by Peter James
Photography had become so much easier these days, thanks to his iPhone camera. His potential projects would just see a man making a phone call. They would never know that they would become part of his Hall of Fame. He liked to spend time studying them all. And planning. Pages and pages of notes filling the filing cabinets in his VSP – his Very Secret Place – where he liked to go sometimes to do his planning, because he could think clearly there, away from the distraction of his current projects, and he enjoyed the fact that it was in such a very visible location.
VSP! He liked having a VSP!
The potentials he most studied were those who radiated vulnerability. Everyone was vulnerable at some point in their lives – but some were always vulnerable. These were the people who showed the biggest fear. And he wanted them to be afraid of him. Very seriously afraid. Nothing excited him more than seeing fear. Hearing fear. Touching fear. Feeling fear. Smelling fear. Tasting fear.
He liked to keep his potential projects under observation for long periods of time. Months, often. He liked to follow them. Of course, a lot merely went to the station to return to wherever they had come from. Some went to their cars. Those he would lose. But some walked home or took buses. They made his life much easier.
Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights were his favourite times. West Street in Brighton in particular, where it was so easy to be invisible. This gaudy strip of road, which he called ‘Chav Central’, ran from Brighton’s Clock Tower down to the seafront. It was lined with amusement arcades and clubs, and populated with drunken, scantily clad youngsters, and boisterous hen and stag parties often in ridiculous costumes, all under the watchful eye of a massive police presence. In his view it was a sewer of humanity. A cesspit.
He was always ready to rid it of one of its occupants.
Like the one he saw now, wobbling along on her bike, swinging out, with no lights on, into the sparse King’s Road traffic.
It was just gone 12.50 a.m.
Her name was Ashleigh Stanford. She was twenty-one years old. He had been keeping an eye on her for six months now. She worked Friday and Saturday nights behind the bar in a pub in the Lanes. When she had finished, she cycled back home to the flat she shared with her boyfriend in a quiet street in Hove, always looking a little bit drunk.
She was studying fashion design at Brighton University.
Ashleigh Stanford was, it turned out from his research, a distant but direct descendant of the dynastic landowning family, whose ancestors dated back to the seventeenth century and had at one time owned huge tracts of land around what was then called Brighthelmstone. He liked her historic connection to his city.
But there was something that he liked much more about her. Oh yes.
Ashleigh Stanford was perfect!
He started the engine, glanced in his mirrors, and drove the Streamline taxi liveried Skoda estate he had chosen tonight away from the meter bay, very slowly, his lights on dipped beam. He smiled to himself at his cunning. It was important to vary his vehicles. Taxis never looked out of place, anywhere, and this model was one of the most commonly used in Brighton. He’d bought the vehicle secondhand from a rural dealer in Yorkshire, and had a body shop local to them paint it with the distinctive turquoise bonnet. The taxi insignia decals he’d had made to order from a firm on the internet, and the roof light had been easy to come by.
Ashleigh, with a small rucksack on her back, was pedalling hard, wobbling and swerving around, heading west. Heading home? He’d find out soon enough!
There was something very symmetrical about the number three. Two’s company, three’s a crowd!
Felix would be fine with that. Harrison, as ever, would not be so sure. And bloody pedantic Marcus, he would really be against what he was about to do. And that proved he was right. Two’s company, three’s a crowd.
As his old science teacher at school liked to say, QED.
Quod erat demonstrandum!
He tailed Ashleigh at such a long distance that his dipped headlamps did not even register on her rear reflector. She pedalled on past the Peace Statue, and swung onto the cycle path alongside the Hove Lawns. He checked his mirrors and there was nothing behind him. Just himself and his pretty, young project. Heading home to her boyfriend.
Perfect!
She came off the cycle path and onto the road, to avoid a detour, and went over a red light at the junction with Grand Avenue, below the stern gaze of the statue of Queen Victoria. Then a few minutes later she shot the lights at the junction with Hove Street.
My, you’re a reckless one! You need to be taught a lesson in road safety. You’re not even wearing a helmet!
He was feeling impatient, shaking with excitement! He’d like to have taken her out now, but he was aware that there were cameras along the road here. Then suddenly, without indicating, she swung into the centre of the road and turned right past a block of flats on the corner, into Carlisle Road.
Oh yes, baby, perfect, thank you!
Turning off his lights, he turned right, also, and accelerated. Then as he drew close to her, he changed gear into neutral, feathered the accelerator pedal and coasted silently for some seconds, perspiring with excitement. Coming up close to her, so close he could see her long brown hair, flailing around behind her, in the glow of the street lighting.
They were halfway up the road, heading towards her flat, just short of the junction with New Church Road. He engaged a gear, silently, pressed the accelerator lightly, drew alongside her, saw her face through his side window, tight with exertion.
He swung the steering wheel over to the left. At the same time as hearing the metallic clang, he felt the impact. He braked hard, without squealing the tyres, not wanting to wake the sleeping street. He pulled the hypodermic syringe out of his pocket, then leapt out of the car and ran towards her. ‘God,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so . . .’
But there was no need for any apology. She was lying spread-eagled on the pavement, groaning, in shock. He looked over his shoulder, looked around, up at the windows of the houses on both sides of the street that might have had a view. No sign of any movement.
He knelt beside her, as if pretending to check her pulse, then opened her mouth, as if checking her airways, but instead he pressed the needle into her tongue and emptied the entire vial of ketamine. He sheathed and pocketed the syringe, looking carefully around again.
Then he half lifted, half dragged her to the rear of his car, opened the tailgate and hefted her in. He already had the rear seat folded flat. Then he opened her rucksack with his gloved hands, rummaged in it and pulled out her iPhone. Still looking carefully around, he ran back, tossed the phone into a thick laurel hedge beside a garden path and picked up her bike. He threw that in the rear also, on top of her, shut the tailgate, climbed in and drove off.
He was shaking in anticipation.
This felt so good. It really did!
His new project!
He felt such a burst of happiness deep inside him that he wanted to sing out loud and share how he felt with the whole world.
‘I got you, babe! Oh yeah!’
Over his shoulder he said, calmly, ‘You’re going to be another great project! You really are! Trust me! I’m on a roll!’
38
Saturday 13 December
Logan lay in a cold sweat, in a vortex of fear, trying to focus her mind which lurched uncontrollably from terror to anger, then back to terror.
Hoping, praying that she would wake from this terrible nightmare.
At this moment, terror swirled inside her like cold, heavy darkness. It filled her mind, her heart, her lungs, her stomach. Her mouth was dry, she was shaking and whimpering, blinded by her stinging tears, and desperately trying to think clearly. To figure her way out of this.
Ever since realizing the muffled voice was clearly not Jamie’s, her mind had been in a mist. Who the hell was her captor? What was going on? Where was she? How long had she been here?
The pain where she had been burned on
her thigh was agonizing, as if acid were eating through her flesh. The pain in her toe was bad too, a steady, insistent throbbing. But she was trying to ignore all the pain, to blot it out. To think. Think.
She had to think clearly.
She had an itch on her nose that was driving her crazy. It had been driving her crazy for what felt like an age.
Surely Jamie would have reported her missing? Wouldn’t people be out looking for her? Wouldn’t there be police combing the streets, fields, woods, dragging lakes, like she had seen in movies?
How long had she been here? How long? No matter how hard she writhed and twisted her head, she couldn’t see the face of her watch.
She thought back to when she had phoned Jamie. Hours ago? Days ago? Weeks ago? She’d heard the instant concern in his voice. He’d registered that she was frightened in those moments before her car door had been ripped open and she’d seen the masked face above her.
A tsunami of fear crashed through her at the memory.
Jamie must have tried to phone her back. What happened when he didn’t get an answer? He’d have gone to the police, surely? He’d have known she wasn’t joking. So what had he done, who had he alerted? What was happening out there beyond the walls of her prison?
Prison.
Captor.
Her anger flared again. Whoever the hell you are, what gives you the right to imprison me? How dare you do this to me? She writhed and pulled and pushed out against her increasingly painful bonds. Shit, this was ridiculous. She had so much to do. Patients who needed her. A big party on Saturday night that she had really been looking forward to, a reunion of all the girls from their year in school, and their partners, at the Exeter Street church hall they had all helped save from developers. There was going to be a load of people there she hadn’t seen in over five years.
With a sudden flash of panic she realized she didn’t know how far away Saturday night was. Or had it already passed?
Her mind kept veering to horror movies she’d seen. Crazies who kidnapped people and tortured and then killed them. Hostel. The Bone Collector. The Silence of the Lambs. Was this what had happened to her? Not here, not in Brighton, not in this city she loved and where she always felt so safe, surely not?
Then she thought of the screams of the woman she had heard. Followed by the terrible gurgling; the rasping sound, like a death rattle, then the silence. How long ago was that? Who else was in here? Was she going to be next?
She was bloody well not going to let that happen. Somehow she had to keep clear-headed. How did people get out of situations like this?
She tried again to move her arms, but they were strapped down too tightly. There was some kind of restraint across her midriff, across her neck, her thighs and her ankles. With all her strength she tried to raise her head again, until the strap cut into her throat too much.
What the hell was she in?
The burning sensation on the inside of her right leg suddenly became even more acute, as if it had caught fire. But she couldn’t even move her arms to touch the area.
She lay back in the pitch darkness, her mouth parched again. Her sugar levels were going down again, too, she realized, the all too familiar jittery feeling starting to return. Then she heard a noise that chilled her. Despite the sound being muffled, the words were clear.
A woman’s voice. Screaming. ‘Let me go, you bastard!’
Then the man’s voice, shouting out in anger and pain. ‘Owww!’ Then again, ‘Owww!’
Hope rose inside her.
‘Owww, you bitch.’
There was a crashing sound. She heard a woman’s voice yelling, ‘Get your hands off me, you bastard perv!’
Go! Logan urged. Go!
Then she heard a dull thud, followed by the woman screaming out in pain. Then another thud, like a hammer against a sack. Then another. Then the man’s voice, in a chilling rage.
‘Look what you’ve made me do, you bitch! You’ve spoiled my fun. You realize that? You’ve spoiled my fun.’
Then Logan heard the scream again. It was a terrible sound, deep, powerful, fuelled by absolute terror. ‘Help me, oh my God, help me!’
Then another thud.
Then silence.
Logan lay there, shaking. Waiting. Then the man’s voice again.
It was followed by another thud. Then another. Then another.
Then silence.
Logan lay, listening, trembling. But all she could hear was the silence.
She was sinking low, she realized. Heading into a hypo.
Suddenly she heard the sliding sound above her and, an instant later, was blinded by a brilliant beam of light. A lump of chocolate was rammed into her mouth. Then the muffled voice again.
‘Eat that. I don’t want to lose you, too. We’re not ready for that yet.’
‘Please – please tell me who you are?’ she spluttered through her mouthful of sweetness. ‘Tell me what you want? Please tell me?’
‘I have what I want,’ he replied.
The lid slid shut above her.
39
Saturday 13 December
Roy Grace woke at 5 a.m., twenty minutes before the alarm set on the clock and the back-up alarm on his iPhone. Cleo was sound asleep, breathing heavily, facing away from him, spooned against him, his right arm beneath her pillow. He could hear rain pelting down outside, and listened, as he did every time he woke during the night, for the sounds of Noah breathing through the baby monitor. His son sounded fine.
He felt leadenly tired, and could easily have lapsed back into sleep, but he needed to energize himself for what he anticipated to be a long and hard day ahead. Trying not to wake Cleo – Noah had already done that twice during the night – he gently, slowly, wormed his arm free. As he did so, she stirred.
‘You off, darling?’ she murmured, half asleep still.
‘I’ll take Humphrey for a quick run.’
‘Love you.’
He kissed her shoulder. ‘Love you so much,’ he said.
Then he slipped naked out of bed and stood, shivering in the chilly darkness. ‘Mind if I put on the light for a moment?’
‘I’m awake,’ she said.
He switched on his bedside light, shuffled through into the bathroom, closed the door then put on the bright light in there and, yawning, switched on his electric toothbrush.
Five minutes later, dressed in his tracksuit and a baseball cap, and trying to shush an excited Humphrey who was jumping up at him and barking, he let himself and the dog out of the front door, holding the lead in one hand and a plastic bag in the other in case, as was likely, Humphrey decided to have a dump en route.
He ran across the cobbled courtyard to the front gates, attached Humphrey’s lead, then ran out into the street and threaded his way past the silent houses and closed shops and cafés down towards the seafront. He loved the city at this hour, when it was still mostly sleeping. Loved the feeling of being up ahead of the rest of the world. He had always been able to cope on relatively little sleep, which stood him in good stead in this job, where snatching just a few hours was often the norm – and he had even more sleep deprivation now that he had a restless baby.
The rain pattering against his face and the salty tang of the air felt and smelled good. He crossed a deserted King’s Road in the misty glare of the street lighting, then freed Humphrey, who bounded off ahead, and ran down the ramp by the arches, with the long, dark silhouette of Brighton Pier – or Palace Pier as he still preferred to call it – over to his left, and headed west, towards the sad, rusted skeletal remains of the West Pier, which had been gutted by a fire over a decade ago, and day by day was steadily crumbling into the sea.
As he ran, wide awake and increasingly clear-headed, his thoughts on the day ahead were crystallizing. Just before going to bed at midnight, he’d checked his emails and seen that the Sussex Police rugby team, of which he was the president, was a man short, due to illness, for an important fixture this afternoon. Could he play or find a last-m
inute substitute? It was a mundane task in the middle of such a critical operation, but he needed to deal with it. So far there had been no replies from the two possible players he had emailed – hardly surprising given the early hour.
His thoughts focused back on Logan Somerville who had now been missing since around 5.30 p.m. Thursday. Thirty-six hours. Both the new ACC and the Police and Crime Commissioner had phoned him late last night for updates, telling him how important it was to find her. Neither of them needed to do that. He was motivated enough as it was. Ever since Sandy had vanished over a decade ago, he knew the anguish the disappearance of a loved one caused. He had lived it every single day, and despite his deep love for Cleo, the pain of Sandy’s disappearance was still there in his heart and in his soul.
He had not yet told either Pewe or Roigard of his bigger concerns.
Humphrey looked a tad miffed when he stopped opposite the remains of the West Pier and turned around. The dog barked, as if saying to him that normally they would run much longer – towards Hove Lagoon at least.
‘Sorry, boy, I have to get to work. Have to find someone very urgently. OK?’
Humphrey suddenly bounded ahead and ran onto the beach, crunching across the pebbles, on a mission.
‘What is it, boy?’ he called.
Then, in the faint glow from the promenade lighting, he saw Humphrey stop, lie on his back and begin rolling vigorously backwards and forwards.
Grace realized to his dismay what was happening. ‘Humphrey!’ he shouted. ‘No! No, boy! No!’
He unzipped his pocket, tugged out his phone, found the torch app and switched it on, then ran, stumbling and unsteadily, over the pebbles, shouting for the dog to stop. ‘HUMPHREYYYYYY!’
He stood over the rolling hound and bellowed again.
Contritely, Humphrey scrambled to his feet and stared up at him. Moments later the sickening, putrid smell hit him. In the bright beam of light he saw the splayed legs and claws and white belly of the long-dead, busted-open crab.