by Peter James
“Assistant Chief Constable, would you advise all women to stay at home until the Brighton Brander is caught?”
“Detective Superintendent, what advice will you be giving to young women in the city?”
“I’d like to ask the Police and Crime Commissioner if as a result of this she will be providing the budget to restore the number of police officers this city used to have?”
Nicola Roigard outlined the support she would be providing the police for the investigation and to address the community safety issues.
“Detective Superintendent, can you tell us exactly what measures you are taking to find this man you are calling the Brighton Brander?”
“Detective Superintendent, is there any message of reassurance you can give to the people of Sussex?”
Grace leaned toward the microphone and tried to speak, but his voice was lost in the storm of questions now erupting right across the room. Once the hubbub had died down he ran through the rest of the information he wanted to share, and outlined how the public could provide potential information to progress the investigation.
* * *
An hour after the conference ended, the Argus ran a banner headline on its online edition, POLICE CHIEF WARNS OF SERIAL KILLER PANIC IN CITY.
On the national news, both the BBC radio and television, and Sky, led with the story that Brighton was in a state of panic following the return of a serial killer after thirty years.
Grace sat, stone-faced, at the 6:30 p.m. briefing of Operation Haywain. On the notepad in front of him he had written the words: Cassian Pewe. Total wanker. He had underlined them several times.
But for now he had to keep those feelings to himself.
61
Tuesday 16 December
“Mr. Brighton Brander!” Harrison said and chuckled.
Felix roared with laughter. “The Brighton Brander! Oh my God, that is so funny! Mr. Brander! I so totally love it! You’re a brand name!”
“Barker might have been a better word,” Marcus said. “Barker as in barking mad.”
They were watching the 10 p.m. ITV news feature on the serial killer panic gripping the city of Brighton and Hove.
“How about cutting me a bit of slack all of you?” he snarled.
“You’ve got to admit it was funny,” Harrison chortled away.
“Go fuck yourself, Harrison.”
“Well, thank you for the offer. I would if I could.”
“Want a pineapple up your rectum?”
“Now now, don’t be so spikeful!”
Felix giggled.
“You think that’s funny, Felix?”
“Hey ho,” Felix said. “Listen to me. Chillax, dude! Don’t you see what that clever-clogs copper, Inspector Grace, is trying to do?”
“Detective Superintendent,” he snarled back. “Yes, he’s trying to make me look cruel and sadistic.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have to try very hard,” Marcus murmured.
“What was that, Marcus?” He turned and rounded on him. “What did you just say?”
“You see,” Harrison said, loudly. “You’re all angry and upset, exactly where Detective Superintendent Grace wants you. He’s poking you with a large stick, trying to make you angry, can’t you see that? He’s hoping if he gets you riled, you’ll make a mistake—and then where are we all going to be?
“We are looking for a middle-aged man with local knowledge and a sadistic streak, who appears to be targeting young women of a specific appearance. He’s already made a number of mistakes, which I can’t go into now,” said Harrison, repeating the news broadcast. He shook his head. “Tut, tut, tut. He says you have made a number of mistakes—what are they? I think some serious correction is needed here, don’t we all, team? So what are we going to do about it?”
“I know exactly what we are going to do about it. That arrogant shit Detective Superintendent Roy Grace is about to receive the Order of the Pineapple. Right up his jacksie. I’ve not made any mistakes. I’ve not put a foot wrong. I’m going to sort that copper out.”
“Oh yes, how?”
“Watch this space, guys.”
“Hey, why not?” Felix said. “We’ve fuck all else to do!”
“Yes, we’ll watch your next mistake!” Harrison said.
He glared at Harrison. Glared at the smug face of Roy Grace on the television. “You’ll be sorry you said that about me, Detective Superintendent, you’ll be very sorry.”
“And that’s something we all know you are very good at,” Felix said. “Making people sorry.”
“True,” Harrison replied.
“Yes, very true,” said Marcus.
62
Tuesday 16 December
At 10:30 p.m. Roy Grace was feeling mentally and physically exhausted as he pulled up his job car outside the smart Regency front entrance of Limehouse Guesthouse, to drop off Paul Sweetman, the DCI who Cassian Pewe had asked to come down from London to advise him on serial-killer tactics.
So far, so good. Grace liked the calm, curly-haired man, who was soft-spoken and serious, but with a good sense of humor, a pleasant contrast to many of the in-your-face Met officers he had previously encountered. Sweetman had arrived mid-afternoon, reviewed Grace’s policy book with him, and then sat in on the 6:30 p.m. briefing. Afterward Grace had taken him to the traditional Brighton fish restaurant, English’s, for a meal, before returning to Sussex House for another two hours.
He had agreed to pick Sweetman up at 7 a.m., to carry on their discussions before the morning briefing, after which they were going to meet with the forensic psychologist Tony Balazs to talk further tactics with him. The media were, as predicted, having a feeding frenzy, and he hadn’t yet caught up with Glenn Branson or Iain Maclean, who had been holding the fort in MIR-1. The call-center facility they’d set up, using support staff, had been handling hundreds of calls, and his team were flat out sifting through the information, identifying and prioritizing possible actions.
He turned right onto Marine Parade, the lights of the seafront, the Brighton Eye, and the pier ahead of him all faintly blurry in the misty rain, a little unsure of the reception he was going to get from Cleo, who’d had to cancel a baby group she was taking Noah to this afternoon because of the removals men arriving earlier than expected with the packing cases. Then his phone rang.
He answered it on hands-free and heard the duty inspector from Brighton police station, Andy Anakin, his voice as ever sounding panicky. “Roy, thought you should know, a woman’s body’s just been washed up on the beach in front of the King Alfred Leisure Center—in case you want to come down and see her before she’s recovered to the mortuary. She was found by a young couple.”
Courting on the beach in this foul weather at this hour? Grace thought, his heart sinking at the news. The King Alfred was just a short distance away from Hove Lagoon. His immediate thought was whether this area was going to turn out to be the Brander’s deposition site. “What do you know about her so far, Andy? What age, what condition is she in? Physical appearance?”
“I’ve got a uniform sergeant attending, along with the on-call Coroner’s Officer. Apparently she’s pretty badly decomposed. Much of her face has gone—eaten by fish.”
“What about her hair? What color? Long or short?”
“I didn’t ask that information.”
“If you could find that out and let me know, urgently, Andy.”
“Her hair color—and length? That’s significant is it, Roy?”
God, the inspector could be irritating at times, Grace thought. “Yes, it may be, and her age, please—however rough a guess.”
Anakin said he would get back to him as quickly as he could.
Ten minutes later, Grace parked in the street, then crossed the road and punched in the entry code for the gated townhouse development where he and Cleo would be moving from at the end of the week. The estate agent’s “Sold” board was fixed close by. He walked across the cobbled yard, then heard Humphrey barking inside as he
put the key in the front door.
He opened it to be confronted by Humphrey leaping up at him excitedly, and a sea of cardboard boxes. Cleo was lying back on the sofa in a baggy onesie, holding a large glass of red wine in her hand and staring, fixedly, at a scene of devastation in Iraq on the television. Normally she would have leaped up and thrown her arms around him, but to his consternation she didn’t even turn her head.
“Hi, darling,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”
“I left you some food out.”
“I already ate—I told you—I’ve been stuck all evening with the SIO from London that Pewe foisted on me.”
“No,” she said, coldly, “you didn’t tell me. You said you’d be home by eight, to help me start packing up.”
“I—oh shit.” He suddenly realized in the midst of everything he had completely forgotten to call her. “God, I’m so sorry.” He strode across, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She did not react. “Darling—I’m really sorry—I’ve had a nightmare of a day.”
“So it’s all right for you to have a nightmare of a day, but not for me, is that it?”
“Of course not. Shit, I need a drink—where’s the wine?”
She nodded down at the table. He picked it up and saw to his dismay it was empty. “You drank the whole bottle?”
“Yes, I drank the whole sodding bottle.”
“I thought—breastfeeding—that wasn’t—”
“No, I’m not meant to drink while breastfeeding. So what are you going to do about it?”
“Hey, come on!” He sat on the sofa and put an arm around her, but she pulled away from him.
“I can’t cope, Roy. How the hell do you expect me to cope? Noah’s been crying all day.” She gestured at the room. “I can’t do it all by myself.”
“We’ll have to get help,” Grace said. “What about your sister, and your parents?”
Her mood softened a fraction as it hadn’t occurred to her. “I’ll try Rosie and Caroline, too.” Rosie and Caroline were her two best friends.
“I thought the removals men were going to be packing most of the stuff up?” Grace said.
“They are going to, but someone has to bloody supervise them. God, it’s so hard. I know you can’t do anything about it on this huge case—but the timing is shit, it’s just the worst timing!”
His phone rang again. He stood up, stepped away and answered it. It was Anakin.
“Roy, the details I have back so far is she has short gray hair and is probably in her fifties, or even sixties.”
“Are they sure?”
“Well, I understand she’s pretty badly decomposed, as I said. They say she’s been in the water for some time, but they’re able to give an approximate age from what they can see.”
Grace felt relief wash through him. “OK, that’s good news, Andy.”
“Good news?”
“Relatively speaking.”
“I’m glad you think it’s good news.”
“OK, well it sounds like there’s not much anyone can do tonight. Let’s see what the post-mortem shows in the morning and we’ll take a view on the cause of death findings then, if they are suspicious.”
“Let’s hope it’s still good news, then, sir,” Anakin said, a tad sarcastically.
Grace knew it was not an unusual occurrence for bodies to be washed up along the Brighton and Hove coast. The pattern of tide and currents along the English Channel meant that a high percentage of those who committed suicide by drowning further west, and those who fell overboard from vessels, ended up on the city’s beaches. It didn’t make anyone’s death less tragic, but at this moment, Grace’s relief that it was not a young woman with long brown hair was palpable.
He ended the call and turned back to Cleo. She had gone. Her empty glass sat on the coffee table next to the empty bottle.
Wearily, he climbed the stairs, thinking what he could say and what he could suggest to help the situation. As he reached the landing, he heard Noah screaming.
63
Wednesday 17 December
At the 8:30 a.m. briefing, Sarah Milligan, the HOLMES analyst, gave the news that Unknown Female had been identified, subject to DNA confirmation, and that she had been working through the information that was known. Her name was Denise Patterson, and she had gone missing from her home in Aldwick Bay, Bognor Regis, at the age of nineteen. It seemed possible that, like the other victims, she also had long brown hair.
Roy Grace pointed at the grainy, black and white photograph of the young woman on the whiteboard behind him. As he stared at her face, he wondered what her story was. He had been ten years old, thirty years ago. Sailing his little boats on Hove Lagoon. At the same time as the Brander was killing Denise?
He was feeling bad about the pressure the move—and the baby—was causing Cleo. She was taking it pretty stoically and coping, somehow. Last night’s outburst was rare, considering what she’d had to put up with recently. He couldn’t help but compare her to Sandy, who regularly got mad at him over his working hours. No one could predict when a murder would take place. Whether it was day or night, or in the middle of a birthday celebration, homicide detectives had to be prepared to drop everything and be gone within minutes, and then virtually live at work for the first days of the investigation, at least. That never went down well with spouses or partners. Because Cleo’s own role as Chief Mortician had involved the same instant call-outs, 24/7, she had always understood.
The sight of Norman Potting’s drained face didn’t help his mood either. The fifty-five-year-old detective sergeant sat at his place at the conference table, smartly dressed in some of the clothes Bella had helped him choose. He caught Grace’s eye and gave him a stoic smile.
On the table in front of Grace was a copy of this morning’s Argus newspaper. It had not really bought into the Brighton Brander damage limitation slant. The dramatic front page splash read: BRIGHTON BRANDER POISED TO STRIKE AGAIN?
All of the national tabloid press featured the story prominently, too. The Mirror asked whether Brighton was about to regain its former notoriety as the UK’s murder capital.
Roy Grace opened his notebook. “For the benefit of all the team, especially as we have new members, I intend to run through both of the investigations, and the individual investigative leads for each case are here, should there be any further questions.”
He then recapped the circumstances around the disappearance of Emma Johnson. “We’ve had very little intelligence or contact from the public in respect to Emma,” he continued. “She has been missing before but I am sure that on this occasion the circumstances of her disappearance are more mysterious and linked to the man we have labeled the Brighton Brander. We’ve had no sightings of her since the last time that she was seen leaving her home address, and her whereabouts remain a mystery. Her disappearance has been included as part of the overall operation due to her description and similarities with the other missing girls.”
He turned the page of his notebook and said, “We will now run through the lines of inquiry and updates on the female remains that were found near Hove Lagoon. She has been provisionally identified as Denise Patterson. She went missing in September 1984. Lucy Sibun is of the opinion that she was probably moved to a new body deposition site at the Lagoon in the mid-1990s.” He went on to outline in more detail the forensic examination, post-mortem and other scientific processes that were being undertaken.
Next, Roy Grace gave a concise summary of the investigation into the undetected murder from 1984 of Catherine Westerham. This case had been the subject of a cold-case review a couple of years earlier but no new leads had been identified. He outlined the actions that various members of the team were carrying out and updates were provided.
Then he said, “I am now going to talk about the two most recent cases, that of Logan Somerville and Ashleigh Stanford, starting with Logan. It would seem fairly certain at this stage that her fiancé, Jamie Ball, is not involved. Like Emma, there have been no
potential sightings of her and very little information has been forthcoming from the public. It is her appearance that links her to the possible serial killer.”
He sipped some coffee. “In conclusion I will now deal with the fifth victim, Ashleigh Stanford. There have been no sightings reported since her disappearance in the early hours of Saturday morning in Hove, when it looks like she may have been abducted while cycling home from work. Her mobile phone has been found nearby and it is her appearance that again links her to the other young women.” He ran through the details of her particular investigation.
He paused for a moment to let several members of the team finish their notes. “OK, the next few days are going to be busy and you’ll all need to put in long hours. I’m hopeful that our strategy through the media to rile the killer will be successful. There will be the publication of photo-fits and twice-daily press conferences. I’m anticipating the response from the public to be huge, so we’ll need to focus on key elements of the investigation in order that we don’t get distracted. You should be ready for swift action with house raids, searches, and hopefully interviewing of suspects. You have all been working hard in difficult circumstances and Bella would be proud of you all, as am I.”
Suddenly Grace noticed the conference room door opening, and his new assistant, Tish Hannington, peered in, then signaled to him.
“Excuse me a moment everyone.” He went over to the door.
Tish was a slim, neatly dressed woman in her late thirties, with a seemingly unflappable demeanor. She was holding a small Jiffy bag in her hand. “Roy,” she said, quietly. “The editor of the Argus has just sent this over, it was waiting for him when he arrived this morning. Someone had pushed it through the letter box during the night.”
“Yep, well I’m not too pleased with the paper after that ridiculous scaremongering headline this morning—just what we don’t need. What’s in it?”
