Absolute Proof
Page 53
A pool of light suddenly flooded down from above him, and he heard the clattering din of a helicopter. After a moment the light moved forward, and he saw the helicopter descending.
He dialled a number on his mobile. It was answered almost immediately.
‘Hi, it’s Detective Superintendent Grace speaking. I’m sitting in a traffic jam on the A26 south of Crowborough, there seems to be an accident somewhere ahead – can you give me any information?’
He was put through to the headquarters operations room. A male voice said, ‘Hello, Detective Superintendent, there’s a major accident. We have reports of fatalities and people trapped. The road’s going to be blocked for a while – you’d be best turning around and using another route.’
Roy Grace thanked him and disconnected. Then he pulled his BlackBerry from his shirt pocket, looked up Claudine’s number and texted her.
She texted back almost instantly, telling him not to worry, just to get there when he could.
This made him warm to her even more.
And it helped him forget about tomorrow.
4
Drives like this didn’t happen very often, but when they did, boy, did Davey enjoy them! He sat strapped in the passenger seat next to his dad, as the police car escort raced on in front of them, blue lights flashing, siren whup, whup, whupping, on the wrong side of the road, overtaking mile after mile of stationary traffic. Boy, this was as good as any fairground ride his dad had taken him on, even the ones at Alton Towers, and they were about as good as it gets!
‘Yeeeha!’ he cried out, exuberantly. Davey was addicted to American cop shows on television, which was why he liked to talk with an American accent. Sometimes he was from New York. Sometimes from Missouri. Sometimes Miami. But mostly from LA.
Phil Wheeler, a hulk of a man, with a massive beer belly, dressed in his work uniform of brown dungarees, scuffed boots and black beanie hat, smiled at his son, riding along beside him. Years back his wife had cracked and left from the strain of caring for Davey. For the past seventeen years he had brought him up on his own.
The cop car was slowing now, passing a line of heavy, earth-moving plant. The tow-truck had ‘WHEELER’S AUTO RECOVERY’ emblazoned on both sides and amber strobes on the cab roof. Ahead through the windscreen, the battery of headlights and spotlights picked up first the mangled front end of the Transit van, still partially embedded beneath the front bumper of the cement truck, then the rest of the van, crushed like a Coke can, lying on its side in a demolished section of hedgerow.
Slivers of blue flashing light skidded across the wet tarmac and shiny grass verge. Fire tenders, police cars and one ambulance were still on the scene, and a whole bunch of people, firemen and cops, mostly in reflective jackets, stood around. One cop was sweeping glass from the road with a broom.
A police photographer’s camera flashed. Two crash investigators were laying out a measuring tape. Metal and glass litter glinted everywhere. Phil Wheeler saw a wheel-wrench, a trainer, a rug, a jacket.
‘Sure looks a goddamn bad mess, Dad!’ Missouri tonight.
‘Very bad.’
Phil Wheeler had become hardened over the years, and nothing much shocked him any more. He’d seen just about every tragedy one could possibly have in a motor car. A headless businessman, still in a suit jacket, shirt and tie, strapped into the driver’s seat in the remains of his Ferrari, was among the images he remembered most vividly.
Davey, just turned twenty-six, was dressed in his uniform New York Yankees baseball cap the wrong way around, fleece jacket over lumberjack shirt, jeans, heavy-duty boots. Davey liked to dress the way he saw Americans dress, on television. The boy had a mental age of about six, and that would never change. But he had a superhuman physical strength that often came in handy on call-outs. Davey could bend sheet metal with his bare hands. Once, he had lifted the front end of a car off a trapped motorcycle by himself.
‘Very bad,’ he agreed. ‘Reckon there are dead people here, Dad?’
‘Hope not, Davey.’
‘Reckon there might be?’
A traffic cop, with a peaked cap and yellow fluorescent waistcoat, came up to the driver’s window. Phil wound it down and recognized the officer.
‘Evening, Brian. This looks a mess.’
‘There’s a vehicle with lifting gear on its way for the lorry. Can you handle the van?’
‘No worries. What happened?’
‘Head-on, Transit and the lorry. We need the van in the AI compound.’
‘Consider it sorted.’
Davey took his flashlight and climbed down from the cab. While his dad talked to the cop, he shone the beam around, down at slicks of oil and foam across the road. Then he peered inquisitively at the tall, square ambulance, its interior light shining behind drawn curtains across the rear window, wondering what might be happening in there.
It was almost two hours before they had all the pieces of the Transit loaded and chained onto the flatbed. His dad and the traffic cop, Brian, walked off a short distance. Phil lit a cigarette with his storm-proof lighter. Davey followed them, making a one-handed roll-up and lighting it with his Zippo. The ambulance and most of the other emergency vehicles had gone, and a massive crane truck was winching the front end of the cement lorry up, until its front wheels – the driver’s-side one flat and buckled – were clear of the ground.
The rain had eased off and a badger moon shone through a break in the clouds. His dad and Brian were now talking about fishing – the best bait for carp at this time of year. Bored now and in need of a pee, Davey wandered off down the road, sucking on his roll-up, looking up in the sky for bats. He liked bats, mice, rats, voles, all those kinds of creatures. In fact he liked all animals. Animals never laughed at him the way humans used to, when he was at school. Maybe he’d go out to the badger sett when they got home. He liked to sit out there in the moonlight and watch them play.
Jigging the flashlight beam, he walked a short distance into the bushes, unzipped his fly and emptied his bladder onto a clump of nettles. Just as he finished, a voice called out, right in front of him, startling the hell out of him.
‘Hey, hello?’
A crackly, disembodied voice.
Davey jumped.
Then he heard the voice again.
‘Hello?’
‘Shite!’ He shone the beam ahead into the undergrowth but couldn’t see anyone. ‘Hello?’ he called back. Moments later he heard the voice again.
‘Hello? Hey, hello? Josh? Luke? Pete? Robbo?’
Davey swung the beam left, right, then further ahead. There was a rustling sound and a rabbit tail bobbed, for an instant, in the beam then was gone. ‘Hello, who’s that?’
Silence.
A hiss of static. A crackle. Then, only a few feet to his right, he heard the voice again. ‘Hello? Hello? Hello?’
Something glinted in a bush. He knelt down. It was a radio, with an aerial. Inspecting it closer, with some excitement he realized it was a walkie-talkie.
He held the beam on it, studying it for a little while, almost nervous of touching it. Then he picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, cold, wet. Beneath a large green button he could see the word talk.
He pressed it and said, ‘Hello!’
A voice jumped straight back at him. ‘Who’s that?’
Then another voice called out, from some distance away. ‘Davey!’
His dad.
‘OK, coming!’ he yelled back.
Walking on to the road he pressed the green button again. ‘This is Davey!’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘DAVVVEEEEEYYYY!’ His dad again.
In his panic, Davey dropped the radio. It hit the road hard, the casing cracked and the batteries spilled out.
‘COMING!’ he shouted. He knelt, picked up the walkie-talkie and crammed it furtively into his jacket pocket. Then he scooped up the batteries and put them in another pocket.
‘COMING, DAD!’ he shouted again. ‘JUST HAD TO TAKE ME A PIS
S!’
Keeping his hand in his pocket so the bulge wouldn’t show, he hurried back towards the truck.
5
Michael pressed the talk button. ‘Davey?’
Silence.
He pressed the button again. ‘Davey? Hello? Davey?’
White-satin silence. Complete and utter silence, coming down from above, rising up beneath him, pressing in from each side. He tried to move his arms, but as hard as he pushed them out, walls pressed back against them. He also tried to spread out his legs, but they met the same, unyielding walls. Resting the walkie-talkie on his chest, he pushed up against the satin roof inches from his eyes. It was like pushing against concrete.
Then, raising himself up as much as he could, he took hold of the red rubber tube, squinted down it, but could see nothing. Curling his hand over it, he brought it to his lips and tried to whistle down it; but the sound was pathetic.
He sank back down. His head pounded and he badly needed to urinate. He pressed the button again. ‘Davey! Davey, I need to pee. Davey!’
Silence again.
From years of sailing, he’d had plenty of experience with two-way radios. Try a different channel, he thought. He found the channel selector, but it wouldn’t move. He pushed harder, but it still wouldn’t move. Then he saw the reason why – it had been superglued, so that he couldn’t change channels – couldn’t get to Channel 16, the international emergency channel.
‘Hey! Enough you bastards, come on, I’m desperate!’
With only the most local of movements possible, he held the walkie-talkie close to his ear and listened.
Nothing.
He laid the radio down on his chest, then slowly, with great difficulty, worked his right hand down and into his leather jacket pocket and pulled out the rugged waterproof mobile Ashley had given him for sailing. He liked it because it was different to the common mobiles everyone else had. He pressed a button on it and the display lit up. His hopes rose – then fell again. No signal.
‘Shit.’
He scrolled through the directory until he came to his business partner Mark’s name.
Mark Mob.
Despite the lack of a signal he pressed the dial button.
Nothing happened.
He tried Robbo, Pete, Luke, Josh in turn, his desperation increasing.
Then he pressed the walkie-talkie button again. ‘Guys! Can you hear me? I know you can fucking hear me!’
Nothing.
On the Ericsson display the time showed 11.13.
He raised his left hand until he could see his watch: 11.14.
He tried to remember the last time he’d looked at it. A good two hours had passed. He closed his eyes. Thought for some moments, trying to figure out exactly what was going on. In the bright, almost dazzling light from the torch he could see the bottle wedged close to his neck and the shiny magazine. He pulled the magazine up over his chest, then manoeuvred it until it was over his face and he was almost smothered by the huge glossy breasts, so close to his eyes they were blurred.
You bastards!
He picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button once more. ‘Very funny. Now let me out, please!’
Nothing.
Who the hell was Davey?
His throat was parched. Needed a drink of water. His head was swimming. He wanted to be home, in bed with Ashley. They’d be along in a few minutes. Just had to wait. Tomorrow, he would get them.
The nausea he had been feeling earlier was returning. He closed his eyes. Swimming. Drifting. He lapsed back into sleep.
By Peter James
The Detective Superintendent Roy Grace Series
DEAD SIMPLE LOOKING GOOD DEAD
NOT DEAD ENOUGH DEAD MAN’S FOOTSTEPS
DEAD TOMORROW DEAD LIKE YOU DEAD MAN’S GRIP
NOT DEAD YET DEAD MAN’S TIME WANT YOU DEAD
YOU ARE DEAD LOVE YOU DEAD
NEED YOU DEAD DEAD IF YOU DON’T
Other Novels
DEAD LETTER DROP ATOM BOMB ANGEL
BILLIONAIRE POSSESSION DREAMER
SWEET HEART TWILIGHT PROPHECY ALCHEMIST
HOST THE TRUTH DENIAL FAITH
PERFECT PEOPLE THE HOUSE ON COLD HILL
ABSOLUTE PROOF
Short Story Collection
A TWIST OF THE KNIFE
Children’s Novel
GETTING WIRED!
Novella
THE PERFECT MURDER
Non-Fiction
DEATH COMES KNOCKING: POLICING ROY GRACE’S BRIGHTON
(with Graham Bartlett)
First published 2018 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2018 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-230-77220-5
Copyright © Really Scary Books/Peter James 2018
Excerpt from Dead Simple © Really Scary Books/Peter James 2005
Cover Design: Neil Lang, Pan Macmillan Art Department.
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Roy Grace®, Grace®, DS Grace®, DI Grace® and Detective Superintendent Grace® are registered trademarks of Really Scary Books Limited.
The right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Table of Contents
Title page
Dedication page
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
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75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
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90
91
92
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94
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96
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100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Dead Simple
1
2
3
4
5
By Peter James
Copyright page