Dead Like You (24 page)

‘I have a press conference at midday, Dr Proudfoot. What I say then could come home to roost. I want to put out accurate information that will help us catch our man, and give the public some degree of assurance. Presumably for your reputation, you want me putting the most accurate information out there too – you don’t want to be shown up for getting something wrong.’

Proudfoot shook his head. ‘I’m seldom mistaken, Detective Superintendent. You won’t go far wrong if you listen to me.’

‘I’m comforted to hear that,’ Grace said coolly.

‘You’re an old pro, like me,’ Proudfoot continued. ‘You’ve got all kinds of political and commercial pressures on you – I know you have, every SIO I’ve ever worked with has. Here’s the thing: which is worse for public consumption? For them to believe there’s one violent sexual offender out there, preying on your women, or that there are two?’ The psychologist stared hard at Grace and raised his eyebrows. ‘I know which I’d go for if I was trying to protect the reputation of my city.’

‘I’m not going to be driven by politics into making the wrong decision,’ Grace replied.

‘Roy – if I can call you that?’

Grace nodded.

‘You’re not dealing with Mr Norman Normal here, Roy. This is a clever guy. He’s hunting victims. Something in his head is driving him to do the same as he did before, but he knows, because he’s not stupid, that he needs to vary his routine or his methods. He’d be having a laugh if he could hear this conversation between us now. It’s not just power over women that he enjoys; it’s power over the police too. All part of his sick game.’

Grace thought for some moments. His training as an SIO told him to listen to experts, but not to be influenced by them, and always to form his own opinions.

‘I hear what you are saying,’ he said.

‘I hope it’s loud and clear, Roy. Just look at my past record if you’ve any doubts. I’m going to put a marker down about this offender. He’s someone who needs a comfort zone, a bit of routine. He’s sticking to the same pattern that he had before. That’s his comfort zone. He’ll take his victims from the same, or at least similar, places. Someone is going to be seized and raped in a car park in the centre of this city before the end of this week and their shoes will be taken. You can tell them that at your press conference from me.’

The smugness of the man was beginning to irritate Grace beyond belief. But he needed him. He needed every straw he could grasp at this moment.

‘I can’t stake out the whole damned city centre – we just don’t have the surveillance resources. If we cover the city centre with uniform it won’t help us catch him. It will just drive him somewhere else.’

‘I think your man is smart enough and bold enough to do it right under your nose. He might even get a kick from that. You can cover the city wall to wall in police and he’ll still get his victim.’

‘Very reassuring,’ Grace said. ‘So what do you suggest?’

‘You’re going to have to make some guesses – and hope you get lucky. Or …’ He fell silent for a moment, thinking. ‘The case of Dennis Rader in the US – a particularly nasty individual who styled himself BTK – initials that stood for Bind, Torture, Kill. He was caught after twelve years of silence when the local paper wrote something about him that he didn’t like. It was just a speculation …’

‘What kind of thing?’ Grace said, very curious suddenly.

‘I think it was questioning the perpetrator’s manhood. Something along those lines. You can be sure of one thing: that your current offender is going to be keeping a hawk-eye on the media, reading every word your local paper prints. The ego goes with the territory.’

‘You don’t think inflaming him will provoke him into offending even more?’

‘No, I don’t. He got away with those attacks twelve years ago. God knows what he’s got away with since then. And now these new attacks. I imagine he thinks he’s invincible – all-clever, all-powerful. That’s how the press coverage to date has made him seem. Create a demon of our Shoe Man, make him the Monster of Brighton and Hove, and,
bingo
, newspaper sales shoot up across the nation, and so do news audience ratings. And all the time in reality we’re dealing with a nasty, warped misfit with a screw loose.’

‘So we get the local paper to say something demeaning about his manhood? That he’s got a tiny dick or something?’

‘Or how about the truth, that he can’t get it up – or keep it up? No man’s going to like reading that.’

‘Dangerous,’ Grace said. ‘It could send him on a rampage.’

‘He’s dangerous enough already, Roy. But at the moment he’s clever, calculating, taking his time, not making any mistakes. Put him in a rage, provoke him into losing his cool – that way he’ll make a mistake. And then you’ll get him.’

‘Or
them
.’

59

Monday 12 January

Sussex Square was one of the jewels in Brighton’s architectural crown. Comprising one straight row and two magnificent crescents of Regency houses, each with views across five acres of private gardens and the English Channel beyond, the square had originally been built to provide weekend seaside homes for fashionable, rich Victorians. Now most of the buildings were divided up into apartments, but none of their grandeur had been lost in the process.

He drove the van slowly, passing the tall, imposing façades that were all painted a uniform white, checking out the numbers. Looking for no. 53.

He knew that it was still a single-dwelling home on five floors, with servants’ quarters at the top. A fine residence, he thought, to reflect the status of a man like Rudy Burchmore, the Vice-President, Europe, of American & Oriental Banking, and of his socialite wife, Dee. A perfect home for entertaining in style. For impressing people. For wearing expensive shoes in.

He drove around the square again, quivering and clammy with excitement, and this time stopped short of the house, pulling into a gap on the garden side of the road. This was a good place to stop. He could see her car and he could see her front door, but she wouldn’t notice him, regardless of whether she was looking out of her window or coming out of her front door.

He was invisible!

He had learned that certain things were invisible to the inhabitants of the affluent world. There were invisible people, like road sweepers and office cleaners and navvies. And there were invisible vehicles, like milk floats and white vans and taxis. Drug dealers used taxis a lot, because they never aroused suspicion driving around late at night. But the van suited his purposes better than a taxi at the moment.

He smiled, increasingly aroused, his breathing quickening. He could still smell her Armani Code fragrance. He could smell it so strongly, as if his whole van was filled with it now.

Oh yes, you bitch!
he thought.
Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!

He would enjoy breathing that in while he made her do things to herself with those shoes, and then when he did things to her too. Fear would make her perspire and her perspiration would make the scent even stronger.

He could imagine her coming out of her front door wearing those blue Manolos and smelling of Armani Code. He could imagine her sliding into the driving seat of her car. Then parking somewhere safe, like she had done on Saturday, in an underground car park.

He knew exactly when she would be wearing those shoes. He’d heard her in the shop on Saturday when she bought them.
For an important speech
, she’d told the assistant. The
after-lunch thing
for which she had bought
a divine blue dress
and now had the shoes to match.

It would be nice if Dee Burchmore came out of her front door now, he thought, except she would not be wearing those new blue Manolos today.

Very conveniently, she had a section on her website for all her social engagements. In addition, she had a Facebook site where she announced them. And she told the world her movements, sometimes hour by hour, on Twitter. She was so helpful to him!

She had confirmed on her website and on Facebook that her next big social engagement was on Thursday, when she was giving a speech at a luncheon in aid of the local hospice, the Martlets. She had already started Tweeting it. The great and the good of the city of Brighton and Hove’s female society would be attending. One of the guests of honour would be the wife of the current Lord Lieutenant of Sussex.

The luncheon was being held at the Grand Hotel, which had a big car park behind it.

That really could not be more convenient!

60

Monday 12 January

There was an insolence about the way Kevin Spinella entered Roy Grace’s office, shortly before ten minutes to midday, pulled up a chair, uninvited, and sat down. Spinella always irked him and yet at the same time there were qualities about the young, ambitious reporter that Grace couldn’t help, privately, liking.

Spinella lounged nonchalantly back in his chair on the other side of Grace’s desk, hands in the pockets of his raincoat. Beneath it he wore a suit, with a slack, clumsily knotted tie. A slight, thin-faced man, Spinella was in his mid-twenties, with alert eyes and thin black hair gelled into tiny spikes. His sharp incisors, as always, were busily working on a piece of gum.

‘So, what do you have for me, Detective Superintendent?’

‘You’re the man in the know,’ Grace replied, testing him. ‘What do you have for me?’

The reporter cocked his head to one side. ‘I hear that the Shoe Man’s back.’

‘Tell me, Kevin, what’s your source?’

The reporter smiled and tapped the side of his nose.

‘I will find out. You know that, don’t you?’ Grace said, his tone serious.

‘I thought you asked me to come and see you because you want to do business.’

‘I do.’

‘So?’

Grace held his cool with difficulty and decided to let the subject of the leaks drop for the moment. Changing tack, he said, ‘I want your help. If I tell you something off the record, can I have your word you’ll keep it that way until I tell you otherwise? I need to trust you absolutely on this.’

‘Can’t you always?’

No, not always, actually
, Grace recalled. Although, he had to admit, Spinella had been good as gold during this past year.

‘Usually,’ he conceded.

‘What’s in it for the
Argus
?’

‘Possibly a credit for helping us to catch the offender. I’d certainly give an interview on that.’

‘Just one offender, is there?’ Spinella asked pointedly.

Shit
, Grace thought, wondering where the hell he had got
that
from. Who had speculated about that outside of the briefing meeting earlier this morning? Was it one of his team members? Just where had that come from? Anger rose inside him. But it was clear from Spinella’s expression he would get nothing from him. For the moment he had to park it.

‘At this stage we believe there is one offender responsible for all the attacks.’

Spinella’s shifty eyes said he did not believe him.

Grace ignored that and went on: ‘OK, here’s the deal.’ He hesitated for an instant, knowing he was taking a massive gamble. ‘I have two exclusives for you. The first I don’t want you to print until I tell you, the second I’d like you to print right away. I’m not giving either of these to the press conference.’

There was a brief silence as the two men stared at each other. For a moment Spinella stopped chewing.

‘Deal?’ Grace asked.

Spinella shrugged. ‘Deal.’

‘OK. The first, not for you to print, is that we think there could be another attack this week. It’s likely to be somewhere in the town centre, possibly in a car park.’

‘Hardly rocket science if there have been three in the past two weeks already,’ Spinella retorted sarcastically.

‘No, I agree with you.’

‘Not much of an exclusive. I could have predicted that off my own bat.’

‘It’ll make you look good if it does happen – you can write one of those
A senior detective had forewarned the
Argus
this attack was likely
kind of pieces that you’ve been good at inventing in the past.’

Spinella had the decency to blush. Then he shrugged. ‘Car park? So you think he’s mirroring the same sequence as before?’

‘The forensic psychologist does.’

‘Dr Proudfoot’s got a bit of a reputation as a tosser, hasn’t he?’

‘You said that, not me.’ Grace’s eyes twinkled.

‘So what are you doing to prevent the next attack?’

‘All we can, short of closing down the centre of Brighton to the public. We’re going to throw as much resourcing as we can behind it – but invisible. We want to catch him, not drive him away and lose him.’

‘How are you going to warn the public?’

‘I hope we can get the support of the press and media at the conference we’re about to have – and warn them in a general but not specific way.’

Spinella nodded, then pulled out his notebook. ‘Now tell me the one I can print.’

Grace smiled, then said, ‘The offender has a small dick.’

The reporter waited, but Grace said nothing more.

‘That’s it?’ Spinella asked.

‘That’s it.’

‘You’re joking?’

The Detective Superintendent shook his head.

‘That’s my exclusive? That the offender has a small dick?’

‘Hope I’m not touching a nerve,’ Grace replied.

1998

61

Tuesday 13 January

The old lady sat in the driver’s seat of the stolen van, at the start of the steep hill, with her seat belt on as tight as it would go. Her hands rested on the steering wheel, with the engine idling, but the lights switched off.

He stood beside her, holding the driver’s door open, nervous as hell. It was a black night, the sky densely lagged with clouds. He could have used some moonlight, but there was nothing to be done about that.

His eyes scanned the darkness. It was 2 a.m. and the country road, a few hundred yards to the north of the entrance to the Waterhall Golf Club, two miles from the outskirts of Brighton, was deserted. There was a half-mile steep descent, with a sharp lefthander at the bottom, the road winding on through the valley between the hills of the South Downs. The beauty of this location, he figured, was that he could see from the headlights if anything was coming, for over a mile in either direction. It was all clear for the moment.

Time to rock and roll!

He reached across her lap, released the handbrake, then jumped clear as the van immediately rolled forward, picking up speed rapidly, the driver’s door swinging shut with a dull clang. The van veered worryingly into the oncoming lane, and stayed there, as it continued to pick up speed.

It was just as well no vehicle was coming up the hill towards the van, because the old lady would have been incapable of taking any avoiding action, or reacting in any way at all, on account of the fact that she had been dead for ten days.

He jumped on his bike and, with the boost of additional weight from his backpack, pedalled, then freewheeled down the hill after her, rapidly picking up speed.

Ahead of him he saw the silhouette of the van, which he had stolen from a construction site, veering towards the offside verge and, for one heart-in-his-mouth moment, he was sure it was going to crash into the thick gorse hedge, which might have stopped it. But then, miraculously, it veered briefly left, made a slight correction and careered on down the hill on a dead straight path, as if she really was steering it. As if she was having the ride of her life. Or rather, he thought, of her death!

‘Go, baby, go! Go for it, Molly!’ he urged. ‘Enjoy!’

The van, which had the name
Bryan Barker Builders
emblazoned all over it, was continuing to pick up speed. Going so fast now he was feeling dangerously out of control, he touched the brakes of the mountain bike and slowed a little, letting the van pull away. It was hard to gauge distances. The hedgerows flashed by. Something flapped close to his face. What the fuck was it? A bat? An owl?

The cold, damp wind was streaming into his eyes, making them water, half-blinding him.

He braked harder. They were coming towards the bottom, approaching the left-hander. The van went straight on. He heard the crunching, tearing, screeching of barbed wire against paintwork as it ploughed through the hedge and the farmer’s fence. He brought the bike to a skidding halt, his trainers bouncing along on the tarmac for several yards, narrowly avoiding going head over heels.

Through his watering eyes, more accustomed to the darkness now, he saw a massive black shape disappear. Then he heard a dull, rumbling metallic booming sound.

He leapt off his bike, tossing it into the hedge, pulled out his torch and switched it on, then scrambled through the hole in the hedge. The beam found its mark.

‘Perfect! Oh yes, perfect! Sweet! Oh yes, baby, yes! Molly, you doll! You did it, Molly! You did it!’

The van was lying on its roof, all four of its wheels spinning.

He ran up to it, then stopped, switched the torch off and looked in every direction. Still no sign of any headlights. Then he shone the beam inside. Molly Glossop lay upside down, suspended from her lap-strap, her mouth still closed from the stitches through her lips, her hair hanging untidily down in short grey clumps.

‘Thanks!’ he whispered, as if his voice might travel ten miles. ‘Well driven!’

He shrugged his backpack off and clumsily fumbled the buckles open with his trembling, gloved fingers. Then he lifted out the plastic five-litre container of petrol, hurried through the sodden winter wheat and the sticky mud up to the driver’s door and tried to open it.

It would not budge.

Cursing, he put down the container and pulled the handle with both hands, with all his strength, but it only yielded a couple of inches, the buckled metal shrieking in protest.

It didn’t matter because the window was open; that would do. He shot another nervous glance in both directions. Still no sign of any vehicle.

He unscrewed the cap of the container, which came away with a hiss, and poured the contents in through the window, shaking as much of the petrol over the old lady’s head and body as he could.

When it was empty he replaced the lid and returned the container to his backpack, retied the buckles and put it over his shoulders.

Next, he stepped several yards away from the upturned van, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, removed one and stuck it in his mouth. His hands were shaking so much he found it hard to flick the lighter wheel. Finally a flame erupted, briefly, then the wind blew it out.

‘Shit! Fuck! Don’t do this!’

He tried again, shielding it with his palm, and finally got the cigarette alight. He took two long drags on it and once more checked for headlights.

Shit.

A vehicle was coming down the hill.

Don’t see us. Please don’t see us.

He flattened himself in the wheat. Heard the roar of the engine. Felt the glare of the headlights wash over him, then darkness returned.

The roar of the engine was fading.

He stood up. Red tail lights were briefly visible, then vanished. He saw them again a few seconds later. Then they were gone for good.

He waited a few more seconds before walking towards the van, then tossed the cigarette in through the open window of the driver’s door, turned and ran for several yards. He stopped and looked back.

Nothing happened. No flicker of a flame. Nothing at all.

He waited for what felt like an eternity. Still nothing happened.

Don’t do this to me!

Headlights were coming from the other direction now.

Don’t let this be the vehicle that passed, now turned round to come and look through the hole in the hedge!

To his relief, it wasn’t. It was a car, sounding like it wasn’t firing on all cylinders, blat-blatting its way up the hill. Its weak tail lights told him it was an old banger of some kind, its electrical system not liking the damp.

He waited another full minute, breathing in the increasingly strong reek of petrol in the air, but still nothing happened. Then he lit a second cigarette, stepped cautiously across and tossed that in. The result was the same. Nothing.

Panic started to grip him. Was the petrol dud?

A third vehicle came down the hill and passed by.

He pulled his handkerchief out, stepped cautiously up to the van, shone his flashlight in and saw both cigarettes, soggy and extinguished, lying in the pool of petrol on the cab roof. What the fuck was this? Cigarettes always lit petrol tanks in movies! He dabbed the handkerchief into the pool of petrol on the roof of the van, then stepped back and lit it.

There was such a violent explosion of flame that he dropped it, from shock, on to the ground. The handkerchief burned so intensely that all he could do was watch the flames consume it.

Now another bloody vehicle was coming down the hill! He hastily stamped on the burning handkerchief, stamping again and again, extinguishing it. His heart thumping, he waited for the sweep of lights to pass and the roar of the engine to fade.

He removed the backpack, took his anorak off, squashed it into a ball, leaned in through the window and dunked it into the pool of petrol for a couple of seconds. Then he stepped back, holding it at arm’s length, and shook it open. He clicked the lighter and there was a massive WHUMPH.

Flames leapt at him fiercely, searing his face. Ignoring the pain, he hurled the blazing anorak through the window, and this time the result was instant.

The whole interior of the van lit up like a furnace. He could see Molly Glossop clearly for some seconds before her hair disappeared and her colour darkened. He stood mesmerized, watching the flames, watching her get darker and darker still. Then, suddenly, what he had hoped for happened. The fuel tank exploded, turning the entire van into a blazing inferno.

Grabbing his backpack, he stumbled back to where he had flung his bike, mounted it and pedalled away from the scene as fast as he could, in the beautifully cool, silent air, taking his planned, circuitous route back to Brighton.

No vehicles passed him all the way back to the main road. He listened intently for the wail of a siren. But heard nothing.