Ds Roy Grace 11 - You Are Dead

by Peter James

  ‘I bought you these, darling,’ he said, holding them up.

  ‘Great,’ she said flatly. ‘One more thing to pack.’

  ‘Hey, come on!’ He walked across, gave his son’s scrunched up face a fond look, then kissed Cleo on the forehead.

  She smiled thinly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s all too much at the moment. On top of that I’m worrying if we’re doing the right thing moving to the country. At least when I’m here going stir-crazy with this little one, I can push him around the streets and see life and colour and people. What am I going to do out in Henfield – talk to cows and sheep?’

  ‘Everyone says villages are much more friendly than cities.’

  Noah began bawling again. At the same time Grace’s phone rang. He stepped out of the room to answer it. He heard a voice the other end in erratic broken English that sounded vaguely familiar, but for an instant, distracted by both Cleo’s mood and Noah’s screaming, he did not recognize who it was.

  ‘Roy, hello, Roy Grace am I speaking with?’

  ‘Yes, who is this?’

  ‘Marcel Kullen! You are going senile is it with your old age, forgetting your friend from Germany?’

  Grace closed Noah’s bedroom door and walked through into the quiet of his and Cleo’s bedroom. ‘Marcel! Hey, how are you? Great to hear from you – what’s up?’

  Marcel Kullen was an officer in Munich’s Landeskriminalamt, the German equivalent of the British CID. They had originally become friends when the German detective had come to Sussex House on a six-month exchange, about five years back. Subsequently they had met again a year and a half ago when Roy Grace had flown over to Munich after a reported possible sighting of Sandy – which had turned out to be erroneous.

  ‘All is good here.’

  ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘Well, you know, OK. My son Dieter is two years old now and driving us crazy – I am thinking it is what you are calling in England the terrible twos.’

  ‘Yep, well I have a son now myself. You can probably hear him crying right now!’

  ‘Yah, you have a son? You are married again?’

  ‘Very happily – I’d love you to meet my wife!’

  ‘Bring her to München. What is her name?’

  ‘Cleo.’

  ‘And your son?’

  ‘Noah.’

  ‘So this is the reason I am calling. About your wife – your former wife, Sandy, yes?’

  Grace felt a churning in his stomach. ‘Sandy?’

  ‘There’s a woman who has been brought into hospital here in München after an accident – she was hit by a taxi as she crossed the street. Whilst she was lying in the street, moments after, a motorcycle stopped, took her handbag and drove off. There are some nice people in the world, yes?’

  ‘Regular charmers,’ Grace said. ‘We have our share of them here. Are you sure this was an accident and not some kind of professional hit?’

  ‘Yah, sure. There were witnesses – she just stepped out and looked the wrong way. This is the kind of mistake English people make sometimes, because you still drive on the wrong side!’

  Grace smiled but his nerves were jangling. Whenever Sandy’s name was mentioned he felt a sudden chill deep in his veins. As if a ghost had suddenly entered the room and walked right through him. ‘So, tell me?’

  ‘She is in a coma and so far we don’t have any confirmed identification, but believe she could be using the name Lohmann. This is the name her little boy gave us. Alessandra Lohmann.’

  ‘How old is he, Marcel?’

  ‘He’s ten.’

  ‘Marcel, we didn’t have a child – and she’s been gone more than ten years.’

  ‘It is – yes, as you say I think, a long shot. But the woman’s age kind of fits. To me there are some facial similarities to the photographs I have – but of course these are more than ten years old – and the colour of her hair is dark, not blonde. But I thought I should send you a photograph for you to eliminate her. Can I do this?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, more enthusiastically than he felt. He shut the door, not wanting Cleo to hear this conversation. Could the nightmare that had haunted him ever since falling in love with Cleo be about to come true?

  ‘OK, Roy, I will email some photographs through in a few minutes.’

  ‘Danke!’

  ‘You are welcome! I am sorry to make some trouble for you.’

  ‘No trouble, I really appreciate you calling, Marcel.’

  ‘We will see us soon, yah?’

  ‘I’d love Cleo to see Munich, it’s a beautiful city.’

  ‘Bring Cleo and Noah. Our house is your house.’

  ‘We might just do that!’

  ‘Come next year, we go to the Oktoberfest together?’

  ‘I’ll iron my lederhosen!’

  When he ended the call, Roy Grace sat down on the bed, deep in thought for some moments. All kinds of demons had been reawakened inside him. Every time he thought he had finally laid Sandy’s ghost to rest, something happened to revive them.

  Some moments later the door opened and Cleo came in. She gave him a wan smile. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘It’s just really hard right now. I don’t want to be angry with you.’

  He stood up and hugged her.

  ‘I’m being useless at the moment, and I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve always been determined never to stand in the way of your work. I guess I just didn’t realize how hard looking after a baby would be. But I wouldn’t change it for the world.’

  ‘I didn’t either. It’ll be easier when we get a nanny sorted out. But we’ll get through it.’

  ‘We will.’

  As he said the words he felt his phone vibrate, signalling an incoming email. He excused himself, saying he needed the loo, and slipped into the bathroom to open the email in private, feeling guilty at his deception.

  It was the JPEG from Marcel Kullen.

  He opened it and stared at the woman’s face. Stared for a full, silent minute. His hands were trembling. Could this be her? Could this be Sandy?

  The face was puffy and bruised, covered in abrasions, and a part of it was bandaged, with a plaster on her nose. There were similarities, yes. He couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, which were closed and badly swollen. He could see wrinkles where Sandy had never had them before, but this was ten years on. And the short brown hair, in the boyish cut, made it much harder. He enlarged the picture, but it made little difference. It was possible, but . . . But.

  Christ, what would it mean if it was her?

  What would it mean to Cleo and Noah? To his life? And there was no way he could take the time out right now to fly over and see for sure, one way or the other.

  He emailed the German detective back.

  Thanks, Marcel. I can see why you sent this, but I don’t think it is her. But please when you find out more about her identity let me know. Meantime Happy Christmas and hope to see you again before too long.

  He flushed the toilet, ran the sink tap for a moment, pushed his phone back in his pocket and went back into the bedroom.

  Cleo gave him a strange look. ‘Are you OK, my darling?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Why?’

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  67

  Thursday 18 December

  The following morning, Roy Grace was checking his notes from the Gold group meeting the previous night, preparing for the 8.30 a.m. briefing. The Gold group had agreed to continue the current media strategy.

  On his desk was a note from Glenn Branson, regarding Denise Patterson. Her parents had been located, still in their same family home in Aldwick Bay. Her bedroom had been kept as a shrine and her hairbrush had been sent for DNA testing. They also had the name of the dental practice that the dead woman had attended, and hoped to have identification officially confirmed from her dental records later today.

  He was interrupted by a knock on his door and DS Tanja Cale came in, looking flustered, hold
ing a Jiffy bag. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘sorry to barge in, sir, but this might be important.’

  ‘No problem, tell me?’

  ‘We had a call to the Incident Room half an hour ago from the Argus. This package was lying on the Argus’s front doorstep this morning, addressed to you, care of the editor. You’d better take a look.’ She handed him the padded envelope.

  He pulled out a plastic bag, inside which were two sheets of paper, one newsprint, the other plain A4 printed paper. The newsprint item was the front page of yesterday’s Argus containing the news story stating that certain items had been received, purporting to have been sent by the killer and Detective Superintendent Roy Grace’s comment about how this had been a mistake.

  The second page, contained the typed words:

  HERE’S A PRESENT I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO RECIEVE, ROY. GO TO THE MONUMENTAL INDIAN FOR A TAKEAWAY TREAT!

  Grace immediately noticed the spelling of receive. ‘Well, he’s either crap at spelling or he’s done this deliberately.’

  DS Cale frowned. ‘Deliberately?’

  ‘His way of signalling his identity. His message yesterday had the same mistake. And I have a feeling the killer is not illiterate.’ He looked back at the message. ‘Monumental Indian?’ he said.

  ‘It sounds very cryptic,’ she said. ‘Shall I google Indian restaurants that do takeaways in the city?’

  ‘Yes, I’m thinking the same thing. He’s enjoying playing with us, setting us a little puzzle.’

  He then read the second part again, aloud. ‘Go to the monumental Indian for a takeaway treat.’

  During her pregnancy, Cleo had begun doing newspaper crosswords, in particular the big daily one in The Times, and he enjoyed attempting to solve them with her. ‘Monumental Indian.’ He pursed his lips, debating for a moment whether to phone Cleo.

  Then, suddenly, he got it.

  He pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I think I know exactly what this means. Let’s go.’

  68

  29 December, 1976

  He was fifteen, home for the Christmas holidays from the boarding school he hated so much, The Cloisters, in Godalming, Surrey. Everyone said it was a beautiful school, in a fantastic location, and if you wanted to be a cricketer there was no better place. Situated on top of a hill, the ground drained fast, leaving a good wicket even after torrential rain. And the school’s list of legendary old boy cricketers was a hall of fame in its own right.

  Except that he wasn’t interested in cricket, or in any ball games. The only sport that interested him was one not on the school curriculum, potholing. He was also interested in caves as well as any kind of tunnel.

  Which was why they called him Mole.

  No one actually liked him, they all found him creepy – and swanky. He boasted about his rich parents, their flash cars, their heart-shaped pool, their enormous yacht. They liked him even less for that. Even the teachers didn’t like him. He had no friends. The truth was, he was used to that. He’d never had any real friends, and it didn’t bother him a jot. He had his imaginary friends and they were far more fun. And he could trust them implicitly.

  But on Valentine’s Day he had received a very loving anonymous card from a secret admirer, which he had proudly showed off to everyone at school, although he hadn’t figured out who had sent it. I’ve got a girl, see?

  It turned out the same group of boys who always taunted him had sent it as a joke. They teased him about it for days, chanting whenever they saw him, Mole’s got a girlfriend, Mole’s got a girlfriend, Mole’s got a girlfriend.

  But the taunts over the Valentine card weren’t as bad as the night, a few days later, when they had crept up on him and pulled back the sheets on his bed, to reveal him wanking with a torch gripped in his mouth and a Playboy centrefold open in his left hand.

  That so hurt. So much.

  He was determined to show them all. It would be different next year. Now he had a girlfriend for this Christmas holiday – well – sort of. Maybe not quite The Cloisters’ – top people’s school – standard. But she had big tits. Well, they looked pretty big beneath her blouse. When he peered down at her rack he could almost – almost – see her nipples. He imagined them, red, ripe, luscious. The thought made him hard. He had to put his hand in his pocket as he walked with Mandy White towards the ponds of Hove Lagoon. Had to put his hand there to stop the bulge from showing. Not that he needed to worry, Mandy was up for it, he was sure of that. Her mum was the cleaning lady for his parents. Mandy was just a cheap slut with big tits.

  But no one at The Cloisters would know that.

  They’d been to Marjorie Bentley’s ballroom dancing classes a few days earlier in a room near Hove Station. They’d danced close with his big hard thing pressing against her. She’d whispered into his ear that she would like to give him a blow job. But his mum had been waiting outside to drive him home.

  Tonight was different. He’d taken her to a pub near Hove seafront for drinks, which he got away with because he looked older than his age. Then he’d suggested walking her home – she lived in a house opposite Shoreham Harbour. It was a bitterly cold night, the temperature way below freezing as it had been for over a fortnight. He gave her a cigarette and they smoked as they walked, making him feel very grown up. And he was horny as hell. But despite the drink she seemed strangely reticent and distant, not at all like when they had been dancing.

  He’d persuaded her, despite her reluctance, to walk down from the promenade into the darkness of the playground that was Hove Lagoon. It was ten o’clock and the whole place was deserted. Just the two frozen lagoons, the faint glow of the street lighting shimmering on the inky black ice. And Mandy’s big tits shimmering, bulging out of the top of her low blouse beneath her coat. For him. His hard-on was pressing urgently against the front of his trousers.

  As they walked around the perimeter of the larger of the two lagoons, he suddenly stopped, pulled her around to face him and pressed his lips against hers.

  Instantly she turned her face to the side and pushed him firmly away. ‘No!’ she said.

  ‘It’s all right, I got some thingies. You know. Protection.’ He ducked his face and nuzzled her breasts, voraciously.

  She gave him such a hard push he almost fell backwards onto the ice. Then she turned to walk away. ‘I want to go home.’

  He grabbed her arm. ‘You said you wanted to give me a blow job last week, before Christmas, in the dance class!’

  ‘Yeah, well you didn’t have spots all over your face then, did you? And you didn’t stink of aftershave.’ She broke free and strode away.

  The acne rash that had broken out on his face in the past few days had acutely embarrassed him. Several of them were big, livid pustules and he’d done his best to mask them with Clearasil ointment. He’d also doused himself for his date tonight with Brut aftershave, which he’d seen in a telly commercial. It showed women going crazy for it.

  ‘You fucking prick-teaser!’ He ran after her and grabbed her again.

  ‘Lemme go!’ she said, her voice raised.

  He tried to kiss her again, and she kneed him in the groin.

  ‘Owwww!’ he howled, winded.

  She broke into a run and he sprinted after her, grabbed her by her coat belt.

  ‘Lemme go, you fucking spotty perv!’

  ‘Just give me a hand job then.’

  ‘Yech. Let go of me.’

  He put his arms around her and tried to pull her tightly to him. As she pulled away, he stumbled, losing his balance. Holding her tightly, they fell together, to the left, shattering the thin ice into the freezing cold water of the Lagoon.

  Mandy screamed. ‘Help, police, rape, police!’

  He pushed her face down under the water, crying out in fear and in anger, ‘Shut up, you bitch, you cheap, prick-teasing bitch.’

  He felt her struggling under him in the shallow water, thrashing with her arms and legs, but he kept her face submerged with both hands pressed against her forehead. She
was writhing like a mad thing, but he just kept on holding her down, weakening with the exertion.

  He kept up the pressure, holding her head below the surface, invisible in the inky darkness.

  Gradually, her struggling lessened. Then she became still, inert. He continued lying there, shivering, his hands growing numb with the cold, his entire body growing steadily numb, his brain racing.

  Then, finally, when he was sure she had been under the water for long enough, he scrambled to his feet, climbed back onto dry land, and ran across the grass and up the steps to the promenade. Then, waving his arms like a mad thing, dripping with water, he ran out into the road, screaming, ‘Help me, help me, someone! Oh God, please help me!’

  A passing car pulled up and he ran, crying, over to the driver’s window. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Please help me.’

  69

  Thursday 18 December

  Roy Grace left Iain Maclean in charge of the 8.30 a.m. briefing, then drove with DS Cale the short distance down the A27, over a series of roundabouts and up a hill that climbed steeply, adjacent to the dual carriageway. He pulled up close to a five-barred gate and noticed the padlock chain had been cut through and had fallen to the ground. Then they hurried up a grassy hill, avoiding a line of horse dung. It was a cold, sunny, blustery day and Grace was grateful that the rain of the past few days had stopped.

  After ten minutes of hard, uphill climbing, following tyre tracks in the soggy grass, he saw the small, domed temple-like structure over to the right nestling among the hills. The tyre tracks veered towards it. The Chattri was one of the city of Brighton and Hove’s most beautiful but less well-known landmarks. It was a round, white temple at the top of several flights of stone steps, in a beautiful location on the South Downs. Open to the elements, it comprised a dome supported by a circle of columns.

  During the First World War, many Indian soldiers who had been wounded fighting for the British Empire had been brought to makeshift hospitals in England. One had been sited in Brighton in the Royal Pavilion. The Chattri had been constructed on the site where those who had died had been cremated.