by Peter James
It was Inspector Rob Leet, the Golf 99 – the Duty Inspector in charge of all critical incidents in the city. Leet was a calm, extremely capable officer.
‘Sir, in case this is connected, I’ve just had a report from East Sector – a unit is attending a van on fire in remote farmland north of Patcham.’
Grace frowned. ‘What information do you have on it?’
‘It seems to have been on fire for some time – it’s pretty well burnt out. The fire brigade’s on its way. But this is why I thought it might be of interest. It’s a current model Ford Transit – sounds similar to the one you have an alert out on.’
The news made Grace uneasy. ‘Any casualties?’
‘It appears to be empty.’
‘No one seen running away from it?’
‘No.’
‘Anything from its registration?’
‘The licence plates are burned beyond recognition, I’m told, sir.’
‘OK, thanks,’ he said. ‘We have our man in custody. It may not be connected. But keep me updated.’
‘I will, sir.’
Grace ended the call and entered the front door of Sussex House, nodding a greeting to the night security man.
‘Hi, Duncan. How’s the running?’
The tall, athletic forty-year-old smiled at him proudly. ‘Completed a half-marathon last weekend. Came fifteenth out of seven hundred.’
‘Brilliant!’
‘Working up for the London marathon this year. Hope I can touch you for some sponsorship – for St Wilfred’s Hospice?’
‘Absolutely!’
Grace walked through to the rear of the building and out of the door, crossing the courtyard. He passed the wheelie bins and the SOCO vehicles which were permanently housed there, then went up the steep incline towards the custody block. As he pressed his key card against the security panel to unlock the door, his phone rang again.
It was Inspector Rob Leet once more.
‘Roy, I thought I’d better call you right away. I know you have the Shoe Man in custody, but we’ve got a unit on site in Sudeley Place, Kemp Town, attending a Grade One.’
This was the highest category of emergency call, requiring immediate attendance. Grace knew Sudeley Place. It was just south of Eastern Road. The tone of Leet’s voice worried him. What the Duty Inspector had to say fuelled that worry further.
‘Apparently a local resident happened to be looking out of her window and saw a woman having a fight with a man over a fridge.’
‘A fridge?’
‘He was in some sort of van – a camper of some kind – she’s not very good on vehicles, couldn’t give us the make. She reckons he hit her, then drove off at high speed.’
‘With her on board?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was this?’
‘About thirty-five minutes ago – just after 6.30 p.m.’
‘He could be anywhere by now. Did she get the registration?’
‘No. But I’m treating this as a possible abduction and I’ve cordoned off that section of pavement. I’ve asked Road Policing to check all camper vans on the move in the vicinity of the city. We’re going to see if we can get anything from CCTV.’
‘OK. Look, I’m not quite sure why you’re telling me this. We have our Shoe Man suspect in custody. I’m about to go and see him.’
‘There’s a reason why I think it could be significant for you, sir.’ Leet hesitated. ‘My officers attending have found a woman’s shoe on the pavement.
‘What kind of a shoe?’
‘Very new, apparently. Black patent leather, with a high heel. The witness saw it fall out of the camper.’
Grace felt a falling sensation deep in the pit of his stomach. His mind was whirling. They had the Shoe Man. At this very moment they were booking John Kerridge into custody.
But he did not like the sound of the burning van.
And he liked the sound of this new incident even less.
99
Saturday 17 January
In the CCTV room of Sussex Remote Monitoring Services, Dunstan Christmas shifted his twenty-stone bulk on the chair, careful not to lift his weight off altogether and trigger the alarm sensor. It was only 7.30 p.m. Shit. Another hour and half to wait before he would be relieved for a five-minute comfort break.
He was not due on nights for another two weeks, but he’d agreed to cover for someone who was sick because he needed the overtime pay. Time wasn’t even crawling by; it felt like it had stopped altogether. Maybe it was even going backwards, like in a sci-fi movie he’d watched recently on Sky. It was going to be a long night.
But thinking about the money he was making cheered him. Mr Starling might be a strange boss, but he paid well. The money here was good; much better than in his previous job, watching X-rayed luggage at Gatwick Airport.
He reached forward, pulled a handful of Doritos out of the giant-size packet in front of him, munched them and washed them down with a swig of Coca-Cola from the two-litre bottle, then belched. As he routinely ran his eyes over all twenty screens, his hand close to the microphone button in case he should happen to spot any intruder, he noticed that No. 17, which had been dead when he had started his shift, was still not showing any images. It was the old Shoreham cement works, where his dad had been a driver.
He pressed the control toggle to change the image on the screen, in case it was just one of the twenty-six CCTV cameras that was on the blink. But the screen remained blank. He picked up the phone and dialled the night engineer.
‘Hi, Ray. It’s Dunstan in Monitor Room 2. I’ve not had any image on screen 17 since I started my shift.’
‘Mr Starling’s instruction,’ the engineer replied. ‘The client hasn’t paid his bill. Over four months now apparently. Mr Starling’s suspended the service. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Right, thanks,’ Dunstan Christmas said. ‘I won’t.’
He ate some more Doritos.
100
Saturday 17 January
A terrible pain, like a vice crushing her head, woke Jessie. For an instant, utterly disoriented, she had no idea where she was.
In Benedict’s room?
She felt all muzzy and queasy. What had happened last night? What had happened at the dinner dance? Had she got drunk?
She felt a crashing jolt. There was a constant whooshing sound beneath her. She could hear the steady blatter of an engine. Was she in a plane?
Her queasiness deepened. She was close to throwing up.
Another jolt, then another. There was a banging sound like a loose door. Fear squirmed through her. Something felt very wrong; something terrible had happened. As she became more conscious, her memory trickled back, reluctantly, as if something was trying to hold it at bay.
She couldn’t move her arms or her legs. Her fear deepened. She was lying face down on something hard and constantly jolting. Her nose was bunged up and she was finding it harder and harder to breathe. She tried, desperately, to breathe in though her mouth, but something was clamped over it and no air would come through. She couldn’t breathe through her nose now either. She tried to cry out but just heard a dull moan and felt her mouth reverberating.
Panicking, juddering, fighting for breath, she sniffed harder. She could not get enough air in through her nose to fill her lungs. She squirmed, moaned, twisted on to her side, then on to her back, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing, fighting for air, close to blacking out. Then, after a few moments of lying on her back, the blockage freed a little and more air came in. Her panic subsided a little. She took several long, deep breaths, calming a fraction, then tried to call out again. But the sounds stayed trapped in her mouth and gullet.
Bright lights lit up the darkness for an instant and she could see above her the roof of the vehicle. Then darkness again.
Another bright light and she saw a hunched figure in the driver’s seat, just shoulders and the back of a baseball cap. The light passed and was instantly replaced by another. Headlights of oncoming car
s, she realized.
Suddenly there were bright lights to her right, as a vehicle overtook them. For a fleeting instant she saw part of his face reflected in the interior mirror. She froze in terror. It was still masked by the black hood.
His eyes were on her.
‘Just lie back and enjoy the ride!’ he said in a bland, small voice.
She tried to speak again, struggling once more to move her arms. They were behind her back, her wrists clamped together. There was no slack, nothing to get a purchase on. She tried to move her legs, but they felt as if they had been welded together at the ankles and knees.
What time was it? How long had she been here? How long since . . .
She should be at the dinner dance. Benedict was going to meet her parents. He was coming round to pick her up. What was he thinking now? Doing now? Was he standing outside her flat ringing the bell? Phoning her? As headlights again brightened the interior, she looked around. Saw what seemed to be a small kitchen unit; one cupboard door was swinging, banging but not closing. Now they were slowing down. She heard him change gear, heard an indicator click-clicking.
Her fear deepened even more. Where were they going?
Then she heard a siren wailing, faintly at first, then louder. It was behind them. Now louder still! And suddenly her spirits soared. Yes! Benedict had come round to collect her and called the police when he realized she wasn’t there. They were coming! She was safe. Oh, thank God! Thank God!
Shards of blue light, as if from a shattered chandelier, flooded the interior of the van and the air filled with the scream of the siren. Then, in an instant, the blue lights were gone. Jessie heard the siren recede into the distance.
No, you idiots, no, no no no, no. Please. Come back! Please come back!
She slithered across the floor to her left, as the van made a sharp right. Two hard, jarring jolts and it pulled up. She heard the ratchet of the handbrake. Please come back! Then a torch beam flashed into her eyes, momentarily dazzling her.
‘Nearly there!’ he said.
All she could see when he moved the beam away from her face were his eyes through the slits in the hood. She tried to speak to him. ‘Please, who are you? What do you want? Where have you taken me?’ But all that came out was the reverberating moan, like a muffled foghorn.
She heard the driver’s door open. The engine ticked over with a steady clatter. Then she heard metal clanking – it sounded like a chain. It was followed by the creaking sound of rusty hinges. A gate being opened?
Then she heard a familiar sound. A soft, rasping buzzing. Hope suddenly sprang up inside her. It was her mobile phone! She’d switched it to silent, vibrate, for her kick-boxing class. It sounded as if it was coming from somewhere up front. Was it on the passenger seat?
Oh, God, who was it? Benedict? Wondering where she was? It stopped after four rings, going automatically to voicemail.
Moments later he jumped back in, drove forward a short distance, then jumped out again, once more leaving the engine ticking over. She heard the same creaking sound, then the same metal clanking of a chain again. Wherever they were, they were now on the far side of locked gates, she realized, her terror deepening even more. Somewhere private. Somewhere that police patrols would not drive by. Her mouth was dry and she felt as if she was going to throw up, bile rising in her throat, sharp and bitter. She swallowed it.
The van lurched, then lurched again – speed humps, she thought – dipped down an incline, sending her sliding forward, her shoulder bashing painfully into something, then rose up, so that she slid back again, helplessly. Then they were driving along a smooth surface, with a steady bump-bump every few moments, like joins in concrete. It was pitch dark in here and he seemed to be driving without lights on.
For an instant her terror turned to anger, then to wild, feral fury. Let me out! Let me out! Untie me! You have no fucking right to do this! She struggled against her bonds, pulling her wrists, her arms, with all her strength, shaking, thrashing. But whatever was binding them did not budge.
She lay limp and sniffing air, her eyes filled with tears. She should be at the dinner dance tonight. In her beautiful dress and her new shoes, holding Benedict’s arm as he chatted wittily to her parents, winning them over, as she was sure he would. Benedict had been nervous as hell. She had tried to reassure him that they would be charmed by him. Her mother would adore him and her father, well, he seemed a tough guy when you first met him, but underneath he was a big softie. They would adore him, she had promised him.
Yeah, right, until they find out I’m not Jewish.
The van continued its journey. They were turning left now. The headlights came on for a brief second and she saw what looked like the wall of a tall, derelict, slab-like structure with panes of broken glass. The sight sent a vortex of icy air corkscrewing through her. It was like one of the buildings the film Hostel was set in. The building where innocent people who had been captured were taken and tortured by wealthy sadists who paid for the privilege.
Her imagination was in freefall. She’d always been a horror movie fan. Now she was thinking about all the deranged killers in movies she had seen, who kidnapped their victims, then tortured and killed them at their leisure. Like in Silence of the Lambs, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Hills Have Eyes.
Her brain was shorting out in terror. She was breathing in short, sharp, panicky bursts, her chest thudding, thudding, thudding, and she was so angry inside.
The van stopped. He got out again. She heard the rumbling of a metal door, then a terrible grinding of metal against some other hard surface. He climbed back in, slammed his door shut and drove forward, putting his lights on again.
Have to talk to him, somehow.
Now she could see through the windscreen that they were inside some vast, disused industrial building, the height of an aircraft hangar, or several aircraft hangars. The headlights briefly showed a railed steel walkway going around the walls high up and a network of what looked like giant, dusty Apollo rocket fuel cylinders stretching into the distance, supported by massive steel and concrete cradles. As they turned, she saw rail tracks disappearing into dust and rubble, and a rusted open goods carriage, covered in graffiti, which did not look like it had moved in decades.
The van halted.
She was shaking so much in terror she could not think straight.
The man got out and switched the engine off. She heard him walking away, then the groaning noise of metal, a loud, echoing clang, following by the clanking of what sounded like a chain. She heard him walking back towards the camper.
Moments later she heard the door slide open and now he was inside the rear with her. He shone the torch down at her, first at her face, then at her body. She stared up at his hooded face, shaking in terror.
She could kick him, she thought wildly. Although her legs were strapped together, she could bend her knees, then lash out at him, but unless she could free her arms, what good would that achieve? Other than to anger him.
She needed to speak to him. She was remembering tips from all she had read in newspapers about hostages who had survived capture. You needed to try to bond with your captors. It was harder for them to harm you if you established a rapport. Somehow she had to get him to free her mouth so she could talk to him. Reason with him. Find out what he wanted.
‘You shouldn’t have kicked me,’ he said suddenly. ‘I bought you nice new shoes, the same as the ones you were going to wear tonight to take Benedict to meet your parents. You’re all the same, you women. You think yourselves so powerful. You put on all these sexy things to snare your man, then ten years later, you’re all fat and horrible, with cellulite and a slack belly. Somebody has to teach you a lesson, even if I have to do it with only one shoe.’
She tried to speak again.
He leaned down and, in a sudden movement that took her by surprise, flipped her over on to her stomach, then sat on her legs, pinioning them to the floor, crushing them painfully with his weight. She felt something
being wound around her ankles and knotted tight. He stood up and suddenly her legs were being pulled over to the left. Then, after some moments, she felt them being pulled to the right. She tried to move them, but couldn’t.
Then she heard the clank of metal and an instant later felt something cold and hard being wound around her neck and pulled tight. There was a sharp snap that sound liked a lock closing. Suddenly her head was jerked forward, then to the right. She heard another snap, like another lock. Then her head was being pulled to the left. Another snap.
She was stretched out as if she was on some medieval rack. She could not move her head or her legs or her arms. She tried to breathe. Her nose was blocking up again. She shimmied in growing panic.
‘I have to go now. I’m expected for dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Hasta la vista!’
She moaned in terror, trying to plead with him. No, please! No, please don’t leave me face down. I can’t breathe. Please, I’m claustrophobic. Please—
She heard the door sliding shut.
Footsteps. A distant rending and echoing bang of metal.
Then the sound of a motorcycle engine starting up, revving and fading into the distance, roaring away, fading rapidly into silence. As she listened, quaking in terror, fighting for air she felt a sudden, unpleasant warm sensation spreading around her groin and along her thighs.
101
Saturday 17 January
Roy Grace sat in the small interview room in the Custody Centre, alongside DC Michael Foreman, who, like himself, was a trained Witness and Suspect Cognitive Interviewer. But at this moment, none of that past training was doing them any good. John Kerridge had gone no comment on them. Thanks but no thanks to his smartalec lawyer, Ken Acott.
The tape recorder with three blank cassettes sat on the table. High up on the walls, two CCTV camera lenses peered down at them like mildly inquisitive birds. There was a tense atmosphere. Grace was feeling murderous. At this moment he could have happily reached across the narrow interview table, grabbed John Kerridge by the neck and strangled the truth out of the little shit, disability or no disability.