Ds Roy Grace 11 - You Are Dead

by Peter James

  Potting pursed his lips. ‘Well, that doesn’t paint too good a picture of him. But it fits. What about his missing contemporaries?’

  ‘Well,’ Andrew said, a little hesitantly. ‘As it happens, the timing of your visit is rather coincidental. Only this past week I’ve been preparing a report on his housemates in his particular year. It would seem there are three boys who were all direct contemporaries of Edward Crisp in Lark House who seem, literally, to have vanished off the face of the earth. It’s really quite odd.’

  ‘Odd in what sense?’ Potting pressed. ‘Mispers – as we call missing persons – are very common. Thousands of people are reported missing in the UK every year. A large number are still missing after one year. So three doesn’t strike me as being particularly notable.’

  The Brigadier frowned. ‘Direct contemporaries of Crisp, from the same house? I’d say that was very odd. Old boys die, sadly, or they emigrate overseas. But normally we’re able to trace most of them – we are pretty thorough.’ He tapped his keyboard and peered at his screen again. ‘What flags up these three is that each of them was reported missing to the police, by their families, and to our knowledge they’ve never been found.’

  ‘How many pupils are there in Lark House?’ Potting asked.

  ‘Well, it’s one of the smaller houses. There were seventy-eight boys there in Crisp’s year. So three missing is quite a high proportion and I would imagine a high proportion compared to the national average – the appalling statistics you’ve just given me.’

  ‘Missing, presumed dead?’ Potting asked, increasingly interested now.

  ‘Well, I can’t answer that. But they all came here in 1974. None of them have been heard of for more than twenty years. They were all in their late twenties or early thirties at the time of their disappearance.’

  ‘And each of them friends with Edward Crisp, Brigadier?’

  ‘I can’t tell you if they were friends. They were all slightly older – a year or so – and of course when you are thirteen, a year’s age difference is a big gap.’

  With his pen poised, Potting asked, ‘Can you give me their names?’

  The Bursar hesitated again, then said, ‘Felix Gore-Parker, Marcus Gossage and Harrison Chaffinch.’

  Potting wrote them down. Then he gave the Bursar his mobile phone number, in case he thought of anything else, and went back to his car. He sat for some moments looking at his notes before starting the engine. As he drove out of the school grounds he felt distinctly more uneasy about Crisp than when he had arrived.

  He pulled over and phoned Roy Grace.

  90

  Saturday 20 December

  At a quarter to six Roy Grace thanked Potting and ended the call, then updated Glenn Branson. The two detectives were seated in the tiny front office of the Roundstone Caravan Park, watching the bank of CCTV monitors that covered the entrance and much of the floodlit grounds for any sign of movement. Watching for a man whom Haydn Kelly had predicted might be walking almost exaggeratedly upright, with his feet splayed out widely.

  ‘Classic symptoms of a sociopath?’ Branson said. ‘Aged eighteen?’

  ‘Sociopaths present from the age of four,’ Grace said. ‘A lot of them are cunning at hiding it.’

  ‘Sounds like a smart teacher.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Three contemporaries of Crisp missing without trace. What’s all that about? Coincidence?’

  ‘They were all male. Doesn’t fit the victim profile of females with long brown hair.’

  ‘No,’ Grace replied, pensively. He was thinking back to his conversation with former Inspector Ron Gilbart. Had Crisp killed that girl at Hove Lagoon, as Gilbart had suspected? Had he killed three fellow pupils subsequently? What could have been his motive? Bullying? Surely not. Had the three men planned to disappear together for some reason? To become mercenaries? And had no one at the time connected them?

  He phoned the researcher, Annalise Vineer, at the Incident Room, gave her the names of the three missing young men, and asked her to find out everything she could about their case histories.

  It was fully dark outside now, and they had not seen a soul in the past hour. As Natalie Morris had told them, apart from a handful of permanent residents, the place was deserted at this time of year. There would be a few arriving over the Christmas period, perhaps half a dozen at most.

  He phoned Cleo’s mobile, but the line was crackly and it was hard to hear her.

  ‘Well, we’re still here,’ she said, sounding tired but cheerful. ‘I’m trying to get sorted but we’re still in complete chaos – oh, apart from Marlon who is fine in his swish new tank!’

  Grace smiled. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, but it’ll be late, I’m afraid.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  His phone started beeping. ‘I’ll call you straight back,’ he said, then took the incoming call.

  It was Haydn Kelly. ‘Roy, I’ve now completed the gait analysis comparison with the footage of Dr Edward Crisp, and the footprint in the oil sludge in Logan Somerville’s underground car park. I’m afraid, because of the quality of the print in the oil, I have to allow a fair margin for error. There are enough similarities to establish a likeness but not for a complete match beyond all reasonable doubt. Around a fifty to sixty per cent probability.’

  ‘Which means getting on for a fifty-fifty chance that it’s not Dr Crisp, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ the forensic podiatrist said, apologetically. ‘That’s about the size of it.’ Kelly paused. ‘Or put it another way, getting on for a fifty-fifty chance that it is Dr Crisp, as he cannot be excluded on this basis.’

  Grace masked the disappointment in his voice that the comparisons were not more certain. ‘Well, that’s helpful, Haydn. It’s not conclusive, as you say, but it’s one more pointer in his direction.’ As he ended the call, he heard a car pull up outside.

  Both detectives went to the front door and outside into the darkness.

  A young, enthusiastic uniformed constable, Pete Coppard, ran towards them brandishing a piece of paper, a huge smile on his face. ‘I’ve got it signed, sir, Detective Superintendent Grace! The search warrant. JP Juliet Smith signed it for me – she was so helpful!’

  Moments later eight officers from the Local Support Team, in body armour, approached Unit R-73. They were followed by Grace and Branson huddled against the freezing cold in their coats. A frost was already starting to coat the ground. One dog handler had been dispatched to cover the rear of the mobile home and the other the main rear entrance to the park, just in case the helicopter had missed someone inside, who made a run for it.

  The first two LST officers climbed the steps at the front, paused for several seconds, then one swung the bosher at the front door. It bounced off it. The officer behind him then placed both arms of the hydraulic ram against the sides of the door frame and fired it up. The frame creaked and groaned, then buckled.

  The first officer swung the bosher again, and this time the door budged a fraction, with paint flaking off. He swung the bosher again, then again, the door giving way a fraction more each time. Then he stopped to take a breather. ‘What the sodding hell is this?’ he said. ‘Fort bloody Knox?’

  He swung the yellow bosher one more time and the door gave way, violently slamming right back on itself. Instantly two more LST officers scrambled up the steps and entered.

  Grace, standing back, saw flashlight beams piercing the interior as the initial assessment was made.

  After about thirty seconds, interior lights flickered on. The LST Inspector, John Walton, a tall, lean, highly experienced public order policeman, appeared at the door. ‘No one here, sir,’ he said to Roy Grace. ‘Bit of a weird place though!’

  Grace stepped inside, followed by Branson. The interior felt much larger than it had appeared from outside, and felt even colder than outside; it was like an icebox. He wrinkled his nose at a faintly rancid smell, like days-old spilt milk that had not been properly mopped up. There was a seating
area around a wooden dining table, on which was a tall stack of newspapers, and a tower of box files. Opposite was a built-in sofa that probably converted into an extra bed, Grace thought, on which were more box files stacked up. There was a large, wall-mounted television, with a tidy galley kitchen area just beyond it. Through an open concertina-door he could see a bed. He clocked it all, but barely took any of it in. It was the walls he could not stop looking at.

  ‘Shit,’ Glenn Branson said, peering down at the date of the top newspaper. The headline story was the suspected abduction of Logan Somerville. ‘This is last Saturday’s – he’s been here recently.’ He pulled on gloves and began leafing through the pile.

  Grace barely heard him. His eyes scanned the walls. Almost every inch of them, and the windows, with their closed shutters, was covered with photographs, all the same eight-by-ten size. Each was tagged with a typewritten note and date. Headshots of young women, their ages ranging from late teens to mid-twenties, Grace estimated. Some were tight close-ups, some showing part of the upper body as well. Photographs taken mostly outside, in public places – in many were recognizable backdrops of Brighton and Hove. The one common denominator between all of the women was their hairstyles.

  Each had long brown hair.

  A chill rippled through Grace. He stood still, staring around, and shivered from the cold, and from what he was looking at. In the silence he heard a clicking sound from the fridge, then a low hum as it started up. He peered closely at one photograph, a smiling woman in her early twenties, wearing dark glasses, and read the note that was attached as a strip to the base.

  July 23rd 1983. On Volks Railway. Ainsley ? (snk) V.

  Further along he saw photographs of two different women from different months in 1984. Between them was a gap, where a photograph had been removed. There was another gap further along the same section. Katy Westerham and Denise Patterson, he wondered?

  The photographs were in date order, running right the way around the interior. He looked at another. This one was younger, sixteen or seventeen tops, he estimated. She had a mischievous look and was holding a stick of Brighton rock between her lips in a suggestive pose – but the pose was to someone other than the person who had taken this, Grace suspected. Some of the pictures appeared to have been taken from a distance.

  Aug 21st, 2011. Btn Pier. Megan Walters L. Followed. Flat 7, 233 Havelock Street. 3 girls.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Branson pointed at the ‘snk’ and ‘V’ after Ainsley’s name.

  Grace frowned. Then looked at the ‘V’ after Ainsley’s again. He checked other photos and all had a tiny ‘V’ or ‘L’ after their names. Some had ‘snk’ as well, others not. Then he realized.

  ‘SNK – surname not known,’ he said.

  Branson nodded. ‘You’re getting sharper in your old age.’

  Ignoring the jape, Grace said, ‘V is for visitor, L for local. He’s hunting. This is his hunting room.’

  ‘So we should find Logan Somerville’s mugshot here?’

  ‘No.’ Grace pointed at other gaps where photos had been stuck with Blu-Tack. ‘We won’t find Denise Patterson, Emma Johnson, Katy Westerham or Ashleigh Stanford.’ Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘Logan Somerville or Freya Northrop, either. All these are the women he hasn’t yet taken. He removes their photographs when he’s taken them.’

  The last photograph showed a pretty, rather aloof-looking girl of around twenty, with a model’s poise, seated on an outdoor terrace, smoking a cigarette.

  May 17th, 2014. Bohemia. Louise Masters. L. Followed. Flat 1b, Palmeira Villas, Brighton. Solo.

  She looked vaguely familiar. He recognized her face but couldn’t place it, nor her name. He had definitely seen her somewhere. He always remembered faces.

  Louise Masters.

  The name was also vaguely familiar, too. From where?

  The last photograph on the wall. The Brander’s last target here? Before? Before he moved on?

  He called Directory Enquiries, gave Masters’ name and address and asked for her number. Moments later it was texted through to him. He dialled it. After six rings he got her voicemail. A really friendly, strong, confident voice.

  ‘It’s Louise. If you’re getting this I must be out. Leave a message or if it’s urgent call my mob.’ She gave her number.

  Grace wrote it down and immediately dialled it. It went straight to voicemail. He left a message. ‘Hello, Louise Masters, would you please call Detective Superintendent Grace of Surrey and Sussex CID the moment you get this. The time is 6.50 p.m. Saturday. It is extremely urgent.’ Grace left his number, reading it out twice for safety, slowly and clearly.

  Another, much deeper shiver rippled through his bones. He called the Critical Incident Manager. The moment Chief Inspector Tingley answered, Roy Grace said, ‘Jason, our man could be targeting a Louise Masters, Flat 1b, Palmeira Villas – she fits his profile and I think she could be his next victim. I’ve tried calling her and she’s not picking up. He could even be at the premises now. Can you get a unit there to check on her? She needs to be found as an absolute priority, and I want an officer to be with her around the clock until we’ve found our man.’

  ‘What if she’s not there, Roy?’

  ‘I’m going to keep trying her number. I really do think she could be in immediate danger. She’s next on his list after Freya Northrop. If he’s watching her, this could be a perfect time for him to take her. Saturday night, maybe she’s out on a date, or with friends. I’m going to email you a photograph of her – can you get it circulated to every officer and get them to look for her in every bar and club in the city? Someone has to know her, and where she is. Hopefully she’s heeded our advice to be accompanied.’

  ‘I’ll put a team on it now, Roy, and get someone over to her home address.’

  Grace thanked him and hung up, then immediately took a shot of her photograph on his phone and sent it to Tingley.

  God, please don’t let her be taken, too, he thought, fervently. For God’s sake please don’t.

  Then he tugged a pair of gloves from his pocket, snapped them on and opened the fridge door. He saw on the shelves a half-empty bottle of semi-skimmed milk, several apples, a row of energy bars, a tub of Lurpak butter, and two large plastic bottles of Evian water. On one of the shelves inside the door was a row of unlabelled vials. He made a mental note that these would need to be examined in due course.

  He lifted out the milk and looked at the ‘use-by’ date. It had four days still to go.

  He looked down at the copy of the Argus. When had Hunter last been here? Presumably from the fact that he hadn’t discarded the milk, he was planning to return some time soon, he thought. But how soon? Within four days? What if he was on his way here now, he wondered, with alarm?

  If Hunter saw the police activity, he’d run.

  He asked the LST inspector, urgently, to move his vehicles out of sight, and to position officers to watch the front entrance from hidden positions. He told the dog handlers to move their vehicle out of sight, too. Then he phoned the Crime Scene Manager, told him he wanted to keep the site under observation for the next two hours, but after that to send in a Search Team and treat the trailer as a crime scene.

  He shivered again. From the cold. From tiredness. But most of all, he knew, from the sheer damned creepiness of this place. This was not anyone’s holiday home. This was a lair. The Brander’s lair.

  What did this creep do? Sit in here? Staring at the photographs and touching himself? Choosing his next victim?

  He asked the officers to leave, in order to avoid further contamination as a proper crime scene, and followed them. He closed the trailer door as best he could. In the darkness the damage would not be immediately visible to Hunter until he got close. Then he went back to his car and sat in the darkness. It gave him time to think through what he had found and the way the investigation was proceeding, confirming his instincts that Crisp and Hunter were strongly connected in the abductions and deaths of t
hese women.

  Forty minutes later his phone rang. ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered instantly, hoping it might be Louise Masters. But it was Chief Inspector Tingley and he was sounding grim.

  ‘Roy,’ the CIM said. ‘I’ve just found out Louise Masters is a young officer here at John Street, recently finished her probation and joined the Neighbourhood Policing Team. She’s on lates at the moment and her shift started at 4 p.m. But she hasn’t turned up, hasn’t called in sick, and no one’s been able to reach her. She’s not picking up and hasn’t returned any calls. Her boyfriend’s a PC on Response here, Adrian Gonzales. I’ve just spoken to him. He last saw her at 11 a.m. – she was going into town to do some Christmas shopping before starting her shift. He’s checked her flat and she’s not there.’

  Grace had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit, shit shit.’ His mind momentarily became a blur. ‘Jason, we should be able to track her movements from mobile phone triangulation. And if she was going shopping we could find out what she spent on her credit card and where – her boyfriend might know what kind of card she has. If we can establish where she was shopping we might be able to locate her on CCTV cameras in that vicinity.’

  ‘I agree, Roy,’ Tingley said. ‘I assume you’ll be tasking your team with this?’

  As soon as he had finished the call, Roy Grace radioed the Control Room and asked to be put through to the Surveillance Team at Crisp’s house. What the surveillance officer reported back was not what Grace was expecting to hear. The doctor hadn’t appeared to have left his house since his early morning walk with his dog.