Dead Like You

by Peter James

  And I’m not.

  Bit of a screw-up this afternoon, I’ve got to admit that. But I’ve recovered from far worse. I’ve been off the radar for twelve years and now I’m back. I might go again, but rest assured, hasta la vista, baby! I’ll be right back! Maybe next week, maybe next month, or next year, or next decade! When I do come back, you’ll be very sorry you said that small dick thing about me.

  But I’m not gone just yet. I don’t want to leave with unfinished business.

  I don’t want to leave without giving you something to really panic about. Something that’s going to make you look stupid to your new ACC boss. What’s that word you used in the Argus this evening? Hunting! You said that the Shoe Man is hunting.

  Well, you’re right, I am! I’m hunting! Stalking!

  I didn’t get her at the Withdean Sports Stadium, but I’ll get her tomorrow night.

  I know her movements.

  85

  Friday 16 January

  Roy Grace was not often in a bad mood, but at this Friday morning briefing he was in a truly vile one, not helped by having had a virtually sleepless night. He’d stayed in MIR-1 with some of his team until past 1 a.m., going through everything they had on the Shoe Man past and present. Then he’d gone to Cleo’s house, but she had been called out within minutes of his arrival to recover a body found in a churchyard.

  He’d sat up for an hour, drinking whisky and smoking one cigarette after another, thinking, thinking, thinking about what he might be missing, while Humphrey snored loudly beside him. Then he re-read a lengthy report he’d brought home, from the High-Tech Crime Unit. Their Covert Internet Investigator had come up with a whole raft of foot- and shoe-fetish websites, chat-room forums and social-networking presences. There were hundreds of them. In the past six days he’d only managed to cover a small percentage of the total. So far with nothing conclusive.

  Grace put down the report with some astonishment, deciding that perhaps he’d led too sheltered a life, but not sure he would want to share any fetish he developed with a bunch of total strangers. Then he’d gone to bed and tried to sleep. But his brain was on warp drive. Cleo had come back at about 4.30 a.m., showered, then climbed into bed and fallen asleep. It always amazed him how she could deal with any kind of corpse, no matter how horrific the condition or the circumstances of the death, then come home and fall asleep in moments. Perhaps it was her ability to switch off that enabled her to cope with the stuff her job entailed.

  After lying restlessly for another half-hour, totally wired, he decided to get up and go for a run down to the seafront, to try to clear his head and freshen himself up for the day ahead.

  And now, at 8.30 a.m., he had a blinding headache and was shaky from a caffeine overdose; but that did not stop him from cradling yet another mug of strong black instant as he sat in the packed briefing room, his inquiry team now extended to over fifty officers and support staff.

  A copy of the morning’s Argus lay in front of him, next to a pile of documents, on the top of which was one from the Crime Policy and Review Branch. It was their ‘7-Day Review’ of Operation Swordfish, which had just come in, somewhat delayed.

  The Argus featured a photograph of a white Ford Transit on the front page, with the caption: Similar to the one used by the suspect.

  Inset separately, and with good dramatic effect, the paper reproduced the cloned registration plate, with a request for anyone who saw this vehicle between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. yesterday to phone the Police Incident Room or Crimestoppers, urgently.

  The owner of the van whose registration had been cloned was not a happy bunny. He was a decorator who had been unable to leave the site where he was working to buy some materials he urgently needed because the van would not start. But at least he had the perfect alibi. From 2 p.m. to 5 p.m. yesterday, he had been at the roadside, accompanied by an RAC patrolman who had drained his van’s petrol tank, and cleaned out the carburettor. In the patrolman’s view, someone had very kindly emptied a bag of sugar into the tank.

  Was this another of the Shoe Man’s touches, Grace wondered?

  The only good news so far today was that the ‘7-Day Review’ was at least positive. It agreed with all he had done in the running of this case – at least in its first seven days. But now they were another nine days on. The next review would be at twenty-eight days. Hopefully the Shoe Man would be getting a taste of prison-issue footwear long before then.

  He sipped some more coffee, then, because of the large number of people in the room for the briefing, he stood up to address them.

  ‘So,’ he said, skipping his normal introduction, ‘how sodding great is this? We release our suspect at midday and in the afternoon the next offence happens. I’m not very happy about it. What’s going on? Is this John Kerridge – Yac – character having a laugh on us? The bloody Argus certainly is!’

  He held the paper aloft. The front page splash read:

  SHOE MAN FOURTH VICTIM’S LUCKY ESCAPE?

  There was little doubt in anyone’s mind that the man who had been waiting in Dee Burchmore’s car yesterday was the Shoe Man. The location and the confirmation from an emergency analysis by the path lab that the substance on the cotton wool was chloroform both pointed to it. The car was now in the SOCO workshop, where it would remain for several days, being examined for clothing fibres, hairs, skin cells or any other telltale sign the offender might have left behind, however microscopic.

  The timeline, established by Norman Potting, cleared John Kerridge from involvement. The taxi driver’s solicitor, Ken Acott, had driven him home to his houseboat. A neighbour had confirmed his alibi, that he was on the boat until 5.30 p.m. yesterday, when he had left to start his evening driving shift.

  But there was something else, something personal, that was helping to fuel Roy Grace’s mood. DC Michael Foreman had reported back that Pewe was being completely unhelpful. So far he had made no progress at all with the Detective Superintendent.

  The temptation to arrest Pewe was so strong. But the words of his new ACC were even stronger.

  ‘You mustn’t let this get personal, you know.’

  He had to admit to himself that to arrest Pewe now, on the flimsy evidence he had to date, would smack of being personal. And to arrest and then have to release a second suspect without charge would look like he was clutching at straws. Instead, reluctantly, he told Foreman to keep working on it.

  To rub the final salt into the wound, Nick Nicholl had reported that he’d viewed CCTV footage from the the Neville pub. The image was poor and he was having it enhanced, but it showed someone who might be Darren Spicer drinking there until past 1.30 a.m. on New Year’s Day. If it did turn out to be him, that would clear the serial burglar of involvement in the attack on Nicola Taylor. However, the man had no corroboration for his alibi as to where he was at the time of the attack on Roxy Pearce, other than restating he was at the greyhound stadium – a mere fifteen minutes’ walk from her house. Nor did he have any corroboration for his alibi for last Saturday night, at the time when Mandy Thorpe was attacked on the ghost train at Brighton Pier.

  That timeline was interesting to Roy Grace. She was attacked at around 7.30 p.m. – one hour before the curfew at St Patrick’s night shelter, where Spicer was staying. He could have committed the attack and still been back at the shelter in time.

  But the evidence at this moment was too circumstantial to warrant arresting the man. A smart brief like Ken Acott would rip them to shreds. They needed a lot more, and at this stage they did not have it.

  ‘Right,’ Grace said. ‘I want to review all the facts that we have so far. Fact one: our Analysts have established that back in 1997 all five of the Shoe Man’s known victims, as well as the sixth possible victim, Rachael Ryan, who disappeared never to be found, were known to have bought a new and expensive pair of designer shoes from shops in Brighton within seven days of being attacked.’

  There were several nods of confirmation.

  ‘Fact two: three of our fou
r victims and potential victims, in the past sixteen days – including Mrs Dee Burchmore – have done the same. The exception is Mandy Thorpe. I’m including her for the present moment in our enquiries, although I personally suspect that her attacker was not the Shoe Man. But I won’t go there right now.’

  He looked at Julius Proudfoot. The forensic psychologist gave him a faintly hostile glare back.

  ‘Fact three: the location of yesterday’s attack fits exactly the prediction made by our forensic psychologist. Julius, perhaps you’d like to come in at this juncture.’

  Proudfoot puffed his chest out importantly. ‘Yes, well, the thing is, you see, I think there’s a lot more than we realize. We have a lot of imponderables, but we know a few important things about the Shoe Man. For a start, he’s a very damaged man. I suspect that now he’s very angry because he’s been rebuffed. If, as I believe, we’re dealing with someone damaged by his mother, he could be feeling hurt in a sort of mummy’s rejected me way. A child would react by sulking, but an adult in quite a different way. It’s my guess he’s now in a very dangerous and violent frame of mind. He didn’t get his way yesterday, but he’s damned well going to soon.’

  ‘With the same victim?’ Michael Foreman asked.

  ‘No, I think he’ll move on to another one. He may return to this victim, Dee Burchmore, at some future point, but not immediately. I think he’ll go for a softer target.’

  ‘Do we know how Mrs Burchmore is?’ Bella Moy asked.

  Claire Westmore, the Sexual Offences Liaison Officer, replied, ‘She’s very traumatized, as you might expect. There’s also an issue on how the offender got into her car – a Volkswagen Touareg with all the latest security bells and whistles. The spare keys are apparently missing.’

  ‘In my experience, women are always losing keys,’ Norman Potting said.

  ‘Oh, and never men?’ retorted Bella Moy.

  ‘The Burchmores kept them in a drawer in their house,’ Claire Westmore went on, ignoring both of them. ‘Which raises the question whether the offender might have entered the house and stolen them at some point. They are both extremely distressed about this possibility.’

  ‘Penetrating the victim’s home!’ Proudfoot announced, with a triumphant smile. ‘The Shoe Man would enjoy that. It’s all part of his gratification.’

  ‘We know he’s got breaking and entering skills,’ Bella Moy said. ‘His attack on Roxy Pearce and his previous attack in the private house in 1997 show that.’

  ‘Darren Spicer’s speciality,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Right? This fits with him.’

  ‘There’s something else which might be significant,’ Proudfoot said. ‘In 1997 all five of the Shoe Man’s attacks occurred late at night. This new spate, apart from New Year’s Eve, have taken place mid-afternoon or early evening. This indicates to me the possibility that he might have married, which would explain why he stopped offending. Something is now wrong in the marriage, which is why he has started again.’

  DS Bella Moy raised her hand. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand your reasoning – about why he would be attacking earlier just because he’s married.’

  ‘Because he needs to be home at night to avoid arousing suspicion,’ Proudfoot replied.

  ‘Or be back in time for evening lock-in at St Patrick’s night shelter?’ Bella responded.

  ‘Possibly so, indeed,’ Proudfoot conceded. ‘Yes, that too.’

  ‘So how would he have got away with it on New Year’s Eve if he was married?’ Michael Foreman asked. ‘Has anyone checked the meter in this man Kerridge’s taxi? Would that not show what he was doing at the time of the Metropole attack on Nicola Taylor?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the owner of the taxi he drives and requested the full log since 31 December,’ Potting answered. ‘At this stage we just don’t have enough evidence to justify impounding the taxi and having the meter analysed.’

  ‘What do we need, in your view, Norman?’ Roy Grace asked.

  ‘The shoes of the victims, boss. Or forensic evidence linking Kerridge with them. We don’t have it, not yet. Not without rearresting him. He gives the impression of being a harmless nutter who likes shoes. The brief tells me he has mental health issues. He’s on the autism spectrum.’

  ‘Does that give him some kind of exemption from prosecution for rape?’ Glenn Branson asked.

  ‘It makes the interrogation process a lot harder,’ Grace said. ‘We’d have to have him assessed, go through all that procedure. DS Potting’s right. We don’t have enough on him.’ He sipped some coffee. ‘Were you able to ascertain, Norman, if Kerridge has carried any of the victims in his taxi, as passengers?’

  ‘I showed him all their photos,’ he said. ‘He claims not to recognize any of them.’

  Grace turned to DC Nicholl. ‘How soon will you have the enhancement of the CCTV images from the Neville pub?’

  ‘Later today, I hope, sir.’

  Proudfoot went on. ‘I’ve been doing some more geographic profiling, which I think we’re going to find helpful.’

  He turned and pointed at a large map of the central area of the city attached to the whiteboard on the wall behind him. Five red circles were drawn on it.

  ‘I talked you through the offender matrix of the Shoe Man back in 1997 and the current attacks. After his botched attack, the Shoe Man’s first reported rape in 1997 was at the Grand Hotel. His first reported attack this year was at the Metropole Hotel – which is almost next door. His second reported attack in 1997 was in a house in Hove Park Road and his second reported attack this year was in a house in The Droveway, one street north. His third attack then was under the pier – then known as the Palace Pier. His third attack now was on the ghost train of this same pier. His fourth attack then was in the Churchill Square car park. Now we have yesterday’s attack, in the car park behind the Grand Hotel. A few hundred yards south.’

  He paused to let the significance sink in. ‘The fifth attack, if Detective Superintendent Grace is correct, occurred in Eastern Terrace, just off Paston Place and St James’s Street.’ He turned back to the map and pointed at the fifth circle. ‘In the absence of anything better to go on, I’m going to predict that the Shoe Man’s next attack will take place in a location close to this. He’s wounded by his last failure. He’s angry. He’s likely to default to his comfort zone.’ Proudfoot pointed to the street above and the street below St James’s. ‘Eastern Road and Marine Parade. Now, Marine Parade has only buildings on one side – it has the promenade on the other. Eastern Road is the one that is most similar to St James’s. There’s a warren of streets running off it and that’s where I think he is most likely to strike again, either tonight or tomorrow. My guess is tomorrow is more likely, because the streets will be a bit busier, giving him more cover.’

  ‘Eastern Road is a long road,’ DC Foreman said.

  ‘If I had a crystal ball, I’d give you a house number,’ Proudfoot said, with a smug grin. ‘But if I was running this operation, that’s where I would concentrate.’

  ‘Do you think he has selected his next victim already?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I may have something interesting on that,’ the Analyst, Ellen Zoratti, cut in. ‘Something I’d like you to see.’

  86

  Friday 16 January

  Ellen Zoratti picked up a remote control and pressed a button. A white screen lowered, covering Julius Proudfoot’s map.

  ‘We know that the room where the first victim of the Shoe Man was raped, in the Grand Hotel in 1997, was booked in the name of Marsha Morris,’ she said. ‘We also know that the room where Nicola Taylor was raped in the Metropole on New Year’s morning was also booked in this same name. I’ve now got the CCTV footage from the front desk at the Metropole and I’d like you to see it. Unfortunately they don’t have sound.’

  Ellen pressed the remote again. A time-delay sequence of grainy black-and-white images appeared. They showed several people with luggage queuing at the front desk of the hotel. She put down the remote, picked
up a laser pointer and shone the red dot on the head of a female figure standing in the queue. She had bouffant, shoulder-length blonde hair, huge dark glasses masking much of the top half of her face and a shawl wound around her neck that concealed most of her mouth and chin.

  ‘I believe this is Marsha Morris, checking in at the Metropole at 3 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, just over two weeks ago. Now, look very closely at her hair, OK?’

  She pressed the remote and the scene changed to a time-delay sequence of CCTV images from one of Brighton’s premier shopping areas, East Street.

  ‘I came across this in a trawl of CCTV images from all cameras in close proximity to shoe shops in the city. There are several within a couple of hundred yards of this particular camera. They include Last, L. K. Bennett, Russell and Bromley, and Jones. Now take a look at this footage.’

  In the next sequence of frames an elegantly dressed woman in her forties, with flyaway blonde hair, wearing a long dark coat and high-heeled boots, strode confidently along towards the camera, then passed it.

  ‘That’s Dee Burchmore, who was attacked yesterday,’ Ellen Zoratti said. ‘This footage was recorded last Saturday, 10 January. Keep watching!’

  Moments later a slim woman with light, bouffant hair, wearing a long camel coat, a shawl around her neck, a shoulder bag and shiny wet-look boots, strode into view. She had a determined air, as if on a mission.

  An instant later she collided with a man walking in the opposite direction and fell sprawling to the ground. The bouffant hair, which was a wig, rolled on to the pavement. A pedestrian stopped, blocking their view of the man’s exposed head.

  Within seconds she – or, as looked more likely, he – had grabbed the wig and jammed it, slightly crookedly, back on to her head. Then she scrambled to her feet, checked her handbag and an instant later hurried out of frame, hands up, adjusting the wig.

  It was impossible, from the angle of the camera and the poor quality of the image, to make out the person’s features. Other than that they were distinctly masculine.