Ds Roy Grace 11 - You Are Dead

by Peter James

  As soon as Grace had finished, a sea of hands rose. Siobhan Sheldrake from the Argus called out first. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, is it true you believe the disappearances of two Brighton women in the past week, Ms Logan Somerville and Ms Ashleigh Stanford, are linked with the disappearance two weeks ago of Worthing resident Ms Emma Johnson?’

  Grace took another deep breath and stepped up closer to his microphone. ‘Yes, and we also have reason to suspect that the offender behind their abductions may be responsible for two murders we believe occurred approximately thirty years ago. One is the unsolved murder of Catherine Jane Marie Westerham, a nineteen-year-old student at Sussex University, who failed to return to her residence in Elm Grove, Brighton, in December, 1984, and whose remains were found in Ashdown Forest in April 1985. The other is the remains of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties which were recovered from Hove Lagoon, who we believe was murdered around the same time.’

  He pointed at the screen behind him, on which photographs of Emma Johnson, Logan Somerville and Ashleigh Stanford were being projected. ‘The main focus of the investigation at this time is finding these three young women, and we are appealing to the public for anyone who has seen them or may know their current whereabouts to come forward and contact the Incident Room or Crimestoppers, on the phone numbers behind me.’

  ‘Detective Superintendent,’ a slovenly-looking middle-aged reporter Grace did not recognize called out. ‘Are you saying there is a serial killer who has been dormant for thirty years now active in the city of Brighton and Hove?’

  Grace could feel the sudden silence in the room, and the almost vulture-like air of anticipation. He chose his words, which he had rehearsed many times, carefully. ‘We are looking for a middle-aged man with local knowledge and a sadistic streak, who appears to be targeting young women of a specific appearance. He’s already made a number of mistakes, which I can’t go into now. There is evidence we have found so far where the victims appear to be branded with the same phrase. That phrase is, “You Are Dead”.’ Immediately the words ‘U R DEAD’ appeared on the screen behind him. ‘I know,’ he went on, ‘that you out there will want to give him a title, and for this reason we are calling him the Brighton Brander.’

  Instantly a barrage of questions was fired at him, each of them desperate to get their questions heard.

  ‘Where were they branded?’

  ‘What was it done with?’

  ‘How big is it?’

  ‘What’s the significance?’

  Roy raised his hands to try to calm the audience down. ‘We don’t know the significance of this phrase, but I can tell you it is approximately two inches wide and half an inch high.’

  Another question came from the rear of the room. ‘How could there be such a long gap, Detective Superintendent?’

  ‘We only know that there was a long gap here in our city,’ Grace replied. ‘It’s possible he may have moved away for a period, offending elsewhere. But there are plenty of examples both here in our country and overseas of patterns of this kind.’

  ‘Are you certain the offender is male?’ a sharp-faced woman said from near the front.

  ‘Yes, we are, from forensic evidence.’

  ‘Can you tell us what kind of forensic evidence? Semen?’

  ‘We are not prepared to divulge that at this stage,’ Grace replied. ‘We would like to hear from anyone who saw an old grey or dark blue K-reg Volvo estate car in Kemp Town or Dyke Road area, in the vicinity of the Chesham Gate apartment building between five and six o’clock last Thursday evening.’ They were deliberately holding back the registration number at this stage.

  A grey-haired man in a baseball cap, standing by the Latest TV cameraman, called out, ‘Do you have any suspects for the Brighton Brander, Detective Superintendent?’

  Grace was pleased the man was using the name. ‘Not as yet, no. We are working with forensic psychiatrists and a psychologist.’ He took a deep breath again, then went on. ‘Although we are linking the disappearances of Emma, Logan and Ashleigh, this is a relatively rare occurrence and we don’t want to cause unnecessary concern. We will be providing guidance and advice to young women in the city, as well as increasing the police visibility on the streets.’

  Pewe suddenly leaned forward and spoke again. ‘The important thing is that we don’t want to create a situation of panic. We are confident of an imminent arrest.’

  Grace gave him a sideways glare, inwardly despairing of the man. He had just said the very word Grace had been so studiously trying to avoid. Panic. Pewe had also promised an imminent arrest, which at this moment, without a live suspect, they had no chance of delivering

  ‘Assistant Chief Constable Pewe, do you think the citizens of Brighton should be taking extra precautions to protect themselves from the Brighton Brander?’ said another journalist. It was followed by more questions from all over the room that came too fast for all to be answered.

  ‘Assistant Chief Constable, would you advise all women to stay at home until the Brighton Brander is caught?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent, what advice will you be giving to young women in the city?’

  ‘I’d like to ask the Police and Crime Commissioner if as a result of this she will be providing the budget to restore the number of police officers this city used to have?’

  Nicola Roigard outlined the support she would be providing the police for the investigation and to address the community safety issues.

  ‘Detective Superintendent, can you tell us exactly what measures you are taking to find this man you are calling the Brighton Brander?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent, is there any message of reassurance you can give to the people of Sussex?’

  Grace leaned towards the microphone and tried to speak, but his voice was lost in the storm of questions now erupting right across the room. Once the hubbub had died down he ran through the rest of the information he wanted to share, and outlined how the public could provide potential information to progress the investigation.

  An hour after the conference ended, the Argus ran a banner headline on its online edition, POLICE CHIEF WARNS OF SERIAL KILLER PANIC IN CITY.

  On the national news, both the BBC radio and television, and Sky, led with the story that Brighton was in a state of panic following the return of a serial killer after thirty years.

  Grace sat, stony-faced, at the 6.30 p.m. briefing of Operation Haywain. On the notepad in front of him he had written the words: Cassian Pewe. Total wanker. He had underlined them several times.

  But for now he had to keep those feelings to himself.

  61

  Tuesday 16 December

  ‘Mr Brighton Brander!’ Harrison said and chuckled.

  Felix roared with laughter. ‘The Brighton Brander! Oh my God, that is so funny! Mr Brander! I so totally love it! You’re a brand name!’

  ‘Barker might have been a better word,’ Marcus said. ‘Barker as in barking mad.’

  They were watching the 10 p.m. ITV news feature on the serial killer panic gripping the city of Brighton and Hove.

  ‘How about cutting me a bit of slack all of you?’ he snarled.

  ‘You’ve got to admit it was funny,’ Harrison chortled away.

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Harrison.’

  ‘Well, thank you for the offer. I would if I could.’

  ‘Want a pineapple up your rectum?’

  ‘Now now, don’t be so spikeful!’

  Felix giggled.

  ‘You think that’s funny, Felix?’

  ‘Hey ho,’ Felix said. ‘Listen to me. Chillax, dude! Don’t you see what that clever-clogs copper, Inspector Grace, is trying to do?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent,’ he snarled back. ‘Yes, he’s trying to make me look cruel and sadistic.’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t have to try very hard,’ Marcus murmured.

  ‘What was that, Marcus?’ He turned and rounded on him. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘You see,’
Harrison said, loudly. ‘You’re all angry and upset, exactly where Detective Superintendent Grace wants you. He’s poking you with a large stick, trying to make you angry, can’t you see that? He’s hoping if he gets you riled, you’ll make a mistake – and then where are we all going to be?

  ‘We are looking for a middle-aged man with local knowledge and a sadistic streak, who appears to be targeting young women of a specific appearance. He’s already made a number of mistakes, which I can’t go into now,’ said Harrison, repeating the news broadcast. He shook his head. ‘Tut, tut, tut. He says you have made a number of mistakes – what are they? I think some serious correction is needed here, don’t we all, team? So what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘I know exactly what we are going to do about it. That arrogant shit Detective Superintendent Roy Grace is about to receive the Order of the Pineapple. Right up his jacksie. I’ve not made any mistakes. I’ve not put a foot wrong. I’m going to sort that copper out.’

  ‘Oh yes, how?’

  ‘Watch this space, guys.’

  ‘Hey, why not?’ Felix said. ‘We’ve fuck all else to do!’

  ‘Yes, we’ll watch your next mistake!’ Harrison said.

  He glared at Harrison. Glared at the smug face of Roy Grace on the television. ‘You’ll be sorry you said that about me, Detective Superintendent, you’ll be very sorry.’

  ‘And that’s something we all know you are very good at,’ Felix said. ‘Making people sorry.’

  ‘True,’ Harrison replied.

  ‘Yes, very true,’ said Marcus.

  62

  Tuesday 16 December

  At 10.30 p.m. Roy Grace was feeling mentally and physically exhausted as he pulled up his job car outside the smart Regency front entrance of Limehouse Guesthouse, to drop off Paul Sweetman, the DCI who Cassian Pewe had asked to come down from London to advise him on serial-killer tactics.

  So far, so good. Grace liked the calm, curly-haired man, who was soft-spoken and serious, but with a good sense of humour, a pleasant contrast to many of the in-your-face Met officers he had previously encountered. Sweetman had arrived mid-afternoon, reviewed Grace’s policy book with him, and then sat in on the 6.30 p.m. briefing. Afterwards Grace had taken him to the traditional Brighton fish restaurant, English’s, for a meal, before returning to Sussex House for another two hours.

  He had agreed to pick Sweetman up at 7 a.m., to carry on their discussions before the morning briefing, after which they were going to meet with the forensic psychologist Tony Balazs to talk further tactics with him. The media were, as predicted, having a feeding frenzy, and he hadn’t yet caught up with Glenn Branson or Iain Maclean, who had been holding the fort in MIR-1. The call-centre facility they’d set up, using support staff, had been handling hundreds of calls, and his team were flat out sifting through the information, identifying and prioritizing possible actions.

  He turned right onto Marine Parade, the lights of the seafront, the Brighton Eye and the pier ahead of him, all faintly blurry in the misty rain, a little unsure of the reception he was going to get from Cleo, who’d had to cancel a baby group she was taking Noah to this afternoon because of the removals men arriving earlier than expected with the packing cases. Then his phone rang.

  He answered it on hands-free and heard the duty inspector from Brighton police station, Andy Anakin, his voice as ever sounding panicky. ‘Roy, thought you should know, a woman’s body’s just been washed up on the beach in front of the King Alfred Leisure Centre – in case you want to come down and see her before she’s recovered to the mortuary. She was found by a young couple.’

  Courting on the beach in this foul weather at this hour? Grace thought, his heart sinking at the news. The King Alfred was just a short distance away from Hove Lagoon. His immediate thought was whether this area was going to turn out to be the Brander’s deposition site. ‘What do you know about her so far, Andy? What age, what condition is she in? Physical appearance?’

  ‘I’ve got a uniform sergeant attending, along with the on-call Coroner’s Officer. Apparently she’s pretty badly decomposed. Much of her face has gone – eaten by fish.’

  ‘What about her hair? What colour? Long or short?’

  ‘I didn’t ask that information.’

  ‘If you could find that out and let me know, urgently, Andy.’

  ‘Her hair colour – and length? That’s significant is it, Roy?’

  God, the inspector could be irritating at times, Grace thought. ‘Yes, it may be, and her age, please – however rough a guess.’

  Anakin said he would get back to him as quickly as he could.

  Ten minutes later, Grace parked in the street, then crossed the road and punched in the entry code for the gated townhouse development where he and Cleo would be moving from at the end of the week. The estate agent’s ‘Sold’ board was fixed close by. He walked across the cobbled yard, then heard Humphrey barking inside as he put the key in the front door.

  He opened it to be confronted by Humphrey leaping up at him excitedly, and a sea of cardboard boxes. Cleo was lying back on the sofa in a baggy onesie, holding a large glass of red wine in her hand and staring, fixedly, at a scene of devastation in Iraq on the television. Normally she would have leapt up and thrown her arms around him, but to his consternation she didn’t even turn her head.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late.’

  ‘I left you some food out’

  ‘I already ate – I told you – I’ve been stuck all evening with the SIO from London that Pewe foisted on me.’

  ‘No,’ she said, coldly, ‘you didn’t tell me. You said you’d be home by eight, to help me start packing up.’

  ‘I – oh shit.’ He suddenly realized in the midst of everything he had completely forgotten to call her. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’ He strode across, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She did not react. ‘Darling – I’m really sorry – I’ve had a nightmare of a day.’

  ‘So it’s all right for you to have a nightmare of a day, but not for me, is that it?’

  ‘Of course not. Shit, I need a drink – where’s the wine?’

  She nodded down at the table. He picked it up and saw to his dismay it was empty. ‘You drank the whole bottle?’

  ‘Yes, I drank the whole sodding bottle.’

  ‘I thought – breastfeeding – that wasn’t—’

  ‘No, I’m not meant to drink while breastfeeding. So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Hey, come on!’ He sat on the sofa and put an arm around her, but she pulled away from him.

  ‘I can’t cope, Roy. How the hell do you expect me to cope? Noah’s been crying all day.’ She gestured at the room. ‘I can’t do it all by myself.’

  ‘We’ll have to get help,’ Grace said. ‘What about your sister, and your parents?’

  Her mood softened a fraction as it hadn’t occurred to her. ‘I’ll try Rosie and Caroline, too.’ Rosie and Caroline were her two best friends.

  ‘I thought the removals men were going to be packing most of the stuff up?’ Grace said.

  ‘They are going to, but someone has to bloody supervise them. God, it’s so hard. I know you can’t do anything about it on this huge case – but the timing is shit, it’s just the worst timing!’

  His phone rang again. He stood up, stepped away and answered it. It was Anakin.

  ‘Roy, the details I have back so far is she has short grey hair and is probably in her fifties, or even sixties.’

  ‘Are they sure?’

  ‘Well, I understand she’s pretty badly decomposed, as I said. They say she’s been in the water for some time, but they’re able to give an approximate age from what they can see.’

  Grace felt relief wash through him. ‘OK, that’s good news, Andy.’

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘Relatively speaking.’

  ‘I’m glad you think it’s good news.’

  ‘OK, well it sounds like there’s not much anyone can do t
onight. Let’s see what the post-mortem shows in the morning and we’ll take a view on the cause of death findings then, if they are suspicious.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s still good news, then, sir,’ Anakin said, a tad sarcastically.

  Grace knew it was not an unusual occurrence for bodies to be washed up along the Brighton and Hove coast. The pattern of tide and currents along the English Channel meant that a high percentage of those who committed suicide by drowning further west, and those who fell overboard from vessels, ended up on the city’s beaches. It didn’t make anyone’s death less tragic, but at this moment, Grace’s relief that it was not a young woman with long brown hair was palpable.

  He ended the call and turned back to Cleo. She had gone. Her empty glass sat on the coffee table next to the empty bottle.

  Wearily, he climbed the stairs, thinking what he could say and what he could suggest to help the situation. As he reached the landing, he heard Noah screaming.

  63

  Wednesday 17 December

  At the 8.30 a.m. briefing, Sarah Milligan, the HOLMES analyst, gave the news that Unknown Female had been identified, subject to DNA confirmation, and that she had been working through the information that was known. Her name was Denise Patterson, and she had gone missing from her home in Aldwick Bay, Bognor Regis, at the age of nineteen. It seemed possible that, like the other victims, she also had long brown hair.

  Roy Grace pointed at the grainy, black and white photograph of the young woman on the whiteboard behind him. As he stared at her face, he wondered what her story was. He had been ten years old, thirty years ago. Sailing his little boats on Hove Lagoon. At the same time as the Brander was killing Denise?