by Peter James
Acott gave in on the shoes and cuttings, and twenty minutes later Yac was released. The solicitor drove him home with his computer and phone.
80
Thursday 15 January
It was a rush to get here and he had misjudged how heavy the seafront traffic would be. Unless he was imagining it, there seemed to be more police out than usual.
He drove into the car park behind the Grand Hotel shortly after 3 p.m., worried she might have already left. In her new blue satin Manolos. Then, to his relief, he saw her black VW Touareg.
It was in such a good place for his purposes. She could not have picked a better bay. Bless. It was one of the few areas on this level that was out of sight of any of the CCTV cameras in here.
Even better, the space beside her was empty.
And he had her car keys in his pocket. The spare set that he had found where he hoped he would, in a drawer in her hall table.
Reversing the van in, he left enough space behind him to be able to open the rear doors. Then he hurriedly climbed out to check, aware he did not have much time, then looked around carefully. The car park was deserted.
Dee Burchmore would be coming soon from her ladies’ luncheon, because she had to get home – she was hosting a meeting of the West Pier Trust there at 4 p.m. Then she was due back into the city centre for drinks in the Mayor’s Parlour at Brighton Town Hall at 7 p.m., where she was attending a Crimestoppers fund-raising event at the Police Museum. She was a model citizen, supporting lots of different causes in Brighton. And its shops.
And she was such a good girl, posting all her schedules up on Facebook.
He hoped she had not changed her mind and that she was wearing those blue satin Manolo Blahniks with the diamanté buckles. Women had a habit of changing their minds, which was one of the many things he did not like about them. He’d be very angry if she had different shoes on and would have to teach her a lesson about not disappointing people.
Of course, he would punish her even more if she was wearing them.
He pressed the door unlock button on the key fob. The indicators flashed and there was a quiet clunk. Then the interior light came on.
He pulled the solid-feeling driver’s door open and climbed in, noticing the rich smell of the car’s leather upholstery and traces of her perfume, Armani Code.
Glancing through the windscreen to ensure that all was clear, he checked the buttons for the interior lights, until he found the one that kept them switched off, and pressed it.
All set.
So much to think about. In particular all those CCTV cameras everywhere. It wasn’t enough just to put fake number plates on the van. Many police cars drove around with onboard ANPR. These could read a number plate and in a split second get all the details of the vehicle from the licensing department in Swansea. If the registration did not match the vehicle, they would know instantly. So the registration plates he had on this van were a copy of those on an identical van to this – one he’d seen parked in a street in Shoreham.
Just to make sure that the van in Shoreham didn’t go anywhere for a day or two, in case by chance they should both be spotted by the same police patrol, he’d emptied a couple of bags of sugar into its petrol tank. He liked to think he had covered every eventuality. That was how you stayed free. Always cover your tracks. Always have an explanation for everything.
He climbed across on to the back seat, then pulled the black hood over his head, adjusting it until the slits were aligned with his eyes and mouth. Then he squeezed himself down on to the floor, between the front and rear seats, out of sight to anyone peering in the window – not that they would see much through the tinted privacy glass anyway. He took a deep breath and pressed the button on the key fob to lock the doors.
Soon now.
81
Thursday 15 January
Dee Burchmore had a golden rule, never to drink before she gave a talk. But afterwards, boy, did she need one! It didn’t matter how many times she had done it before, standing up and speaking in public always made her nervous; and today for some reason, she didn’t know why – perhaps because this was a particularly big and prestigious event – she had been even more nervous than usual giving her fund-raising speech for the Martlets hospice.
So afterwards, although she had been anxious to get home in good time to greet her guests for her 4 p.m. meeting, she’d stayed chatting to friends. Before she knew it, she’d drunk three large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. Not smart, as she’d barely eaten one mouthful of her food.
Now, entering the car park, she felt decidedly unsteady on her legs and was having trouble focusing. She should leave the car, she realized, and take a taxi, or walk – it wasn’t that far. But it had just started to rain and she did not want to get her brand-new Manolos sodden.
Even so, it was not a good idea to drive. Quite apart from the danger, she was thinking about the embarrassment it would cause to her husband if she was stopped for it. She stepped up to the pay machine, then fumbled in her bag for the ticket. As she pulled it out, it fell from her fingers.
Cursing, she knelt down, then had problems picking it up.
I’m smashed!
She tried to remember if she had an umbrella in the car. She was sure she did. And of course her flat driving shoes were in there too! Brilliant! She would put them on and walk home – and that would be the best way to sober up.
She put the ticket back in her bag, then staggered on up to Level 2.
82
Thursday 15 January
He heard the echoing clack-clack-clack of her heels on the concrete floor. Getting closer. Walking fast.
He liked the sound of heels getting closer. He’d always liked that sound. So much better than the sound of them receding into the distance. Yet, at the same time, they had frightened him as a child. The sound of heels fading meant his mother was going out. The sound getting louder meant she was returning.
Which meant she was probably going to punish him. Or make him do things to her.
His heart thudded. He could feel the adrenalin rush, like the hit of a drug. He held his breath. She was coming nearer.
This had to be her. Please be wearing the blue satin Manolos.
CLUNK.
The noise startled him. It was like five simultaneous gunshots all around him, as all five door locks of the car released together. He nearly cried out.
Then another sound.
Clack-clack-clack.
Footsteps walking to the rear of the car. Followed by the hiss of the gas struts of the tailgate rising. What was she putting in there? Shopping? More shoes?
Almost silently, with a practised hand, he popped off the lid of the plastic travelling soap dish in his pocket and eased the chloroform pad out with his gloved hand. Then braced himself. In a moment she would get into the car, close the door and put her seat belt on. That was the moment he would strike.
To his total surprise, instead of the driver’s door, she pulled the rear door open. He stared up at her startled face. Then she backed away in shock as she saw him.
An instant later, she screamed.
He levered himself up, made a lunge at her face with the pad, but misjudged the height of the car above the ground, stumbled and fell on his face. As he scrambled to his feet, she stepped back, screaming again, then again, then turned, running, screaming, her shoes clack-clack-clacking.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
He watched her, crouched in the space between the Touareg and his van for some moments, debating whether to run after her. She would be in full view of the cameras now. Someone was going to hear her screams.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
He was trying to think clearly but he couldn’t. His brain was a muzz of stuff.
Got to get out, away from here.
He ran around the rear of the van, climbed in through the doors and pulled them shut, then stumbled forward, climbed over the seat-back, eased himself behind the steering wheel and started the engine
. Then he shot forward out of the bay and turned left, accelerating hard, following the arrows to the down ramp and the exit.
As he turned left, he saw her halfway down the ramp, stumbling on her heels, waving her arms hysterically. All he needed to do was to accelerate and he’d wipe her out. The idea flashed through his mind. But that would bring more complications than it would solve.
She turned at the sound of his engine and waved her arms even more frantically.
‘Help me! Please help me!’ she screamed, stepping into his path.
He had to brake sharply to avoid hitting her.
Then, as she peered through the windscreen, her eyes widened in terror.
It was his hood, he realized. He’d forgotten he still had it on.
She backed away almost in slow motion, then turned and ran, as fast as she could again, tripping, stumbling, screaming, her shoes falling off, first the left one, then the right one.
Suddenly a fire exit door to his right opened and a uniformed police officer came running out.
He floored the accelerator, screeching the van around and down the next ramp, then raced towards the twin exit barriers.
And suddenly realized he hadn’t paid his ticket.
There was no one in the booth, but in any case he didn’t have time. He kept on accelerating, bracing himself for the impact. But there was no impact. The barrier flew off as if it was made of cardboard and he sped on, up into the street, and kept going, dog-legging left, then right around the rear of the hotel, until he reached the traffic lights at the seafront.
Then he remembered his hood. Hastily he tugged it off and shoved it in his pocket. Someone behind him hooted angrily. The light had turned green.
‘OK, OK, OK!’
He accelerated and stalled the van. The vehicle behind hooted again.
‘Fuck you!’
He started the van, jerked forward, turned right and headed west along the seafront towards Hove. He was breathing in short, sharp gulps. Disaster. This was a disaster. Had to get away from here as quickly as he could. Had to get the van off the road.
The traffic lights ahead were turning red. The drizzle had transformed his windscreen to frosted glass. For an instant he debated whether to run the lights, but a long, articulated lorry had already started moving across. He halted, nervously pounding the steering wheel with the palms of his hand, then flicked on the wipers to clear the screen.
The lorry was taking forever to move across. It was towing a bloody trailer!
Out of the corner of his eye he saw something. Someone to his right was waving at him. He turned his head and his blood froze.
It was a police car.
He was boxed in. That damned lorry towing the trailer belonged to a circus or something and was moving at the speed of a snail. Another great big artic was right behind him.
Should he get out and run?
The officer in the passenger seat continued waving at him, and pointing, with a smile. The officer pointed at his own shoulder, then at him, then back at his own shoulder again.
He frowned. What the hell was his game?
Then he realized.
The officer was telling him to put on his seat belt!
He waved back and pulled it on quickly. Clunk-click.
The officer gave him a thumbs-up. He returned it. All smiles.
Finally, the lorry was gone and the lights turned green. He drove on steadily, keeping strictly to the limit, until, to his relief, the police car turned off into a side street. Then he upped his speed, as fast as he dared.
One mile to go. One mile and he would be safe.
But that bitch would not be.
83
Thursday 15 January
Glenn Branson’s driving had always reduced Roy Grace to a state of silent terror, but even more so since he had got his green pursuit ticket. He just hoped never to have the misfortune to be in a car when his colleague used it in earnest.
But this Thursday afternoon, as the Detective Sergeant bullied the unmarked silver Ford Focus through the Brighton rush-hour traffic, Grace was silent for a different reason. He was immersed in thought. He didn’t even react as he saw the old lady step out from behind the bus and hastily jump back as they drove past well over the speed limit.
‘It’s OK, old-timer, I saw her!’ Glenn said.
Grace did not reply. Norman Potting’s suspect had been released at midday, and now this afternoon, in exactly the place the profiler, Dr Julius Proudfoot, had predicted, an attempted attack had taken place.
Of course, it might not be connected to the Shoe Man, but from the limited amount he had heard so far, it had all the hallmarks. Just how good was it going to look if the man they had released was the man who had now done this?
Glenn switched on the blues and twos to help them through the snarled-up traffic at the roundabout in front of the Pier, reaching to the panel and altering the tones of the sirens every few seconds. Half the drivers in the city were either too dim-witted to be behind a steering wheel, or deaf, or blind – and some were all three, Grace thought. They passed the Old Ship Hotel, then staying on King’s Road, Glenn took the traffic island at the junction with West Street on the wrong side, swerving almost suicidally across the path of an oncoming lorry.
Probably not a good idea to be driven by someone whose marriage was on the rocks and didn’t think he had anything to live for any more, Grace thought suddenly. But fortunately they were approaching their destination. The odds on stepping out of the car intact, rather than being cut out of it by a fire engine rescue crew, were improving.
Moments later they turned up the road beside the Grand Hotel and stopped as they reached what looked like a full-scale siege. There were too many police cars and vans clustered around the entrance to the car park behind it to count, all with their blue-light spinners rotating.
Grace was out of the car almost before the wheels had stopped. A cluster of uniformed officers, some in high-visibility jackets and some in stab vests stood around, in front of a blue-and-white chequered crime scene tape, along with several onlookers.
The only person who seemed to be missing was reporter Kevin Spinella from the Argus.
One of the officers, the Duty Inspector, Roy Apps, was waiting for him.
‘Second floor, chief. I’ll take you up there.’
With Glenn Branson, on his phone, striding behind, they ducked under the tape and hurried into the car park. It smelt of engine oil and dry dust. Apps updated him as they walked.
‘We’re lucky,’ he said. ‘A particularly bright young PC, Alec Davies, who was in the car park’s CCTV room with the attendant, thought there might be more to this and got it all sealed off before we arrived.’
‘Have you found anything?’
‘Yes. Something that may be interesting. I’ll show you.’
‘What about the van?’
‘The CCTV room at Brighton nick picked it up travelling west along Kingsway towards Hove. The last sighting was of it turning right up Queen Victoria Avenue. We dispatched all available patrols and a Road Policing Unit car to try to intercept, but so far no contact.’
‘We have the index?’
‘Yes. It’s registered to a decorator who lives in Moulsecoomb.
I’ve got a unit watching his house. I’ve also got RPU cars covering all exits from the city in the direction he was travelling, and we’ve got Hotel 900 up.’
Hotel 900 was the police helicopter.
They reached the second level, which was sealed off by a second crime scene tape. A tall, young uniformed constable stood in front of it with a clipboard.
‘This is the lad,’ Roy Apps said.
‘PC Davies?’ Grace said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Can you show me the vehicle?’
The PC looked hesitant. ‘SOCO are on their way here, sir.’
‘This is Detective Superintendent Grace. He’s the SIO on Oper
ation Swordfish,’ Apps reassured him.
‘Ah. OK, right. Sorry, sir. This way.’
They ducked under the tape and Grace followed him across to a row of empty parking bays, at the end of which was a shiny black Volkswagen Touareg with its rear door open.
PC Davies put out a cautionary hand as they approached, then pointed at an object on the ground, just beneath the doorsill. It looked like a wad of cotton wool. Pulling out his torch, the constable directed the beam on to it.
‘What is it?’ Grace asked.
‘It’s got a strange smell, sir,’ the Constable said. ‘Being so close to the scene of the attack, I thought it might have some relevance, so I didn’t touch it, in case it’s got fingerprints or DNA on it.’
Grace looked at the serious face of the young man and smiled. ‘You’ve got the makings of a good detective, son.’
‘That’s what I’d like to do, sir, after my two years in uniform.’
‘Don’t wait until then. If you’ve done twelve months, I might be able to fast-track you into CID.’
The PC’s eyes lit up. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much!’
Roy Grace knelt down and put his nose close to the wad. It gave off a smell that was both sweet and astringent at the same time. And almost instantly he became very slightly dizzy. He stood up and felt a little unsteady for some seconds. He was pretty sure knew that smell, from a course in toxicology he had attended some years back.
The reports from Nicola Taylor and Roxy Pearce were remarkably similar. They tallied with statements from some of the victims of the Shoe Man in 1997. It was the same smell they had described when something had been pressed against each of their faces.
Chloroform.
84
You don’t know who I am or where I am, do you, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace? Not a clue! One arrest. Then you had to let him go for lack of evidence. You’re panicking.
