by Peter James
“What do you mean?” Roy Grace asked.
“I’ve been thinking about Martin Horner. I reckon he’s taken a dead man’s identity.”
Roy Grace should have gone home this lunchtime, he knew, to work on his eulogy for tomorrow morning. But Bella would have understood. If there was the remotest possibility of saving Logan Somerville—and now possibly Ashleigh Stanford—she would have hated that her death in any way hindered the speed of the investigation.
He sipped a small apple juice and, ravenous, munched on an all-day breakfast sandwich of egg and bacon, complemented by a packet of sour cream and red onion flavored crisps, both of which he had just bought at the Asda superstore across the road. He was glad Cleo was not around—she would have been furious to see him eat what she would have considered to be such an unhealthy meal. But the apple juice, he felt, was arguably the one healthy option that salved his conscience.
Like those fortunate enough to be in a career where they actually had weekends off, Monday-morning gloom loomed tomorrow for him, too, but for other reasons. “I’ve been wondering the same thing,” he replied.
“Day of the Jackal. Ever see that movie?”
“James Fox?”
“Nah, his brother, Edward Fox. Plays a hitman hired to shoot President de Gaulle of France. He gets a fake passport after going to a graveyard and finding the name of a dead, small boy who would never have had a passport. He uses the dead boy’s name to get a phoney passport. It’s a top movie.”
“Never saw it,” Grace said, sipping more of his juice, then munching on his sandwich. He pushed the crisps toward Branson, who shoveled out half the contents in one handful.
Through a mouthful he said, “You know your problem? You’re an uncultured philistine. How the hell did you ever get to make such a top copper?”
“By not associating with dickheads like you.” Roy Grace grinned and gave his best friend a hug. “Actually, I read the novel, years ago.”
“It was a novel?”
Grace looked at him. “By Frederick Forsyth.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Way before it was a movie. You didn’t know that? You never read it?”
“Nope.”
“Now who’s the philistine?”
“You’re a tosser.” Glenn Branson shrugged. “But, you know, so far as tossers go, you’re up there among the good ones.”
“Thanks a million.”
To Grace’s dismay, seemingly oblivious to the fact this was his lunch, Branson tipped the rest of the packet of crisps out and ate them noisily.
“How are you feeling about the funeral?”
“I’ll be glad when it’s over.” Grace sipped his juice. “So update me on Operation Mona Lisa. Are you any closer to identifying Unknown Female?”
“Yes, we might be. As you know, Lucy Sibun has estimated her death to have occurred about thirty years ago and she was in her early twenties. I used the parameter you set to look at all the mispers in the county aged between eighteen and twenty-five, who are still missing, from twenty to thirty-five years ago, that fit our description. We’ve been able to eliminate some from their hair color. We’ll have a computer e-fit face tomorrow and we know she had long brown hair. When we have that we should be able to come up with a probable victim. Then we’ll have to hope we can trace family members. If we can, there’ll be a chance of checking dental records, or getting DNA.”
Grace nodded, thinking about Sandy’s disappearance. “A lot of families who have a member disappear, particularly a child, keep their bedroom as a kind of shrine. There’s a good chance there’ll be a hairbrush, or toothbrush, or something else to get DNA from.”
“We have one development that may be significant,” Branson said. “I showed you the file on Friday on Catherine Westerham, the body from Ashdown Forest?”
“Yes, she was nineteen and had the same U R DEAD branding. As well as similar looks.”
“You’ve gone very pale,” Glenn Branson said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Grace nodded. “That’s how I’m feeling. I have a very bad feeling about this, mate. These killings have to be linked. The marks, the hair, the age range, the victim profile—there are so many similarities.”
“It was all a long time ago.”
“A long time ago, in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.”
“What?” Branson frowned.
“Christopher Marlowe.”
“Who is he?”
“He wrote that in 1590—am I still a philistine?” Grace finished his sandwich and his juice, patted his friend on the back and stood up. “I have to go, see you on parade in the morning.”
But Glenn Branson did not reply. He was studiously tapping Christopher Marlowe into Google on his iPhone.
Grace thought to himself that as soon as the girl from the Lagoon was identified they might be able to establish what the link between the two young women was. Suddenly, Grace felt his phone vibrating. It was DC Liz Seward in MIR-1.
“Sir,” she said, “I’ve just taken a call from someone who wants to speak to the SIO. An elderly-sounding man who says he has some information that might be of interest. I tried to get him to tell me, but he was adamant he would only speak to you. Can I give you his name and number?”
49
1974
“Hey, Mole, how come you’re so fat?”
“My name’s not Mole,” he said, in his squeaky voice that had not yet broken. He stood, naked, in the bathroom of his new boarding school, The Cloisters, in Surrey. It was the start of the second week of term.
“You are gross, Mole!” Gossage said.
A boy pinched the layers of flab on his stomach so hard he cried out in pain. “What do you call that?”
“That hurt, you creep!”
“Who’s Mole calling a creep?” Gore-Parker said. “Me? I’m a creep?”
“Are you calling Gore-Parker a creep?” taunted Chaffinch, a piggy-faced boy who definitely was fatter than himself—except no one seemed to notice.
“Leave me alone.” He stepped into the shower and turned on the taps.
“Listen, you arrogant piece of whale blubber,” Gore-Parker said, “you kept us all awake in the dorm last night wanking.”
“I was bloody not wanking.”
“I’m surprised you can even find your dick under all that blubber,” Gossage said.
The others pealed with laughter.
“Tell you what, Mole, you like tunnels, why don’t you dig yourself a nice little tunnel out in the woods where you can go and wank away to your heart’s content?” Chaffinch said.
“And preferably not come back,” added Gore-Parker.
“We don’t like fat wankers!” Gossage said, secure in having the protection of his mates, who had formed a clan during these past few days.
“Just leave me alone.” He had tears in his eyes.
“The matron said you wet your bed last night,” Gore-Parker said. “Who’s a little homesick diddums then?”
“I’m going to report you all to Mr. Hartwell.” Hartwell was the housemaster.
“Oh really, Mole,” Chaffinch said. “What are you going to report us for?”
“I know you’re all reading porn. I’ve seen the magazines.”
Feigning shock, Gossage turned to Chaffinch and Gore-Parker. “Oh dear, everyone, are we terrified or what? Mole is going to report us for reading porn. What are you reading, Mole, that makes you need to wank all night? Books on tunnels?”
The others laughed.
“You’re the bloody wanker,” he said, sullenly, stepping into the water spray and starting to soap himself. He closed his eyes, spreading soap across his face.
Suddenly, he felt a vice-like grip on each wrist. Then he was being yanked, harshly, out of the shower.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Hey!” He opened his eyes and was instantly blinded by the stinging soap. His feet slithered across the shower tray and then the linoleum floor as he blinked, his vision a blur
. He felt himself being lifted, then dumped down into water.
A bathtub, he realized.
His head was right beneath the tap which was pelting out a lukewarm mix of hot and cold water. Straight onto his face.
“No! Urrrrrrrr!” He tried to shout out, but merely swallowed water. Hands were pinning him down.
“Helpglub! Glubbbme!”
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He writhed in panic. He was drowning.
Then he was jerked forward. Gulping air, he could hear the roar of the open tap inches from him. Then he was pushed back and the torrent of water covered his mouth and nose.
He writhed, twisted, kicking out, desperately trying to shake free, but firm hands held him down.
“You’re a dirty bastard, Mole!” Gossage said. “Moles burrow in earth. You must be covered in earth. Yech!”
“Maybe we should cut your dick and balls off to stop you wanking!” Gore-Parker said.
He was swallowing water. He shook, violently, choking, trying desperately to break free.
Then suddenly he heard a voice. A familiar voice. Stern. Furious. “What the Dickens is going on here? Gossage? Gore-Parker? Chaffinch? What do you think you are doing? Get dressed and come to my study right away!”
It was the voice of Ted Hartwell, a man Mole had lived in terror of since he had arrived at The Cloisters, from his fearsome disciplinarian reputation.
But this Sunday evening he felt like he was his savior.
50
Sunday 14 December
Grace stared at the piece of paper he’d torn off Glenn Branson’s desk notepad, on which he had scrawled “Dr. Jacob Van Dam.” The name of the man Liz Seward had spoken to, who insisted on talking only to him.
The man’s name rang a faint bell.
He hurried along the corridor, logged on to his computer, and then to Google, and typed in the doctor’s name.
And was instantly impressed. Now he knew why the name was familiar. Van Dam had been, at one time, among the leading forensic psychiatrists in the country. But looking at his date of birth, he was knocking on, well past retirement age. Curious, he dialed his number.
A quavering man’s voice answered after five rings. “Dr. Van Dam?” Grace asked.
The response was guarded. “Yes, who is this?”
“Detective Superintendent Roy Grace. I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on the disappearance of Logan Somerville. I understand you wanted to speak to me?”
“Well, yes, thank you for calling. I’m very worried about wasting police time, but the thing is—you see I have something that has been bothering me for the past—nearly—two days.” He fell silent.
“Tell me?” Grace prompted.
“The first thing I should tell you is that I am Logan Somerville’s uncle.”
“OK.”
“Well, you see, I had a very peculiar patient on Friday, whose name was Harrison Hunter. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Harrison Hunter?” Grace wrote the name down. “No, it doesn’t.” The man was speaking almost irritatingly slowly.
“He told me he is an anesthetist. But so far I’ve not been able to verify that.”
Grace made a further note.
“Then he made a rather strange claim. I held off contacting you because, to be frank, I rather dismissed him as a fantasist—I’ve had plenty of people like him during my career. He claimed to know all about Logan’s abduction. Then he told me—as evidence of his bona fides—that Logan had a tattoo or a mark of some kind on her right thigh.”
Suddenly Grace’s interest in the man increased dramatically. “On her right thigh?”
“That’s what he told me. So immediately he left, I got the name of Logan’s fiancé from her mother—and I telephoned him to ask if Logan had a tattoo. He was absolutely adamant that she doesn’t.” The psychiatrist fell silent for some moments. “I’ve been discussing it with my wife. But the thing is that Logan’s parents—her mother is my sister—are worried out of their wits.”
“Understandably,” Grace replied.
“They are worried about Logan’s relationship with her fiancé. Apparently she broke their engagement off and he’s had a problem accepting it. So it is possible he lied to me when I asked him the question about the tattoo.”
“Why do you think he would lie about a tattoo?”
“I can’t explain that. Unless, of course, as the parents think, he might be behind this.”
“Did this Dr. Hunter give you any description of this tattoo?”
“Yes, he did. Well, it said, U R DEAD.”
Roy thanked him for the call and sat in stunned silence for a few minutes, thinking hard. Then he made three phone calls. The first was to Glenn Branson, asking him to send one of their detectives to London right away to interview the psychiatrist. The second was to the Chief, Tom Martinson, and the third, Pewe, to alert them and schedule a meeting.
This latest information had just turned a major investigation into potentially one of the biggest that he and Sussex Police were likely to experience. There would no doubt be massive national and international media interest, and it would be important for him to keep control of the investigation. He would also have a duty to work with key opinion formers and community groups to ensure that the public’s reaction was managed to prevent panic. He would be telling the Chief and Pewe that in his opinion they needed to form a Gold group.
A Gold group was only formed in extreme circumstances, such as a major crime, critical incident, significant public event or natural disaster. The group would consist of senior police officers, senior representatives from the City Council, Safety Officers, the Police and Crime Commissioner, the local MP, the Divisional Commander, members of the Independent Advisory Group and, importantly, a dedicated senior Public Relations Officer. He would be discussing the details straight after the briefing when he went to headquarters.
This was all he needed: a funeral tomorrow, and with this current investigation perhaps the biggest challenge of his career, in the week he was moving house. He picked up the phone to dial Cleo, taking a deep breath before she picked up.
51
Sunday 14 December
Roy Grace ran a rather stilted Sunday evening briefing of Operation Haywain. He was due to meet Martinson and Pewe straight after, to update them on the potential magnitude of the situation. He was not going to be delivering good news, after his conversation earlier with Van Dam and several more phone calls during the afternoon.
The close-up photograph of Logan Somerville’s face that had been distributed had been picked up by almost all of the Sunday papers, with several carrying it on the front page. A search operation had been ongoing since Thursday evening, with police, specials, PCSOs and volunteer members of the public, as well as the police helicopter, despite its huge operating cost. The search operation was intelligence-led, together with responses to specific information received from the public. The immediate search of the area where Logan had gone missing had been completed with a negative result.
Ashleigh Stanford’s boyfriend seemed a decent young man. He had spent much of the afternoon in the CCTV room at John Street with operator Jon Pumfrey, watching firstly the cameras covering her normal journey home, down West Street and along the seafront. He’d identified the first image of her, pedalling up the pedestrianized Duke Street at 12:52 a.m., then down West Street, and turning right along King’s Road.
Over the next eight minutes, four more cameras had clocked her heading west: one passing the Peace Statue, a second along Hove Lawns, a third where she ran a red light at the bottom of Grand Avenue, and the fourth as she crossed Hove Street. The next camera would have picked her up, if she had continued west, at the start of Shoreham Port. But the fact she hadn’t showed up indicated that she had either been abducted from this road, with her bicycle as well, or on one of the streets off, such as Carlisle Road, a quarter of a mile along, where she lived.
She had literally vanished off the face of the earth.
>
Except for one thing that had turned, during the course of the afternoon, into a serious lead. A Skoda taxi had been clocked by the same cameras, driving slower than the speed limit, keeping a steady and substantial distance back from the cyclist. The taxi had also not showed up on the fifth camera, at the start of Shoreham Port, which meant it, too, had turned off somewhere.
Nor had it appeared anywhere else on any of the other cameras that had been searched around all the possible routes it could have taken. However, the registration number had been picked up by an ANPR along the seafront, and they’d got the driver’s name, a Mark Tuckwell.
Tuckwell had been found and interviewed. While it was undoubtedly his registration number, he had been at a wedding reception in Lewes with about a hundred potential witnesses there to confirm his alibi, and his taxi had been in the dealer’s garage over the weekend with its engine out.
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to clone the vehicle and number plate—and it was not easy to get fake number plates made in the UK these days.
There was a parallel with the Volvo that had been sighted outside Logan Somerville’s flat around the time of her suspected abduction, which was also concerning Roy Grace. “There is one possible link,” he said to his team. “The offender who took Ashleigh and the one who took Logan were both in estate-type vehicles around the time of the girls’ disappearance. Neither of them showed up on any further cameras after the alleged abductions. That to me indicates two things.” He took a sip of water, then went on.
“Firstly, that the offender has a detailed local knowledge of the city, and an awareness of the camera locations—and clearly extensive knowledge of all the backstreets to avoid them. And secondly, probably lives locally within the city. I’ve studied the camera maps this afternoon, and from each of the two abduction sites, it would have been impossible for either vehicle to have left the city in any direction, other than driving into the sea, without being picked up by a camera—either one of our own CCTV network or ANPR. The area where Ashleigh was last seen has been thoroughly searched, and house-to-house inquiries have also been made, but nothing of significance has been found to date.”
