You Are Dead

by Peter James

  “But first, Dr. Van Dam, you would have to get out of your office alive, yes?”

  Van Dam smiled back at him. He tried not to show his discomfort, but there was something intensely creepy about this man—although at the same time, fascinating. He exuded a deeply troubled darkness. On occasions in his past, working at Broadmoor, he had encountered similarly disturbing people. But he could not remember the last time he had felt himself in the presence of such feral evil. Dr. Crisp had written that his patient was delusional. Was this one of his delusions?

  “True, Harrison,” he replied, with a half-hearted laugh. “Oh yes. Yes, of course.”

  “You are not going to go to the police, Dr. Van Dam. Firstly, I think you would hate to lose me as a patient. And secondly, I sense that although the law has changed, you don’t agree with the change. You’re a pretty old-fashioned guy, with old-fashioned views about the sacrosanct right of confidentiality between a doctor and patient. I read a paper you published in the Lancet over a decade ago. You put forward a very cogent argument for maintaining it.”

  “I wrote that a doctor should not be under a legal obligation, only a moral one. But let’s talk more about you. Why are you here, what are you expecting from me? How are you hoping I might be able to help you?”

  His patient looked at him with a curious expression. It felt to the psychiatrist that the man was staring right through his soul. “I need to cope with my guilt.”

  A number of thoughts went through the psychiatrist’s mind. People did die every year from allergic reactions to anesthetics—a tiny percentage of all those who had operations. It was a tragic fact that every anesthetist would lose a few patients over the course of his career. Was this simply Harrison Hunter’s way of coping with his guilt, to confess to killing them deliberately? Or was Hunter a fantasist?

  Or was he, as he said, really a killer?

  The psychiatrist decided to humor him. “I’m not sure I believe what you told me about you killing people deliberately,” Van Dam said. “When you qualified as a doctor of medicine, surely you agreed to be bound by the basic ethics of medicine, Do no harm. So tell me why you are really here?”

  “I’ve just told you.” He was silent for some moments, then he said, “There’s a local newspaper published in the Brighton area called the Argus. Take a look online, later. You’ll see a story about skeletal remains of a woman discovered yesterday in a small park close to the seafront, called Hove Lagoon.”

  “Why do you want me to look at this story?”

  “Because I know who killed her, and why.”

  The psychiatrist studied him for some moments, watching his chaotic body language. Then he said, “Have you told the police?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Dr. Van Dam, you and I need each other.”

  “Do we? Can you explain that to me?”

  “There’s another story in the Argus today. It didn’t make the printed edition this morning, but you’ll be able to read it online. You have a niece, Logan Somerville?”

  Van Dam stiffened, visibly. “What about her?”

  “Are you very fond of her?”

  “I don’t discuss my private life with my patients. What does my niece have to do with this?”

  “You haven’t heard, have you?”

  “Heard what?”

  “About Logan. She disappeared last night.”

  Van Dam blanched. “Disappeared?”

  “There’s a manhunt going on all over Brighton for her. For your niece. Logan Somerville. You need me very badly.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I’m the only person who may be able to save her life.”

  23

  Friday 12 December

  Roy Grace pulled up outside the Chesham Gate apartment building, behind a white Crime Scene Investigation van, a marked police car and two unmarked police vehicles. A short way along, the silver Specialist Search Unit van was straddling the curb in order not to block the narrow street. A small knot of curious onlookers were standing around watching, and a youth was taking pictures with his phone.

  On his way here, from the Lagoon, he’d had an idea for the brief, but very emotional speech he had to make on Monday, at Bella’s funeral. He jotted it down, then he climbed out into the cold, blustery wind.

  Fluttering crime scene tape sealed off the entrance to the car park. The gates were open and a PCSO scene guard stood in front with a clipboard. She directed Roy Grace to the van to suit up. He entered and shared some banter with two search officers, the highly experienced POLSA Sergeant Lorna Dennison-Wilkins and a recent recruit to her team, Scott, who he had not met before, who were having a coffee break.

  As he wormed his way into a protective oversuit for the second time this morning, he asked Lorna what was happening and where the Crime Scene Manager, John Morgan, was.

  “Lots of pissed-off residents who can’t get their cars out, sir. And another bunch who can’t get their cars in. You might like to have a word with some of them. John Morgan’s in a stroppy mood this morning and not being at his most diplomatic.”

  Morgan was good at his job, but not always known for his tact. Protection of a crime scene was vital to prevent contamination, but when it inconvenienced the public, as was often the case, it required a delicate hand to explain the reasons. Mostly the public were understanding and helpful, but some were anything but—those who hated the police, and those who were just plain selfish or bloody-minded.

  He signed the scene log and walked down the ramp into the underground car park in his clumsy, ungainly protective blue oversuit and shoes. A wide variety of cars were parked in the bays, including several sleek shapes beneath covers. There was a sharp, dry smell of engine oil, paintwork and dust. Several search officers, similarly clad, were on their hands and knees, shoulder to shoulder inside a taped-off area. Further along he saw another officer from the unit, on top of the SSU’s portable scaffolding tower, checking behind a roof-light fitting.

  The stocky figure of John Morgan appeared from around a corner and greeted him with a surly but polite, “Morning, boss!”

  “What do you have, John?”

  The Crime Scene Manager shook his head. “Something that might be of interest—a footprint in a patch of engine oil.” He led Grace over to an empty parking bay next to where the Fiat had been parked, where there was a small pool of black sludge on the ground. “Looks like a male, because of the size. There are several weaker prints heading across toward the far end of the car park, but that’s it.” Then he pointed up at a CCTV camera. “If that had been working, we might have got a lot more that could be useful.”

  Accompanied by Morgan, Grace walked around the entire car park, noting the fire escapes, the lift and the main steps up beside it. Plenty of ways in which someone could enter pretty much unnoticed except by cameras. Then the caretaker took them to the couple’s flat, where Grace had met the boyfriend last night. Morgan told Grace that Logan Somerville’s laptop and mobile phone had been taken across to the High Tech Crime Unit for a high-priority examination. In particular they’d be looking at recent calls, her e-mails and social networking sites to see if there were any clues to her disappearance there.

  The boyfriend was lined up for a 1 p.m. appeal on the local news, with Grace. Meanwhile the police CCTV camera footage around the city was being examined for any sightings of Logan Somerville, or the estate car that had been seen in the area.

  The good news was that most of the mispers reported annually in the UK turned up within a few days, and there was always a raft of different explanations for their absence.

  Was Logan Somerville going to turn up within a few days, with a perfectly plausible explanation for her absence? He had a bad feeling about this particular young woman. The report by her fiancé of her screaming. The vehicle coming out of the underground car park at high speed around the same time. Despite Jamie Ball’s alibi that would appear to eliminate him from suspicion
, Roy Grace was not happy about this man. No one at this stage would be eliminated entirely. He’d be in a better position to decide on the young man after he had been interviewed, and in particular, after his performance at the televised appeal, later. Would he be shedding real or crocodile tears?

  He looked at a photograph of the pair in cycling outfits; then at another of them lying on a beach. A young, attractive, happy-looking couple, like a thousand other young lovers, seemingly without a care in the world. Except, in his jaded cynicism, he didn’t believe there were many people who genuinely could say they didn’t have a care in the world. Everyone had some kind of a problem they had to deal with.

  His phone rang. He answered it, looking down at the signal on the display which showed just one dot. “Roy Grace.”

  It was Glenn Branson, his voice crackly, sounding excited. “Hey, boss, are you very tied up for half an hour? We’re at the mortuary. There’s something I think you should see.”

  Grace looked at the time on his phone. 10:55 a.m. At midday he was due to attend a meeting with ACC Cassian Pewe to brief him on Logan Somerville. He needed to prepare for it, and ensure there was no missing persons procedure he had missed out that Pewe could trip him up on. And he wanted to be in time for the 1 p.m. appeal as well as to observe the interview due to be taking place later with Logan’s fiancé—but he could watch the recording if he missed it.

  “I’ll be over as soon as I’ve finished here.”

  24

  Friday 12 December

  Jacob Van Dam and his patient stared at each other across, what felt to the psychiatrist, a dark void. Just who the hell was this creepy fellow and what was going on inside his head?

  “May I take a moment to verify your story about my niece, Dr. Hunter?”

  “Be my guest. Provided I can see what you are doing.”

  The psychiatrist turned his computer screen sideways, so that Harrison Hunter could see it. “The Argus online you said?”

  Hunter nodded.

  Van Dam opened Google then typed in the words “Brighton Argus online.”

  Moments later the Argus homepage appeared, and he saw the headline.

  ABDUCTION FEARS OVER MISSING WOMAN

  Both men read the story printed below.

  Logan Somerville, 24, of Chesham Gate, Kemp Town, has not been seen since she left the Chiropractic Life Clinic premises in Portland Road, Hove, where she worked, at 5:15 p.m. yesterday afternoon. Her fiancé, Jamie Ball, 28, a marketing manager, reported to police that she had phoned him, concerned about a stranger in the underground car park of the apartment building where they live, at around 5:30 p.m. yesterday, which was the last communication from her. Her car was subsequently found in the car park.

  A police spokesperson said that her disappearance is being treated as a possible abduction, and Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team is in charge of the investigation, Operation Haywain. A television broadcast by her fiancé is being made at 1 p.m. today, which will be followed by a press conference, at which more details will be given.

  Police are appealing for anyone who might have seen anything suspicious in the vicinity, or a dark-colored estate car, possibly an older model Volvo, being driven erratically or at high speed around that time. The driver is described as male, middle-aged, clean shaven, wearing glasses.

  The psychiatrist was visibly shaking as he looked back at his patient. “You know where she is?” he said.

  “I didn’t say that. I said I’m the only person who may be able to save her life.”

  “What do you need?” the psychiatrist said sternly. “Money? How much money?”

  “This is not about money.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  Harrison Hunter stood up abruptly. “I have to go now.”

  “Wait!” Van Dam said. “You can’t go now, for God’s sake tell me where she is, what’s happened to her. Who is she with? Has she been hurt?”

  But his patient had already reached the door. As he opened it, Hunter turned and said, “Don’t go to the police, Dr. Van Dam. If you do you’ll never see her again. I can help you, you’ll have to trust me on that.”

  “Please, how exactly are you going to help me, Dr. Hunter?”

  “By you helping me.”

  The door closed behind him.

  “Wait!” Van Dam shouted, pulling the door open. But the man had gone past his secretary and out of the far door. As Van Dam reached it, he could hear the man’s footsteps heading down the stairs. He stumbled down them after him, but long before he reached the front door, calling out, “Please wait!,” he heard it slam.

  He returned to his office, out of breath, looked at the phone number on Crisp’s referral letter and dialed it. After a few rings it was answered by a cheery, recorded voice.

  “Hello, this is Dr. Crisp’s surgery. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can. Bye for now!”

  25

  Friday 12 December

  Deep in thought, Roy Grace drove around the Lewes Road gyratory system. It was coming up to 11:15 a.m., around eighteen hours since Logan Somerville had vanished. If she had been taken, as he feared, rather than simply gone of her own volition, then with each passing hour the chances of finding her alive diminished. That had long been his grim experience. But he was curious about why Glenn Branson wanted him to come over so urgently.

  He turned left, in past the wrought-iron gates attached to brick pillars, and the sign in gold letters on a black background that said BRIGHTON AND HOVE CITY MORTUARY. He was confronted with death constantly in his work, and while crime scenes and deposition sites often yielded vital clues for inquiries, the mortuary—combined with the associated pathology and DNA labs—had become in many ways the crucible of murder investigations.

  While he preferred not to dwell too much on his own mortality, this place always made him think of it. Not many people, other than tragic suicide victims, actually expected to end up here. And he wondered just how many of those, even, had really wanted to be spending the night in a cold refrigerator, rather than in their beds. He’d interviewed a number of survivors from suicide attempts over the years, and a high percentage of them had told him, and colleagues, that they were grateful to have failed and to still be alive.

  This was something that had been backed up by a recent conversation he’d had with a police sergeant who was a regular crew member of the police helicopter. Part of her duty was to do a weekly check, while flying along near the bottom of Beachy Head. The beauty spot, a chalk headland a few miles to the east of Brighton, had a dark side to it. With its 531-foot sheer drop onto rocks at the edge of the English Channel, it was a notorious suicide spot, claiming victims most weeks of the year, and vied with California’s Golden Gate Bridge and Japan’s Aokigahara Woods for the dubious status of the world’s most popular suicide destination. There was a permanently manned chaplaincy post there to help try to talk desperate people around.

  The sergeant had told him that a significant number of victims they recovered from the bottom of the cliffs had chalk under their fingernails—indicating, horrifically, that they must have changed their minds on the way down.

  Every sudden death that Roy Grace encountered, whether an accident, suicide or murder, affected him. Death was something that everyone liked to believe happened to other people. Other, less fortunate people. Not many people set out to become victims, and this place haunted him with its sadness.

  He and Sandy had had no children. If he had died during the time they had been together, Sandy would have coped fine. She was a strong person. Cleo would cope, too, if anything ever happened to him; her family were comfortably off and, additionally, he’d made life assurance provisions for her and for Noah. But the recent birth of his son had made him think about his death in a way that he never had before. Cleo would always be a brilliant mother to Noah, but as a young, very beautiful woman, she would almost certainly marry again one day—and that person would t
hen become Noah’s father.

  A total stranger.

  It was an odd thought to be having, he knew, but now that he was a father, he valued life more than ever before. He wanted to be around for his son. To be a good father to him, the way his own father, Jack Grace, had been there for him, to try to help prepare him for the world out there. A world that was rich and beautiful, but constantly lay in the shadow of evil.

  Even though he had some good associations with the mortuary—it was where he had met Cleo, after all—the place still made him deeply uneasy, as it did most people who came here, and that included police officers. The gates here were always open, 24/7. Always ready to receive the newly dead and, like the skeletal remains of the as yet unknown woman at the Lagoon, sometimes the long-term dead.

  Roy Grace always felt that the blandness of the exterior of the building, which looked like a suburban bungalow, added a curiously stark contrast to the grim tasks that were performed inside it. It was a long, single-story structure with gray pebbledash rendering on the walls, overlooked by a row of houses, and with a covered drive-in on one side deep enough to accommodate an ambulance or a large van. On the other side was a huge opaque window, and a small, very domestic-looking front door.

  He drove past a line of cars parked against a flint wall at the rear, and halted in the visitors’ parking area. Then he walked around to the front door and rang the bell. It was answered by Darren Wallace, in Cleo’s absence, the Acting Senior Anatomical Pathology Technician. He was in his early twenties, with fashionably spiky dark hair, and dressed in blue scrubs, with a green plastic apron and white boots. He greeted the Detective Superintendent and led him through into the changing room.