You Are Dead (28 page)

Another time she'd tried to find out where he lived, but he had replied, cheery as ever, “Oh, you know, here and there. I'm planning to retire here. Not long to go!”

So she remained in hope that one day soon he might actually retire here and perhaps she could get to know him better then.

Meanwhile, she attempted a little detective work of her own, snooping around the outside of his mobile home while he was absent. She'd even tried the lock one day, as she kept keys to most of the homes on the park, but without success. There were three separate locks and the door had reinforced steel around it. The windows, with their blinds down, gave her no clue either—it was impossible to see in.

He was clearly a very private man.

Some days she wondered, uncharitably perhaps, if he was a bit of a deviant. Was he some kind of pervert? What did he get up to inside that mobile home with all his papers and magazines?

The only time Adrienne had ever really engaged in any kind of proper conversation with him had been a couple of years back when her daughter, Hayley, had been helping her out as a summer job, to earn some pennies while at uni. He'd taken a bit of a shine to Hayley, and had stood in the office for ages, chatting to her about music. It turned out they were both fans of the Kinks, and he told Hayley about a pub in North London that Ray Davies frequented.

It was the first time she had ever been jealous of her daughter. But Hayley soon put her back in her place after he had left for his caravan, clutching his usual armful of papers and magazines.

“What a weirdo!” Hayley said.

“I think he's rather dishy!”

“Get real, Mother!”

 

60

Tuesday 16 December

Following the 11 a.m. Gold group meeting, shortly before midday, Cassian Pewe strutted into the Lounge Assembly Room at Malling House, the Sussex Police Headquarters, wearing a starched white shirt with epaulettes and a black tie.

Roy Grace, in a navy suit, followed him up onto the podium, and they stood side by side in front of the microphones facing the largest gathering of press and media Grace had ever seen, amid a dazzling storm of flashlights. He remembered what he had been told many years ago, to take several deep breaths both to calm his nerves and energize him before addressing a crowd.

There were at least fifty people in the room: journalists, television crews from Sky News, Latest TV, BBC South, and radio reporters he recognized from Radio Sussex and Juice FM, as well as half a dozen more he was unfamiliar with. Also on the podium, standing well to their left, was the Police and Crime Commissioner, looking smart and elegant in a gray suit and white blouse, and the Chief Executive of Brighton and Hove City Council, Philippa Tomsett, also smartly dressed.

The room fell silent. Pewe began speaking, but no one could hear him.

“Stand a bit closer to the microphone,” Grace whispered to him.

There was a squawk, then a loud crackle, then Pewe's voice rang out. “Thank you all for coming. I'm Assistant Chief Constable Cassian Pewe, with responsibility for the overall investigation of major crime in Sussex, and on my right is Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, who is the Senior Investigating Officer on Operation Haywain. We also have with us on my left the Police and Crime Commissioner for Sussex and the Chief Executive of Brighton and Hove City Council. I'm asking Detective Superintendent Grace to brief you on the investigation thus far and then we will take questions.”

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 that 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 gray 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 gray-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 toward 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, stone-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 humor, 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. Afterward Grace had taken him to the traditional Brighton fish restaurant, English's, for a meal, before returning to Sussex House for another two hours.