by Peter James
He toyed for a moment with dragging the dog into the sea to try to clean him, but the waves were pounding hard and he thought it too risky. So, instead, the stench accompanied him all the way home, as Humphrey ran alongside him, pleased as punch with himself and mightily proud of the new cologne he was wearing.
‘This is all I sodding need!’ Roy Grace whispered to the dog, holding him tightly by the collar and gagging, as he let himself back into the house. He dragged him, resisting every inch of the way, paws scraping across the floor and up the stairs, into the bathroom, shut the door behind them, then lifted him into the bathtub, turned on the taps, picked up the hand-shower and washed away, as best he could, the worst of the fetid, putrid mess on the dog’s back.
Thirty minutes later, having showered, shaved and gulped down a microwaved bowl of instant porridge and a few sips of tea, he kissed Cleo, fast asleep again, goodbye, then slipped out of the house. Humphrey, lying in his basket down in the living room, did not even raise his head. He opened one eye, dismissively, as if some alien dog turd had just departed from his home.
40
Saturday 13 December
Jacob Van Dam had a sleepless night in the spare bedroom across the corridor from his wife’s room, where he had spent most nights for the past decade, with a mask over his face delivering compressed air. He’d suffered sleep apnoea for years, snoring heavily and turning restlessly, constantly waking his wife, until she couldn’t take it any longer.
He’d actually been sleeping pretty well recently, he thought. But the emotional turmoil in his mind since the strange Dr Harrison Hunter – if indeed he was any kind of medical doctor – had entered his life – and his head – was now keeping him awake.
The man was worrying him like hell.
Who are you, Dr Hunter?
What sick game are you trying to play with me?
He was trying to think clearly through his tiredness.
U R DEAD
What was that about? He’d had plenty of experience, in his career, of people with sick fantasies. They would read of a crime in the media and immediately phone the police and confess to it. Fortunately most clever Senior Investigating Officers kept back certain bits of information that would be known only to the offender and to no one else – which helped them to eliminate time-wasters.
Yet there was something about Dr Hunter that prevented him from dismissing him completely. His confidence, his body language, his whole behaviour, erratic though it was, made him feel deeply uncomfortable.
Would he be helping to find his niece by calling the police and telling them what he knew? Or would he be condemning Logan to death? He felt, and he had been dwelling on this all through the day and night, that Hunter did know something of value. The man had paid his secretary the five-hundred-pound consultancy fee in cash, before the appointment. Would someone who was just a fantasist really have done that?
He looked at the luminous digital figures of his clock radio. 6:05 a.m. Logan was beautiful, smart and kind. She had always had a child-like innocence about her. She was not the kind of person to suddenly disappear.
What did Harrison Hunter know?
Where did his idea that she had a tattoo come from?
He drifted into an uneasy sleep. When he awoke a short while later, to Rachel standing over him with a cup of tea in her hand, wishing him a good morning and reminding him they had to go to the christening of their granddaughter, Hannah, today down in Chichester, his mind was no clearer as to what he ought to do.
41
Saturday 13 December
Logan stood on a white sandy beach, with the flat blue ocean stretching out beyond. She was in a silky, slinky white dress, and Jamie in a white suit stood by her side, in front of the chaplain. Everyone she loved and cared about stood all around her in the glorious, warm Phuket sunshine.
Jamie kissed her on her cheek. ‘We’ve had our differences but we got through them, didn’t we, my angel?’
She kissed him back and whispered, ‘We have, my darling. You’re the one I want, the only one I’ve ever wanted. I love you so much. You just make me feel so happy, all of the time, forever.’
Then the sky clouded over. Her father looked up and said, ‘It’s about to rain.’
The light was fading. ‘No!’ she said. ‘Please don’t let it! Please stop it!’
Then darkness enveloped her. She woke. Total darkness. She was drenched in perspiration, remembering. Remembering. And began shivering.
The sounds she had heard some while ago. Screams. Terrible screams. She squirmed in terror at the memory. ‘Help me!’ she cried out. ‘Someone please help me!’
She became aware again of the painful burning sensation on her right thigh. Again she tried to move her arms. Then her painfully cramped legs and her throbbing toe.
She hadn’t prayed since her early teens, maybe even before then. But she began praying now, closing her eyes even though it was dark. ‘Please God, help me, please, please, help me.’
Then she lay thinking. What the hell was happening? The man in the car park. Who the hell was he and why was he doing this? She remembered reading about the Stockholm Syndrome. People who bonded with their captors. She had to stifle her fury and bond with this man. Somehow. ‘Hello!’ she called out. ‘Hello!’ She took a deep breath and then, with all her strength, shouted out again.
‘HELLO!’
A few feet away from her, in the darkness, out of her line of vision, not that she could have seen anything, he looked down at his project and smiled. Oh yes, just how I like you. Shout again. Shout as much as you like.
As if obliging him, she did.
Again he smiled. No one will hear you. No one can possibly hear you. No one even knows that where we are exists!
42
Saturday 13 December
Roy Grace called the Saturday briefing, in the conference room of Sussex House, for an hour earlier than usual, 7.30 a.m. He had a lot to get through, and in addition somehow he had to find the time to finish writing his eulogy for the funeral.
He informed his team that although it was too early at this stage to be certain, there were disturbing parallels between Operation Mona Lisa and Operation Haywain. But, he made it absolutely clear, no one was to mention this to anyone outside of either operation.
Norman Potting raised his arm. He was looking pale and his eyes bloodshot – whether from tiredness or crying over Bella, Grace could not tell. He was aware that the DS hadn’t been sleeping. ‘Yes, Norman?’
‘Boss, I may have a significant development. I’ve been in contact with some very helpful people at the DVLA. One was on the phone with me for hours last night, going through Volvo estate cars with registered keepers in the Brighton and Hove area. He’s just come up with a vehicle registered to a Martin Horner, at an address over in the west of the city in Portslade. A residential house. Sixty-two Blenheim Street.’
Looking close to collapsing from exhaustion, Potting covered a yawn with his hand then continued. ‘I went over to the CCTV room at John Street, first checking the records back on the ANPR cameras – they’ve plotted this same suspect vehicle on a direct path from Chesham Gate, where the victim was last recorded, along Dyke Road, at corresponding times.’ He yawned again. ‘We then checked the CCTV cameras in the relevant areas and we found the Volvo, and were able to read the rear licence plate. It’s the same vehicle.’
‘Brilliant, Norman!’ Grace said. ‘You should go home and get some rest.’
Potting shook his head. ‘I want to see this one through, chief.’
‘You haven’t had much sleep.’
‘I’ll sleep next week after—’ He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
After Bella’s funeral, Grace knew he meant. He let it ride. Even though he knew the time, he checked his watch. 7.35 a.m. Dawn raids were the best for catching villains at home. But on a weekend, hopefully the offender would be having a cosy lie-in. He weighed it up for some moments. His prime concern was to en
sure Logan Somerville’s safety. An unsuccessful or botched raid could greatly endanger an abduction victim’s life. But statistics were already long against them. It was over thirty-six hours since her reported disappearance. He turned to DC Alec Davies. ‘Alec, we need a search warrant application, fast. Go to the on-call magistrate and get it signed. I’ll get a Local Support Team unit on standby. Good work, Norman.’
DS Cale raised her arm. ‘Sir,’ she said to Roy Grace. ‘As you know, and for the benefit of everyone else here, I had a call just before the start of this briefing from the duty DI at John Street. There’s been another possible overnight abduction of a young woman in the city.’
Grace’s sense of foreboding was growing by the minute. Was his worst nightmare coming true? ‘Tanja, please tell everyone what we know,’ he prompted.
Tanja Cale looked down at her notes. ‘Her name’s Ashleigh Stanford, twenty-one, a fashion design student at Brighton University. She shares a flat with her boyfriend in Carlisle Road. Her boyfriend phoned in at 3 a.m., concerned that she hadn’t arrived home – she works Friday and Saturday nights in the Druids Head pub in the Lanes. Apparently she’s always home by 1 a.m. She hadn’t phoned him and when he tried to call her, it went to voicemail.’
‘Maybe she went off with one of the customers?’ Guy Batchelor quizzed.
‘It’s possible,’ Cale said. ‘The boyfriend was concerned because she always cycles home. He’d phoned the Sussex County Hospital to see if she’d been admitted following an accident. When that came back negative he then phoned us to report his concerns.’
Grace thought for some moments. Another woman heading home to her boyfriend? Was there something in that? ‘Do we have a picture of her?’ he asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Get me a recent one, please. Urgently.’
43
Saturday 13 December
An hour later, Roy Grace, with Tanja Cale beside him in the passenger seat, turned the unmarked grey Ford Mondeo left off the Old Shoreham Road into Blenheim Street, a narrow street of small, semi-detached 1950s houses that ran south down towards Shoreham Port.
Cars, vans and a couple of taxis as well as an old, converted ambulance were parked along both sides. Without stopping, they clocked No. 62, a tired-looking house, with flaking paintwork and an unloved front strip of garden. But there was only one Volvo in the whole street – a small recent model with a completely different licence plate. He felt the same butterflies he got in his stomach on every raid he ever attended. What dangers did his team face going through the door? What would they find?
‘The car’s probably garaged somewhere nearby,’ Tanja Cale said. ‘He’s unlikely to be stupid enough to have left it outside.’
Grace nodded. His mind was on the abducted girl from last night. Ashleigh Stanford. He checked his iPhone to see if a picture of her had come through yet. Then it rang. It was the Critical Incident Manager, Superintendent Steve Curry. ‘All in position, Charlie One. Are you ready?’
Grace looked at Cale. She nodded.
‘Yes, yes,’ he replied. ‘Let’s go.’
Adrenaline kicking in now, he turned the car around as fast as he could. Two white vans appeared at the top of the street and accelerated down towards him, both of them halting, double-parked outside No. 62 and its immediate neighbours. He pulled up nose-on to the first, a small van, out of which clambered two dog handlers, in black jackets and trousers, with black baseball caps marked POLICE. They opened the rear doors, and led two German Shepherds down the path along the side of the house to cover the side and rear of the property.
Out of the second, much larger Transit van, poured eight Local Support Team officers, wearing blue combat suits with body armour and helmets with visors down. The two front-runners carried the battering and hydraulic rams. They were followed by the rest of their colleagues.
Grace and Cale climbed out of the car but stayed back as the protocols required until the property was declared safe by the LST’s Inspector, Anthony Martin.
Six of the eight armoured officers grouped outside the front door, waiting for the command, while the other two followed the dog handlers around to the rear of the house.
The inspector gave the signal. All six LST officers yelled in unison, in classic shock and awe procedure, ‘POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!’
The first team member fired up the ram, pushing the two sides of the doorframe wide apart. The second pounded the door with the battering ram, and it splintered open almost instantly. All of them barged through, yelling at the tops of their voices, ‘POLICE! DON’T MOVE! POLICE! POLICE!’
The two detectives waited on the pavement. After less than two minutes the tall, thin figure of Inspector Anthony Martin appeared in the front doorway, his visor up and with a perplexed expression. He signalled them to come in.
As they walked up to him, he said, ‘Not very convinced about what we have here, Roy – are you sure about your intel?’
‘What do you have?’
‘Come and see.’
Inside had a smell of musty furniture and cats. He entered a living and dining area, with an elderly three-piece suite and a small dining table, on which lay the remains of a meal and a copy of today’s Daily Express, and an old fashioned kitchen beyond that reminded Grace of his childhood. Two officers were opening cupboards and removing cushions from the sofa and chairs. Accompanied by Tanja Cale, he followed Martin up the narrow stair treads. As they reached the landing at the top, two fat tabby cats shot past them and downstairs.
‘Is the ambulance coming? I thought you was the ambulance,’ said an elderly, whining, female voice. ‘I called them – I have to get to Worthing hospital – I have an appointment, you see. I thought you was the ambulance.’
Grace looked down at a carpet discoloured with stains and what looked like cat faeces littering it, and wrinkled his nose. There was a smell of urine and body odour. It was the kind of place officers used to joke, in his early days when he had been a beat copper, where you had to wipe your feet on the way out. Above him was an open loft hatch, with an extended loft ladder down to the floor.
Following the inspector, and trying to step in the patches of carpet between the droppings of cat shit, he entered a bedroom. Lying on the bed was an elderly woman in her late seventies or even mid-eighties, patches of pink skull showing through her threadbare white hair, who was so fat it took him some moments to figure out where her multiple chins ended and her face began. Her face reminded him of one of the three-dimensional maps in geography lessons at school, showing hills in relief.
‘They said the ambulance would be here by nine o’clock. I can’t get up, you see. I’m ill.’
Grace had to struggle to stop himself telling her what he thought was actually wrong with her, as he stared at the box of doughnuts, and another, almost empty giant-size box of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolates on her bedside table. On the ancient television on a table just beyond the end of the bed was a fuzzy image of James Martin cooking in his kitchen.
Instead, he flashed his warrant card at her, holding his breath, trying not to breathe in any more of her stinking vapour than he needed. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’re not your taxi service. I’m looking for Martin Horner.’
‘Who d’you say?’ She wrinkled her face.
‘Martin Horner. His Volvo car is registered at this address.’
‘Never heard that name, and he didn’t have no car here. Is the ambulance on its way? I’m going to be late for my appointment. I can’t get out of bed on me own, you see. I’m very ill.’
‘What’s your name, madam?’ Tanja Cale asked.
‘Anne – Anne Hill.’
‘Do you have a carer who comes in, Mrs Hill?’ Grace asked.
‘No. I’m all on me own. I had one for a short time, but not any more. He stopped coming.’
Probably because he’d seen through her, Grace thought, and stared at her eyes. ‘What’s your full
name, Mrs Hill?’
‘Hill. Anne. Just Anne Hill.’
Still staring at her eyes, he asked, ‘Someone had breakfast downstairs, Mrs Hill – and bought a copy of today’s Daily Express. Can you explain that?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I dunno nothing about that. I can’t get up, you see.’
Grace pressed. ‘If you can’t get out of bed, then who else is here or was here?’
The old woman was silent for some moments. Her eyes were racing around from right to left, as if searching for a convincing answer. ‘Just me, dear.’
Behind him, he heard a voice call out, ‘The loft’s empty.’ He turned to see an officer from the LST, torch in his hand, clambering down the ladder.
‘So who had breakfast here this morning, Mrs Hill?’ Tanja Cale asked. ‘Martin Horner?’
She screwed up her face, looking puzzled. ‘Martin Horner – who’s he?’
The two detectives looked at each other.
‘As you are bedridden and unable to get up, I’m assuming Martin Horner is the man who bought today’s Express and ate his breakfast downstairs. Unless you have a better suggestion?’
The old woman’s face reddened. She looked fearful, her eyes like two marbles, rolling round as if disconnected from any nerves or tendons. ‘No – no – I – no, I can’t explain that.’
‘Anne Hill, I’m arresting you on suspicion of obstructing the police. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?’
With even greater agility than her two overweight cats, the elderly woman suddenly sprang out of bed, her layers of fat wobbling beneath her translucent nightie, and stood, unsteadily for some moments, then unhooked a filthy-looking dressing gown from behind the door and pulled it around her. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It was me – I went out and got me paper and had me breakfast.’