Ds Roy Grace 11 - You Are Dead

by Peter James

  91

  Saturday 20 December

  Logan heard noises. A strong female voice shouting. ‘Let me go, you bastard! Let me – let me – let me – ouch! Let me—’

  Who was it? What was happening?

  The voice sounded weaker by the second.

  Then silence.

  What the hell had happened? What had happened to the other women she’d heard in here?

  Moments later she heard the familiar sound of the roof of her prison sliding back and she squirmed in terror. A water tube was pushed into her mouth and she drank, greedily, desperately. She’d lost track of how long it had been since her last drink.

  ‘Good news!’ her captor growled. ‘You have a companion now! That means you’ll be leaving soon. Very soon!’

  She gasped, ‘What do you mean? Please tell me. Please tell me what’s happening? What’s happened to the other people here – I heard their voices. Who are you, please tell me? Please let me go, don’t kill me, please let me live.’

  ‘I’ll bring you your last meal here, before you go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice shaky.

  ‘Oh, you are most welcome. As my longest stay guest, and one of my least troublesome ones, you really are most welcome!’

  92

  Saturday 20 December

  ‘If Dr Crisp’s been home all day, does that mean we’re back to square one?’ Branson asked.

  ‘No. Not necessarily. There could be another explanation for Louise Masters not turning up for her shift.’

  Branson gave him a sideways look. ‘Ockham’s Razor? Remember what you taught me about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  William of Ockham was a thirteenth-century monk who had a profound influence on centuries of intellectual thought after his death. He believed in taking a razor to cut to the core of any conundrum. That the simplest and most obvious explanation was usually the right one. It was a principle that Roy Grace used frequently.

  ‘So,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Louise Masters, last on the Brander’s hit list, has disappeared. Isn’t the simplest explanation that we are looking in the wrong direction with Crisp? Surely now we’ve found this mobile home belonging to Hunter with all that stuff in?’

  Grace nodded. ‘While we’ve been sitting here, I’ve been thinking. Crisp and Hunter may be far more connected than we’d originally thought – I think they might well be the same person.’ He had been wondering if he’d fallen foul of his own rule, earlier, that the danger of having a credible suspect was the temptation to focus on them and ignore everything else. But he felt he had sidestepped that trap.

  Was there anything else he had ignored? Something that was staring him in the face?

  He pictured in his mind the claustrophobic walls of the mobile home. The photographs of the Brander’s possible victims. Was he mistaken about these? About the offender? Now he had a new boss who inherently disliked him. And he knew fine well that Pewe was waiting in the wings of this operation for him to screw up.

  Where the hell are you, Louise Masters?

  Then his phone rang. ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered immediately. And heard the instantly recognizable West Country accent of Norman Potting.

  ‘Boss, I have some information for you that I think you’re going to like.’

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘I’ve just got back to MIR-1 from The Cloisters school and there was an urgent message from the lab. I’d sent them the Post-it note on which I had Dr Crisp write his mobile phone number for fingerprint and DNA analysis.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I called the lab. The DNA is a strong match with the blood found at Freya Northrop’s house on Thursday.’

  ‘How strong – close?’ Grace felt a surge of adrenaline.

  ‘There’s a lot of figures and calculations I need to have explained to me,’ Potting said. ‘But the summary is pretty conclusive. One billion to one chance of it not being Crisp. That conclusive enough?’

  ‘It’ll do!’ Roy Grace said, a huge grin breaking out on his face. He thanked Potting then instantly rang the Critical Incident Manager.

  93

  Saturday 20 December

  Two hours later, in the conference room of the CID HQ, Roy Grace barely needed the caffeine hit from the mug of coffee in front of him. He was running on adrenaline now, his thoughts crystal clear, totally focused.

  He stood with his back to a row of whiteboards. Seated attentively – and apprehensively – around the table in front of him were Glenn Branson, Tanja Cale, Guy Batchelor, and the team leaders he had selected, whose Saturday-night plans were now in tatters. But no one was complaining. They all sensed the same infectious anticipation that was coursing through his own veins. The thrill of the chase, of closing in on their quarry.

  Everyone present was dressed in dark clothing, mostly black except for the Local Support Team, who would be going in first in navy fatigues that would be covered in parts with body armour. Several of the officers in the room had mugs of tea or coffee, and were munching sandwiches, chocolate or energy bars.

  The briefing of the team was being managed by the Critical Incident Manager and Roy Grace. Their team leaders included the Duty Inspector of the Local Support Team, Anthony Martin, and an LST sergeant, a Tactical Firearms Unit Sergeant, an Exhibits officer, a senior CSI, the Custody Inspector, a Crime Scenes Manager, a Public Order Team Inspector, a Dog Unit Sergeant, and Grace’s friend, Inspector James Biggs, from the Road Policing Unit, who had already moved units into place, ready to create a cordon of roadblocks around Crisp’s neighbourhood from the moment Grace’s team went in, in case Crisp attempted a runner.

  On one whiteboard was a street plan showing Tongdean Villas and the immediate surrounding streets, bounded by Dyke Road Avenue, Shirley Drive, Tongdean Road and Woodruff Avenue. The area contained within these borders comprised some of the most expensive and exclusive real estate in the city.

  On the next whiteboard were wide-shot and close-up photographs of Crisp’s house taken from the helicopter a few hours earlier. On the third whiteboard were photographs of Dr Crisp, Logan Somerville and the recently missing PC Louise Masters. On the fourth were street views of the gated entrance to Crisp’s mansion, and the similarly gated entrances to his immediate neighbours. The fifth whiteboard had the floor plans of the basement, ground floor and first floors of the house, obtained from the city’s planning archives.

  Grace checked his watch. It was 9 p.m. He ran his eye down the list of names, checking that everyone was present, then turned first to the Custody Inspector, Tom McDonald. Tom, I want a cell ready for the offender. I need him to be taken straight there after he’s booked into custody – I don’t want him mixing or having contact with anyone else. He may well have crucial forensic evidence on him from his victims. I want him isolated and immediately put in the cell and his clothing and body swabbed, without any possible cross-contamination. OK?’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  Using a laser pointer pen, Grace then indicated first the gabled Edwardian mansion that was the target location, then the gates, then a photograph of the long, steep driveway up to the front facade of Crisp’s house. ‘This driveway is the only way in and out of this property,’ he announced. ‘As you can see from the aerial photographs, there is a high brick wall at the rear – over twelve feet – so it would be extremely hard for anyone to scale this. There is a large property on the far side, again with one driveway in, which we will cover off in the unlikely event of him trying to exit that way.’

  ‘What about the other neighbours either side, Roy?’ the Local Support Team Inspector asked.

  Grace pointed the red dot on the property immediately to the right, a sprawling, modern, white structure with a strong Spanish influence. ‘I doubt he’d be daft enough to try to bolt this way. This place is owned by a person well known to some of us, Jorma Mahlanen, the slippery Finn.’

  There were a few grins around the table.

  ‘He’s out on licence from a fift
een-year Class-A drugs sentence, and paranoid as hell – he’s got a battery of floodlights, four Rottweilers that roam his grounds freely and two goons in permanent residence. I think he’s upset a few people in his time and likes now to keep himself to himself. I don’t think Crisp would get too far if he nipped over Mahlanen’s wall.’ Then he moved the red dot to the left. ‘This property to the west is the street’s one eyesore – or it would be if anyone could see it,’ Grace continued. ‘It’s been derelict for many years – no one knows much about it. A few local property developers have attempted to buy it from time to time, but it’s owned by some anonymous property company registered overseas that has never responded. Probably just one insignificant property in the portfolio of some billionaire tax exile. But this could be a possible escape route, as the boundary to it is in poor condition.’

  ‘And we’re pretty sure that Crisp is home?’ the Tactical Firearms sergeant asked.

  The Surveillance Team Inspector replied. ‘Yes, he hasn’t emerged since early morning to walk his dog.’

  ‘I think it’s possible Logan Somerville may still be alive and being held captive in the target’s house,’ Grace said. ‘As may be Louise Masters now. We know that Crisp has no compunction about killing his victims. I want to remind all of you that the principal mission of this operation is to rescue any victims alive. Arresting Crisp is vital, but takes second place to the victim safety. I cannot say for certain Logan is still alive, but that’s what we must assume. So speed of entry is going to be critical. I want maximum shock and awe tactics from you on entry, and a full, fast search of the property. OK, our first hurdle is the entry point.’

  He moved the laser to the street view of tall, wrought-iron gates, set between high, spiked brick walls. Then he swung the beam to the right. ‘This is the doorbell panel, with a camera and floodlight. When we move to open the gates, the camera lens must be obscured. Once the gates are opened, the LST vehicles will drive straight to the front door, enter and secure the premises.’ He moved the pointer to the fifth whiteboard, showing the plans of the three floors of the house, from the 1907 archives.

  Grace turned to the LST Inspector, who would lead the initial teams into the house. ‘Anthony, we don’t know what modifications have been made to the interior of the house since these original plans were lodged. But they should give you a reasonable idea.’

  The Inspector nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any questions?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Do we have any intel on weapons?’ the Tactical Firearms Unit sergeant asked.

  ‘Dr Crisp doesn’t have a firearms licence – that’s been checked. But I’m not taking any chances. I want you in place as possible backup. And everyone who enters the house, until it is declared safe by Anthony, is to be in body armour. Hopefully one thing we have in our favour is the element of surprise. We’ve not specifically named Crisp or said that he’s under suspicion, so I’m hopeful he won’t be expecting this.’

  ‘To play Devil’s Advocate, boss, what happens if he’s not there?’ Guy Batchelor asked.

  ‘Then, Guy, in the vernacular of Cockney rhyming slang, we are all Donald Ducked.’

  There was a nervous titter of laughter.

  Grace looked at his watch. ‘Any more questions?’

  There were none.

  94

  Saturday 20 December

  Shortly before 10 p.m. Roy Grace, accompanied by Glenn Branson, pulled his unmarked Ford up close to the front gates of Crisp’s house, and called the Ops-1 Controller to tell him they were in position.

  ‘NPAS 15 ETA five minutes to overhead, Roy,’ Andy Kille replied.

  ‘Five minutes. Thanks, Andy. Tell them to hold their lights until I give the signal.’

  ‘Hold the lights, yes, yes.’

  Grace waited with increasing butterflies, going over in his mind the dynamic entrance plans for Crisp’s house, and hoping desperately for a result. The exclusive, tree-lined avenue was quiet. This wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where curtains twitched every time a vehicle pulled up. A short distance along, on the other side of the road, several cars were parked either side of swanky gates from which hung a cluster of balloons. Unobtrusive among the cars was a small grey van with K. T. Electrics Ltd emblazoned on the side panel.

  As he climbed out into the frosty night, he could hear the distant pounding beat of party music. A solitary male some way in the distance stopped beneath a lamp post to let his golden retriever sniff around it. Brighton had a few streets that could lay claim to being millionaires’ row, but in Roy Grace’s opinion, this was the one that took the crown. It was quiet and secluded, with little traffic, and all of the grand houses, set well back from the road behind fortress walls, tall hedges or fences, had panoramic views to the south, across the entire city and down to the English Channel.

  He double-checked that the search warrant was tucked in his inside pocket, along with photocopies of the floor plans of the house then, followed by Glenn Branson, he walked a short distance along the street, as plain and marked police cars and vans moved into their pre-determined positions, and stopped in front of the gates of the derelict neighbouring property to Crisp. He pulled a small torch from his pocket, switched it on and studied the gates for a moment. They were wooden and looked badly in need of varnish. But looking closer he saw they were electrically operated. The mechanism did not look old – or rusty.

  ‘Someone uses these regularly,’ Branson said.

  ‘Probably a security firm keeping a regular check.’ He shone the beam down the long driveway, which was bounded by unkempt laurel hedges. It was paved, but little of it was visible beneath the weeds and grasses that had pushed through. In the beam he saw some of the vegetation on either side had been flattened, probably by the tyres of a vehicle.

  The two detectives hurried across the road to the electrician’s van, and immediately the passenger-door window lowered. Inside were two surveillance officers.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the blunt northern voice of Pete Darby, whom Grace knew well. He did not recognize the other man in the van.

  ‘Evening, Pete.’ Grace pointed at the wooden gates. ‘Has anything driven in or out of there recently?’

  ‘Not since we’ve been here, Roy. We started at 7 p.m. on our shift change. At handover we were told that no person or vehicle had either entered or left the premises. I’ll check about next door.’

  Across the road he saw the figure of Anthony Martin, now in full body armour and wearing a riot helmet with a full-face visor, towering a good six inches above the next tallest of his team of eight LST officers, all of whom were similarly attired. One officer was putting masking tape over the gate camera on the entryphone panel, another wielded the heavy yellow battering ram, and another the hydraulic. Next to them a dog handler held a German Shepherd on a tight leash. Four officers from the Tactical Firearms Unit were parked a short distance away on standby.

  They crossed the road. Several more officers were emerging from vehicles and he directed two of them to stand guard outside the wooden gates of the derelict house. He glanced at his watch again, and moments later heard the faint thwock-thwock-thwock of the helicopter. It was growing rapidly louder.

  Andy Kille informed the CIM, ‘The helicopter will be overhead in one minute, Jason.’

  ‘Remind them to hold the floodlights until I give the signal.’

  ‘Hold the lights, understood.’

  Then Tingley, standing beside Roy Grace, instructed Martin to proceed.

  The LST officers piled into the van and approached the gates. Moments later the burly officer in front of the gates swung the bosher hard against their centre. It bounced back with a loud, metallic clang. He swung it again, then again, the gates juddering each time, until finally, on the fourth swing, they parted.

  Then, keeping well back, Roy Grace and Glenn Branson followed the LST van on foot, along with the dog handler, up the steep, curved driveway. As they rounded the first bend, the mansion came into view, higher
still above them, one hundred yards ahead. Within moments, the sound of the helicopter growing louder, the entire property suddenly burst into brilliant white light.

  The first two Local Support Team officers, one with the battering ram and the other with the hydraulic ram, closely followed by Inspector Martin, entered the grand porch.

  ‘GO, GO, GO!’ screamed Martin.

  With all eight LST officers bellowing, ‘POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!’ one used the hydraulic ram to push apart the door frame, and another slammed the battering ram against the door. On the second swing, the door opened with a splintering crunch and, torch beams streaking the interior, all eight of them piled in, still shouting, ‘POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!’ at the tops of their voices.

  Regulations dictated that Grace and Branson stayed back until the scene was declared safe, but as the rest of the officers dispersed throughout the house, and the main lights came on, Grace could not hold back. Followed by Branson, he stepped inside then stopped, staring around momentarily in awe. It was like entering a small stately home.

  They were in a wide, oak-panelled hall, dominated by a large, gilded chandelier. There was fine antique furniture and the walls were hung with ancestral oil paintings. In front of them was an ornately carved, sweeping staircase. To either side and above them they heard the tramping of boots and the continuing shouts, ‘POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!’ Somewhere nearby in the house a dog was yapping.

  Grace and Branson waited in the hall.

  ‘Seems a bloody grand pad for a GP!’

  ‘He’s in private practice. And from what I understand had inherited a family fortune.’

  ‘I inherited a family fortune, too, when my dad died,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Five thousand, seven hundred quid.’

  Grace smiled, looking around him and up the stairs. All the doors to the rooms on the ground floor were open, and the lights on. A couple of minutes later, Anthony Martin came down the stairs, talking into his radio. Then he clocked the two detectives.