by Peter James
Dr. Edward Crisp, Grace thought. A middle-aged family doctor. Could he really be behind all this?
Then he only had to remind himself that Britain’s worst-ever serial killer had been a middle-aged family doctor, Harold Shipman. All of his victims had been patients. Surely it would be too coincidental for another doctor to be Brighton’s first serial killer?
The danger, he knew, from having a good suspect was always the temptation to focus on that suspect and ignore anything else. What else was he missing?
The only other potential suspect was the strange Dr. Harrison Hunter, phoney anesthetist, who had gone to see Jacob Van Dam. Middle-aged, blond wig, medium build.
Dr. Crisp in disguise? An alter ego?
Van Dam had now been interviewed three times. Why the hell had Hunter gone to see him?
Grace knew the answer probably lay in the erratic mind of the offender. Murder was never a rational thing. It was a line that, fortunately, most decent folk never crossed. But equally it was a line that, once crossed, there was no going back from. You could never undo the fact that you had taken a life. Most people gave themselves up at some point after doing that, because they couldn’t live with the guilt. The truly dangerous ones were the people who found they could live with the knowledge. People who, in the recesses of their twisted minds, actually enjoyed it.
For them it made no difference whether it was one killing or twenty. Once they crossed the Rubicon of their first murder, and found they were comfortable with it, there was no turning back. Even if they wanted to.
Many murders were committed by schizophrenics—people like Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, who heard voices from God telling him to go and kill prostitutes.
Barring those who killed after losing their temper, the majority of murderers were sociopaths—or psychopaths—the same thing in Grace’s view—people born without empathy. People capable of killing with little emotion or guilt.
Had Hunter gone to see Jacob Van Dam to boast? To be absolved? To show off? To sadistically torment him as Logan’s uncle?
But Van Dam was not particularly close to Logan.
What the hell was that all about? A cry for help of some kind?
It was the only answer, at this moment, that he could come up with: that perhaps the offender was feeling guilt and wanted to be caught to stop him from offending further.
Tony Balazs agreed it was a possibility.
Grace felt certain that the clue to finding the offender lay in that visit. Despite the wig and tinted glasses that Dr. Harrison Hunter had been wearing, from Jacob Van Dam’s description, his build fitted Dr. Crisp.
Feeling almost too exhausted to think straight, he laid his head on his arms on his desk and closed his eyes. Moments later, it seemed, he woke with a start to a dull buzzing sound, like a trapped insect.
His phone, which he had switched to silent for the press conference, was vibrating on the desk.
“Roy Grace,” he answered, confused, only half awake. He looked at the time. Shit. He’d been asleep for almost an hour.
It was Jack Alexander. “Sir,” he said. “I’ve just taken an urgent call from a woman at the Roundstone Caravan Park in Horsham. She’s seen the images on the lunchtime news and reckons she might know this man—she thinks he has a mobile home there.”
86
Saturday 20 December
Logan’s captor had not been to see her in what felt like more than a day. It could have been longer. She had no sense of time.
What if, she thought with a deep, dark shudder of panic, she had been abandoned?
Left here to die of hunger or thirst?
She pulled hard with her arms, with every ounce of the feeble strength she now had and, suddenly, she felt the bonds on her right wrist slacken, just a fraction. She tried again, then again. It came a fraction looser. She tried again, oblivious to the pain as it cut into her flesh. Then again. Again.
She was sure it was getting looser!
Then she heard a sound. The roof of her prison was sliding back. She saw a haze of green light above her and she froze.
“Won’t be long now,” the voice growled at her.
The roof closed.
87
Saturday 20 December
Residents of Horsham had different theories about where the name had first originated. Some said it was from Horse Ham, meaning a place where horses were kept. Others claimed it was named after a Saxon warrior, called Horsa’s Ham, who had been granted land in the area.
Roy Grace knew this from his dad, who had been passionately interested in Sussex’s history. He liked the town, but with its modern urban sprawl in all directions, equally it frustrated him, because he always got lost there.
“Where the hell is this place?” he said.
“We should have taken the A24 like I suggested,” Glenn Branson replied.
Grace, trying to read the satnav app on his jigging phone, shook his head. “This thing should bloody know.”
There were three missed calls from Cleo on his phone. So far he’d only spent a few hours in their new home. He had no idea what time he would get back today or when he would be able to start unpacking any of his things.
Ten minutes later, a vast array of shiny caravans appeared on their right, each with a price tag in the front window, and a large sign that said, ROUNDSTONE CARAVANS, HOLIDAY HOMES, CALOR GAS.
During the drive Grace had started making the initial arrangements to move some extra resources toward their location, as he was confident this sounded like a good lead, and he hoped they would be needed sooner rather than later. He had asked them to meet at an RV point a short distance away.
They turned in through the gates and followed the signs to reception, a modern building attached to an attractive, large Edwardian house. They pulled up and climbed out. A sign on the office door read, WHEN CLOSED RING HOUSE BELL.
They walked up to the porch of the house and Grace rang the bell. A dog barked and after a few moments a short, well-preserved fair-haired woman in her mid-fifties appeared, dressed in a black roll-neck sweater, jeans and boots.
“Good afternoon,” she said with a friendly, if quizzical, smile.
Grace held up his warrant card. “Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. We had a phone call a short while ago from an Adrienne Macklin here in response to an appeal on the lunchtime news.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. “Adrienne who made the call on my behalf is off this afternoon—I’m the owner—Natalie Morris. I have all the information you need. Would you like to come in?”
She led them through into a large, cozy living room, with a log fire burning in the grate, and ushered them to a sofa, then sat down in an armchair opposite. “How can I help you? Would you like a drink? Cup of tea?”
Branson was about to say yes, but Grace, in a hurry, cut him short. “We’re fine, thank you, Mrs. Morris.” Then he pulled a photograph of Edward Crisp from his pocket and handed it to her. “Do you recognize this man?”
She studied the photograph for a few moments. “When I saw him on TV I was pretty sure that’s our Mr. Hunter, but now I am not so certain.” She looked again. “It’s not a very clear picture.”
Grace leaned forward, adrenaline surging. “Harrison Hunter?”
“Give me a couple of minutes,” Natalie Morris said.
She hurried out of the room, then reappeared with a large burgundy-covered ledger, and began leafing through it. “Mr. Harrison Hunter!” she said. “Unit R-73.”
“Unit R-73?” Grace queried.
“Yes, it’s quite a substantial mobile home. One of our permanent ones.”
“How long has he lived here?”
“Quite a while. I do hope I’m not wasting your time. The thing is,” she said nervously, “we don’t pry into our customers’ lives.”
“Of course not,” Glenn Branson said. “Why would you?”
“It wouldn’t be very nice for them, would it?” s
he said. “We always hope that we have respectable people here. We just let them come and go as they please.”
“So long as they pay their rent on time?” Grace said.
“Precisely.” The woman was starting to look increasingly ill at ease.
“How well do you know Hunter, Mrs. Morris?” Grace asked.
“To be honest, I don’t really know him at all. He pays on the nail, he is always pleasant. But he’s not really here much at all. We don’t ask questions. Some of our residents use their places for—you know—meeting their ladies. Others as an escape from city life. My attitude is so long as no one is any bother to the other residents, what they do is up to them.”
“Mr. Hunter’s not here at the moment?”
“I haven’t seen him,” she said. “There’s normally a car outside when he is.”
“What car?”
She thought for a moment. “From memory it’s a big dark gray thing.”
“Do you have a contact phone number for him?” Glenn Branson asked.
She looked again at the ledger. “I’m afraid there’s nothing here. But that’s not unusual.”
“Could you point out Mr. Hunter’s unit for me, please?” Grace asked, his excitement surging.
“Certainly.” She stood up and walked across to an aerial photograph of the site on the wall. “Unit R-73,” she said, indicating with her finger. “I could take you over, you could see the outside, but if he’s not in, I don’t have a key.”
“I don’t want to approach it obviously at this moment,” Grace said. “Do you have an old raincoat or anorak, a hat or a cap, and a wheelie bin I could borrow for a few minutes?”
She gave him a strange look. “Well, yes, I do.”
The light was failing and in less than an hour it would be pitch dark, Grace thought, as he pushed the empty bin across the wet grass, wearing an old tweed cap and an anorak several sizes too big for him, which the proprietor had found. He zigzagged his way past the caravans and mobile homes of different sizes, trying to look nonchalant, as he finally reached Unit R-73, and trundled his bin on past it.
The blinds were down, and there were three keyholes on the door, he noticed, which looked like overkill. There did not appear to be any lights on inside and he could hear no sound. However, just in case he was being watched, he continued past, slowly completed his circuit and returned to the office. Then he stopped before entering, called the Ops-1 Controller and asked if the helicopter was free. Sited at Redhill, it would be a little over five minutes’ flying time from here.
To his relief the Controller told him it was.
Grace asked him to get it airborne immediately, while there was still some daylight, and that he would e-mail over a JPEG of the aerial map of the site. He needed the helicopter to use its thermal-imaging camera to tell him whether anyone was in Unit R-73. He re-entered the office and asked Natalie Morris for permission to photograph the plan, which she gave him.
As Grace was doing that, Glenn Branson asked, “Do you have security issues here, Mrs. Morris?”
“No,” she said. “The whole estate is monitored by CCTV and we have someone on security around the clock. We have very little trouble. I can’t remember the last time we had a break-in at any of our units—it was when my husband was alive—over ten years ago, at least.” Then she hesitated, looking nervous, suddenly. “Surely you don’t suspect Mr. Hunter of being this Brighton Brander man, do you?” she asked.
“What makes you think we might?” Branson asked.
“Oh, you know, I like cop shows on the telly. Sometimes my imagination runs riot. But Adrienne and I saw the pictures on the news, and we both said, ‘That could be Mr. Hunter!’”
“And what sort of person is Harrison Hunter?” Grace interceded.
She smiled. “Well, not weird, exactly. No, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. More, just very private.”
“I’m going to request a search warrant, Mrs. Morris. It will take about an hour. I don’t want to inconvenience you, or cause you any problems with any of your residents. So we’ll be as discreet as possible.”
Natalie Morris raised her hands. “I’m always very happy to cooperate with the police.”
Grace thanked her.
“Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea, or coffee, or something stronger while you are waiting?”
“Coffee would be good,” Grace said.
Branson nodded. “Yes please.”
Moments after she left the room, Grace could hear the distant clatter of the approaching helicopter. His phone rang and the Ops-1 Controller told him it would be overhead in one minute.
Grace thanked him then said quietly to Branson, “I think we’re going to need to be prepared to move fast, in case we find something significant in there—and I just have a feeling we will. Once we’ve put the door in, if this Hunter comes back he’ll know we’re on to him. We can’t risk driving him underground. My sense is either we’re going to find something in this caravan that connects us to the killer, or it’s completely innocent. But I don’t think someone innocent would make their place quite so secure.”
“You’re thinking Dr. Crisp.”
“If we bring him in, I want it belt and braces. I want a fingerprint or DNA.” He pulled out his phone and called the Critical Incident Manager, Chief Inspector Jason Tingley. He explained the situation and asked if he could have a Local Support Team on standby in position near Edward Crisp’s address, to support the Surveillance Team.
Tingley agreed.
The Ops-I Controller called Grace back to say that the helicopter’s camera had not detected any life in Unit R-73.
Grace thanked him, then asked if NPAS 15 could be diverted to Brighton to do an immediate high-altitude photo survey of Dr. Edward Crisp’s home and the surrounding terrain, while there was still sufficient daylight.
He was assured the helicopter would be over Crisp’s house in twelve minutes, flying high enough not to alert anyone.
88
Saturday 20 December
“You’ve never told us—what exactly was your agenda in going to see the shrink in London, Dr. Harrison Hunter?” Marcus sneered.
“Was it your ego again, running rampant?” Felix quizzed. “Or was it because, as we’ve always known, you are just plain raving mad?”
“Come on, guys, give me some credit!”
“We’re all ears!” Marcus said. “Yes? Talk us through the credit?”
“It was to try to take the heat off us.”
“There was no heat on us,” Felix said. “Now there’s a fucking picture out there of you.”
“It doesn’t look that much like me.”
“Yeah, right,” Marcus said, sourly. “We all recognized you without much trouble.”
“That’s because you know me.”
“If I didn’t know better,” Marcus said, “I would say you had some kind of a death wish. That you’re bored. You think it’s time for game over. You’re having one final tilt at Mr. Plod. Am I right? You’ve decided it’s time to abandon us. Easy for you to exit. But what about us?”
“Give me one reason why I should give a toss about you?”
“Because we’re your life, all you have. Your wife walked out on you. Your children have gone with her. You’re just one of life’s losers, like you always were.”
“Tch, tch. You never read Sun Tzu’s Art of War, did you? You know something he said that might give you some insight into why I went to see Dr. Jacob Van Dam? Stand by the river bank for long enough, and you’ll see the bodies of all your enemies float by.”
“Just what the hell’s that meant to mean?” Marcus demanded.
“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. Really quite soon.”
“The suspense is killing me,” Felix said, then broke into giggles. “I’m so waiting for that day!”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“What’s not to get? We’ve been floating down your river for decades. We’ve all grown to like it. We even like you!�
��
“Yep, well, don’t like me too much. Because there’s another quote I’m favoring at the moment.”
“And that is?”
“Life’s a bitch, and then you die.”
89
Saturday 20 December
Norman Potting drove the unmarked Ford along the congested high street of the small, rural Surrey town. The pavements were crowded with people, dressed up against the biting cold, and in the falling darkness the shop windows flashed, twinkled and sparkled with Xmas decorations and messages. As he sat waiting for traffic lights to change he could hear a brass band belting out “Good King Wenceslas.”
A tear trickled down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Christmas, he thought. He and Bella had rented a cottage in Cornwall where they had been planning to spend their first Christmas together—taking her elderly mother with them. Now he had no plans. His sister had invited him to spend the holidays with her family in Devon, but although he liked her he wasn’t up for the jollity of a family gathering. His preference at the moment was to spend the time immersed in work.
Taking the winding road out of the far side of the town, he reached a picturesque humpback bridge over a river. Ordinarily, in happier times, he would have defaulted to the child inside him and accelerated hard, gleefully, and felt the car lift off over the brow. But he was in no mood for that any more—if he ever would be again, he pondered.
He reached a junction, then turned left and started driving up a long, steep hill, following the signs to The Cloisters, one of the nation’s most famous schools. He passed a row of terraced cottages, then smart, detached houses either side of the road. A cluster of large, modern, institutional buildings loomed up on his left. Toward the top of the hill he passed beneath a stone bridge, following the signs to the school, made a sharp right turn, followed by another, and drove through a Gothic-revival archway with leaded-light windows above it. He entered the school grounds, with more Gothic-looking buildings all around and a huge chapel in front of playing fields, over to the left. He saw two teenage boys in tweed jackets and gray flannel trousers walking along, one with the middle button of his jacket done up, and halted beside them, lowering his window.
