Grace had cancelled yesterday’s evening briefing. Now, at the 8.30 a.m. Saturday briefing, there was a whole twenty-four hours of activity for the team to catch up on.

  Plenty of activity but little progress.

  Ellen Zoratti and her colleague analyst still had no results in their nationwide trawl of sexual offences that could be linked to the Shoe Man and the High-Tech Crime Unit still had no potential leads for them.

  The Outside Inquiry Team’s questioning of the managers and working girls at all thirty-two of the city’s known brothels was now complete and had produced nothing tangible so far. Several of their regular punters had shoe or feet fetishes, but as none of the managers kept names and addresses of their clientele, all they could do was promise to phone when any of them next made an appointment.

  It was looking more and more as if whatever the Shoe Man might have been up to during these past twelve years, he’d done a damned good job of keeping it quiet.

  Last night had also been quiet. The whole city had felt like a graveyard. Having partied hard over the Christmas holidays, it seemed that now its inhabitants, last night at least, were well and truly homebodies in recovery mode and feeling the bite of the recession. And despite his team’s long vigil, there had been no further sighting of taxi driver John Kerridge – Yac – since his earlier, brief appearance in the area.

  One positive was that Grace now had the full surveillance complement of thirty-five officers he needed to blanket cover the Eastern Road vicinity tonight. If the Shoe Man showed up, his team was going to be ready for him.

  Dr Julius Proudfoot remained confident that he would.

  As the meeting ended, an internal phone began ringing. Glenn Branson made his way towards the exit of the packed Conference Room to call Ari – he’d blocked one from her during the briefing. He knew why she was calling, which was to ask him to take the kids today. No chance, he thought sadly. Much though he would have given anything to have been able to.

  But just as he stepped out through the doorway, Michael Foreman called out to him, ‘Glenn! For you!’

  He squeezed back through the crowd of people leaving and picked up the receiver, which Foreman had laid on the table.

  ‘DS Branson,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Er, hello, Sergeant Branson.’

  He frowned as he recognized the rough-sounding voice.

  ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Branson,’ he corrected.

  ‘Darren Spicer here. We met, at the—’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘Look, I have – er – what you might call a delicate situation here.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  Branson was anxious to get him off the line and call Ari. She always hated it when he killed her incoming calls. He’d also found another unwelcome letter from her solicitor awaiting him at Roy Grace’s house, when he’d finally got
home last night, or rather earlier this morning, and he wanted to talk to her about it.

  Spicer gave him a half-hearted, uncertain laugh. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got a problem. I need to ask you a question.’

  ‘Fine, ask it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you see – I got this problem.’

  ‘You just told me that. What’s your question?’

  ‘Well, it’s like – if I said to you that I was, like – like, I saw something, right? Like – someone I know saw something, like, when they were somewhere that they shouldn’t ought to be? Yeah? If they, like, gave you information that you really needed, would you still prosecute them because they were somewhere they shouldn’t have been?’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you were somewhere you shouldn’t have been and saw something?’

  ‘It wasn’t like I breached my licence restrictions or anything. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Do you want to come to the point?’

  Spicer was silent for a moment, then said, ‘If I saw something that might help you catch your Shoe Man, would that give me immunity? You know, from prosecution.’

  ‘I haven’t got that power. Calling to collect the reward, are you?’

  There was a sudden silence at the other end, then Spicer said, ‘Reward?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Reward for what?’

  ‘The reward for information leading to the arrest of the man who attacked Mrs Dee Burchmore on Thursday afternoon. It’s been put up by her husband. Fifty thousand pounds.’

  Another silence, then, ‘I didn’t know about that.’

  ‘No one does yet, he only informed us this morning. We’re about to pass it on to the local media, so you’ve got a head start. So, anything you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t want to go back inside. I want to stay out, you know, try to make a go of it,’ Spicer said.

  ‘If you’ve got information, you could call Crimestoppers anonymously and give it to them. They’ll pass it on to us.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get the reward then, would I, if it was anonymous?’

  ‘Actually, I believe you might. But you’re aware that withholding information’s an offence, aren’t you?’ Branson said.

  Instantly he detected the panic rising in the old lag’s voice.

  ‘Yeah, but wait a minute. I’m phoning you, to be helpful, like.’

  ‘Very altruistic of you.’

  ‘Very what?’

  ‘I think you’d better tell me what you know.’

  ‘What about if I just give you an address? Would that qualify me for the reward if you find something there?’

  ‘Why don’t you stop fucking about and tell me what you have?’

  92

  Saturday 17 January

  Shortly after 2 p.m. Roy Grace drove in through the front entrance of a large, tired-looking apartment block, Mandalay Court, then down an incline at the side, as he had been directed. He was curious to see what Darren Spicer’s tip-off revealed.

  As he headed around the rear of the building, his wipers clearing away a few tiny spots of drizzle, he saw a long row of shabby lock-up garages that did not look like they had been used for years. At the far end were three vehicles: Glenn Branson’s unmarked silver Ford Focus, identical to the one Grace had come in; the little blue van, which he presumed belonged to the locksmith; and the white police van, containing two members of the Local Support Team, who had been requested in case they had to break their way in, and had brought a battering ram with them as backup. Not that there were many doors, in Grace’s experience, that could defeat ever-cheery Jack Tunks, whose day job was maintaining the locks at Lewes Prison.

  Tunks, in heavy-duty blue overalls, a grimy bag of tools on the ground beside him, was busy inspecting the locks.

  Grace climbed out of the car, holding his torch, and greeted his colleague, then nodded towards the last of the garages in the row. ‘This the one?’

  ‘Yep. No. 17, not very clearly marked.’ Branson double-checked the search warrant that had been signed half an hour ago by a local magistrate. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Tunks said. ‘What’s he got in there? The blooming crown jewels?’

  ‘Does seem a lot of locks,’ Grace agreed.

  ‘Whoever’s had these put on isn’t messing about. I’ll guarantee the door’s reinforced behind too.’

  Grace detected a degree of grudging respect in his voice. The recognition of one professional’s work by another.

  While Tunks applied himself to his task, Grace stood rubbing his hands against the cold. ‘What do we know about the owner of this garage?’ he asked Branson.

  ‘I’m on to it. Got two PCSOs going round the apartment block now so see if anyone knows who the owner is, or at least one of the tenants. Otherwise I’ll see what we can get from the Land Registry online.’

  Grace nodded, dabbed a drip from his nose with his handkerchief, then sniffed. He hoped he didn’t have a cold coming – he especially didn’t want to give any infection to Cleo while she was pregnant.

  ‘You’ve checked this is the only way in?’

  The Detective Sergeant, who was wearing a long, cream, belted mackintosh, with epaulettes, and shiny brown leather gloves, made a duh! motion with his head, rocking it from side to side. ‘I know I’m not always the sharpest tack in the box, old-timer, but yeah, I did check.’

  Grace grinned, then took a walk around the side to check for himself. It was a long garage, but there was no window or rear door. Returning to Branson, he said, ‘So, what news on the Ari front?’

  ‘Ever see that film War of the Roses?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Michael Douglas?’

  ‘You got it. And Kathleen Turner and Danny DeVito. Everything gets smashed up. We’re about there – only worse.’

  ‘Wish I could give you some advice, mate,’ Grace said.

  ‘I can give you some,’ Glenn replied. ‘Don’t bother getting married. Just find a woman who hates you and give her your house, your kids and half your income.’

  The locksmith announced he was done, and pulled the door back and up a few inches, to show it was now free. ‘Would one of you like to do the honours?’ he said, and stepped away, a tad warily, as if worried a monster was going to leap out.

  Branson took a deep breath and pulled the door up. It was much heavier than he had imagined. Tunks was right, it had been reinforced with steel plating.

  As the door clanged home on its rollers, sliding parallel with the roof, all of them stared into the interior.

  It was empty.

  In the shadows they could make out an uneven dark stain towards the far end, which looked like it had been made by a parked vehicle dripping oil. Roy Grace detected a faint, car-park smell of warm vehicle. On the right-hand side of the far end wall was floor-to-ceiling wooden shelving. An old, bald-looking vehicle tyre was propped against the left-hand side. A couple of spanners and an old claw hammer hung from hooks on the wall to their left. But nothing else.

  Glenn stared gloomily into the void. ‘Having a laugh on us, is he?’

  Grace said nothing as he shone his torch around the walls, then the ceiling.

  ‘I’ll tear fucking Spicer’s head off!’ Glenn said.

  Then they both saw it at the same time, as the beam fell on the two plain, flat strips of plastic on the floor. They strode forward. Grace snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then knelt and picked the up first strip.

  It was a vehicle front registration plate, black lettering on a reflective white surface.

  He recognized the index instantly. It was the cloned registration on the van which had shot away from the Grand Hotel car park on Thursday afternoon, almost certainly driven by the Shoe Man.

  The second plastic strip was the rear plate.

  Had they found the Shoe Man’s lair?

  Grace walked across to the end wall. On one shelf was a row of grey duct-tape rolls. The rest of the shelves were bare.

  Glenn Branson start
ed walking across to the left wall. Grace stopped him. ‘Don’t trample everywhere, mate. Let’s try to retrace our steps, leave it as clean as we can for SOCO – I want to get them in here right away.’

  He looked around carefully, thinking. ‘Do you think that’s what Spicer saw? These licence plates?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s smart enough to have put two and two together from just licence plates. I think he saw something else.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He won’t talk unless we give him immunity. I have to say, at least he was smart relocking the door.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the ACC,’ Grace said, stepping as lightly as he could on the way back out. ‘We need to know what he saw in here. We need to know what might have been here that isn’t here now.’

  ‘You mean he could have nicked something?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think Spicer nicked what was in here. I think what he probably saw in here was a white van. An engine’s been running in here within the last few hours. If the van’s gone, then where the hell is it? And, more to the point, why’s it gone? Go and talk to him. Twist his arm. Tell him if he wants a crack at that reward, he has to tell us what he saw, otherwise no deal.’

  ‘He’s scared he’ll get banged up again for breaking and entering.’

  Grace looked at his mate. ‘Tell him to lie, to say that the door was open, unlocked. I’m not interested in nicking him for breaking and entering.’

  Branson nodded. ‘OK, I’ll go and talk to him. Just had a thought – if you put SOCO in and the Shoe Man returns and sees them, he’ll do a runner. Aren’t we smarter having someone covert watching it? Get Tunks to lock it up again so he doesn’t know we’ve been here?’

  ‘Assuming he’s not watching us now,’ Grace said.

  Branson glanced around, then up, warily. ‘Yeah, assuming that.’

  *

  Grace’s first action when he arrived at the Ops Control Room at John Street, twenty minutes later, was to inform his Silver and Bronze Commanders that any white Ford Transit van sighted in the vicinity of Eastern Road, for the rest of the day and night, was to be kept under close observation. Then he put out a broader request to all patrols in the city to keep a vigilant eye on all current model white Ford Transit vans.