Dead Man's Grip

by Peter James

  ‘You asked me to let you know as soon as we found the lorry, boss.’

  ‘You’ve found it? You’re still at work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks for staying so late. So, tell me?’

  ‘Just had a call from Thames Valley Road Policing Unit. It’s in a parking area at Newport Pagnell Services on the M1.’

  ‘How did they find it?’ Grace was doing his best to think clearly through his tiredness.

  ‘It was logged by an ANPR camera as it entered Bucks on the M1 on Tuesday night, boss. There were no further logs, so we asked the local police to check likely pull-ins.’

  ‘Good stuff. What CCTV do they have at the service station?’

  ‘They’ve got cameras on the private vehicle and truckers’ entrances.’

  ‘OK, we need those, to see if Ferguson went inside. How long are you planning on staying up?’

  ‘As long as you need me.’

  ‘Ask them for copies of the videos from the time the ANPR clocked him to now and get them down to us as quickly as possible. If it helps them, we can send someone up there.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Grace stroked the dog again. He knew he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he needed to at this moment.

  ‘Sorry, one other important thing – Ferguson’s lorry. I want it protected as a crime scene. Get on to Thames Valley Police to secure it. They need to cordon off a good twenty-foot radius around it. If the driver was attacked, it’s likely to have happened close to the vehicle. We need a search team on to it at first light. What’s the weather up there at the moment?’

  ‘Dry, light wind – it’s been the same since Tuesday night. Forecast the same for the morning.’

  That was a relief to Grace. Rain could wash away forensic evidence very rapidly.

  ‘I’ll sort out the search team, Duncan. If you deal with the CCTV, please. Then go home and get some sleep. You’ve done well.’

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  Grace let Humphrey out on to the patio and watched him pee. Then he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Upstairs he heard the sound of the loo flushing and wondered, for a moment, if Cleo was going to come down and join him. But instead he heard the bedroom door slam – a little too loudly.

  Sandy used to slam the bedroom door when she was angry about a late-night phone call that had disturbed her. Cleo was a lot more tolerant, but he could sense her pregnancy getting to her. It was getting to both of them. Most of the time it was a shared joy, or a shared anxiety, but just occasionally it seemed like a growing wedge between them and she had been in a really grumpy mood last night.

  He made a phone call, apologetically waking Crime Scene Manager Tracy Stocker and bringing her up to speed. He asked her to send a SOCO team up to Newport Pagnell – about a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Brighton – to be there ready to start at dawn. At the same time, in light of the latest development, he discussed the joint strategy she would need with the POLSA – the Police Search Advisor – and search team.

  Then he spooned instant coffee into a mug, poured boiling water on to it, stirred it and carried it out into the living room. He felt chilly, but he could not be bothered to put on any more clothes.

  He sat down on the sofa with his laptop, bleary-eyed, stirring the coffee again and staring at the laptop as it powered up. Humphrey found a chew and started a life or death tussle with it on the floor. Grace smiled at him, envying him his uncomplicated life. Maybe if he got the chance to choose, when he died he’d come back as a dog. So long as he got to pick his owners.

  He Googled Newport Pagnell Services. Moments later he had a full listing of what was there, but that did not help him. He opened Google Earth and again he entered Newport Pagnell Services.

  When the globe appeared, he zoomed in. Within moments he saw a close-up of the M1 motorway and the surrounding area. He stared at it, sipping his hot coffee and thinking hard.

  Ferguson must have continued on down to Sussex in another vehicle. His assailant’s? So how had he met his assailant?

  Was it someone he knew and had arranged to rendezvous with in the car park? Possible, he thought. But to his mind, it was more probable that the assailant had been following him, looking for a suitable opportunity. And if this assumption was right, it meant that the assailant could not have been more than a few vehicles behind Ferguson’s lorry.

  He put his coffee down and started suddenly, pacing around the room. Humphrey jumped up at him again, wanting to play.

  ‘Down!’ he hissed, and then he dialled MIR-1, relieved when DS Crocker answered almost immediately. ‘Sorry, another task for you, Duncan. We need the indexes of the vehicles either side of Ferguson’s lorry on the motorway immediately before Newport Pagnell Services,’ he said. ‘Get everything up to five vehicles in front and twenty back. I want to know every one of the vehicles that went into the services at the same time as him and where they went when they left afterwards. It’s very likely that Ferguson was in one of those. Willingly or otherwise. I think it is highly likely to be a rental car, so we’re looking, primarily, for late-model small to medium saloons.’

  ‘I’ll get what I can, but it may take me a while to check out every vehicle. Is the morning briefing meeting soon enough?’

  No, it wasn’t soon enough, Grace thought. But he needed to be realistic and Crocker sounded exhausted.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. Do what you can, then get some sleep.’

  Deciding to follow his own advice, he climbed back upstairs, followed by Humphrey, and went back to bed, trying not to disturb Cleo. At midday he was holding a press conference to announce that the police were treating the death of Stuart Ferguson as murder now. But although he had discussed it at length with ACC Rigg and the whole of the Sussex Police media team, he had not decided on the way he wanted to slant the conference. He wanted to make it clear that the police knew the two murders were linked, and the direction in which they were looking, but above all he needed witnesses to come forward. However, if he played up the Mafia link and the hit-man hypothesis, that might, he worried, actually do more harm than good, by scaring people into silence.

  The only small positive was that Spinella seemed to have been as duped as the rest of the press into believing, to date, that Ferguson’s death was an industrial accident. That gave him some small satisfaction.

  Finally, he fell into a troubled sleep, to be woken an hour later by Cleo going to the loo.

  83

  Carly sat in the back of the limousine as they drove through the gates of the Revere home. A few yards on she could see Detective Investigator Lanigan standing by his car and told her driver to stop.

  ‘So?’ he asked with an inquisitive but sympathetic stare.

  ‘You were right,’ she said, and gave a helpless shrug. She was still in shock from the way Lou Revere had spoken to her.

  ‘It didn’t go like you planned it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s with Mrs Revere driving off like that? She was pissed at you?’

  Carly fumbled in her handbag, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, inhaling deeply.

  ‘She was drunk. She wasn’t in a rational state of mind. I have to try again,’ she said. ‘Maybe I could come back in the morning when she’s sobered up.’

  He dragged on his cigar and blew the smoke out pensively. ‘Lady, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.’ He smiled. ‘You look like you could use a drink.’

  Carly nodded. Then she said, ‘What’s your advice? What do you think I should do – you know – how can I deal with these people? There must some way – there always is.’

  ‘Let’s get you to your hotel. We’ll have a drink and you can talk me through what happened in there. Before we leave, is there any point in me trying to speak to Mr Revere?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Not tonight. No.’

  ‘OK. Your driver knows where to go?’

  ‘The Sheraton JFK Airport Hotel.’

  ‘I’ll f
ollow you. I’ll be right behind.’

  She took two more rapid drags on her cigarette, crushed it, then got back into the limousine and gave the driver her instructions.

  She sat perched on the edge of her seat, replaying the events of the past ten minutes in her mind, as they drove away down the lane, then made a left turn, heading away from the town. Inside she was jangling, with nerves and tiredness. The bad dream just seemed to keep getting worse.

  She closed her eyes and prayed, a short silent prayer. She asked the God she had not spoken to in years to give her some strength and a clear mind. Then she rummaged in her bag for her handkerchief and dabbed away the tears that were streaming down her cheeks.

  Darkness slid by on either side of the car. For several minutes it did not occur to her that it was strange that no headlights were coming in the opposite direction. She looked at her watch: 9.25 p.m. New York time, 2.25 a.m. in England. Too late to call Detective Sergeant Branson and give him an update. She would do that in the morning. Hopefully after she had made a revised plan with Detective Investigator Lanigan later this evening.

  She yawned. Ahead, through the windscreen, she saw red flashing lights and the bright tail lights of traffic braking and backing up. Moments later the limousine slowed, braking increasingly sharply, and they came to a halt behind a line of stationary vehicles.

  The driver ended yet another of the constant calls he was on and turned his head towards her. ‘Looks like an accident up ahead.’

  She nodded silently. Then she heard a rap on her window and saw Detective Investigator Lanigan standing there. She pressed the button and lowered the window.

  ‘You want to come with me? Sounds like Mrs Revere’s involved in a wreck up ahead. They’ve closed the road.’

  ‘An accident? Fernanda Revere?’

  ‘Yup,’ he said grimly, and opened the door for her.

  The words flooded her with dread. She climbed out shakily and the night air suddenly seemed a lot chillier than ten minutes ago. She pulled her mackintosh tightly around her as she followed the detective past a line of cars towards a stationary police car that was angled across the road, its roof spinners hurling shards of red light in every direction. A row of traffic cones was spread across the road behind it.

  An accident. The woman would be blaming her. Everyone would be blaming her.

  A cacophony of sirens was closing in on them. Just beyond the patrol car now, she could see the mangled wreckage of a car partially embedded in the front of a halted white truck. Carly stopped. This wasn’t just a minor bump, this was major. Massive. Horrific. She turned away, towards Lanigan.

  ‘Is she OK?’ Carly asked. ‘Have you heard if she’s OK? Is she injured?’

  The sirens got louder.

  He strode on, through the cones, saying nothing. Carly hurried after him, feeling like a thousand different knots were being tightened inside her all at the same time. She tried to look away from the accident, but at the same time she was mesmerized by it, kept looking, looking, staring.

  A cop was standing in their way, blocking their path. A young plump man wearing glasses and a cap that was too big for him. He looked about eighteen years old and waiting to grow into his uniform.

  ‘Stay back, please, folks.’

  Lanigan held up his police shield.

  ‘Ah, right. OK. OK, sir.’ Then he pointed questioningly at Carly.

  ‘She’s with me,’ the Detective Investigator said.

  He waved them past, then turned in confusion as an ambulance and fire tender screamed to a halt.

  Over to her right, Carly saw a man in a boiler suit walking around unsteadily, as if he were disoriented. He was in shock, she realized. Ahead of her, Lanigan had pulled out a torch and switched it on. In the beam she saw what might have been a grim tableau in a museum of modern art.

  The front wheels of the truck had been pushed back several feet by the impact, so that they were right underneath the cab. The side of the gold Porsche facing them had been so badly buckled that the front and rear of the car were almost at right angles to each other. The destroyed vehicle resembled a crudely sculpted artistic impression of a snow plough, as if it was actually part of the front of the truck.

  Carly smelled the stench of vomit, then heard a retching sound. There was a smell of petrol, too, and of oil, but another deeply unpleasant, coppery smell mixed in.

  ‘Jesus!’ Lanigan exclaimed. ‘Oh shit!’

  He stepped back and put out an arm to prevent Carly from seeing the same sight. But he was too late.

  In the torch beam Carly saw a pair of legs, covered from the knees down by turquoise tracksuit bottoms, but the top part was naked. A mess of crimson, black, dark red and bright red was splayed out around the crotch. Out of the middle of it rose, for about eighteen inches, what looked like a giant white fish bone.

  Part of the woman’s spine, she realized, clutching the detective’s arm involuntarily, her stomach rising up into her throat. Fernanda Revere had been cut in two.

  Carly turned away, quaking in horror and shock. She staggered a few yards, then fell to her knees and threw up, her eyes blinded by tears.

  84

  A large whiskey at the hotel bar, followed by two glasses of Pinot Noir, helped calm Carly down a little, but she was still in shock. Detective Investigator Lanigan drank a small beer. He looked fine – as if he saw stuff like that accident all the time and was immune to it. Yet he seemed such a caring man. She wondered how anyone could ever get used to something as horrific as that.

  Despite the woman’s rudeness to her, she felt a desperate sadness for Fernanda Revere. Lanigan told her she didn’t need to feel any pity, because this was a woman with blood on her hands, and from a brutal family living high off the spoils of violence. But Carly could not help it. Whatever her background had been, Fernanda Revere was still a human being. A mother capable of intense love for her son. No one deserved to end up the way she had.

  And Carly had caused it.

  The Detective Investigator told her she should not think that way. Fernanda Revere had no business getting into a vehicle in the state she was in. She didn’t have to drive away, that was her choice. She could, and should, have simply told Carly to leave. Driving away – and doing so drunk – was not a rational act.

  But Carly still blamed herself. She could not help thinking, over and over, that she had caused it. That if she had not gone to the house, Fernanda Revere would still be alive. Part of her wanted to drive straight back out to the Hamptons and try to apologize to Lou Revere. Pat Lanigan nixed that one fast and hard.

  They stood outside for a long time while he smoked another cigar and she smoked her way through half a pack of cigarettes. The question neither of them could answer was What happens next?

  She felt utterly bewildered. How was Fernanda Revere’s husband going to react? The other members of the woman’s family? When she had boarded the plane to come here, she knew she had a difficult task ahead of her. But she had never, remotely, thought of a consequence like this. She lit another cigarette with a trembling hand.

  ‘I think now, Carly, you’re going to have to think pretty seriously and quickly about entering a witness protection scheme,’ Pat Lanigan said. ‘I’m going to see that you have someone guarding you all the time you’re here, but people like the Reveres have long memories and a long reach.’

  ‘Do you really think I’d ever be truly safe in a witness protection scheme?’

  ‘You can never say one hundred per cent, but it would give you your best chance.’

  ‘You know what it means? To move to another part of the country, just you and your child, and never see any of your family or friends again, ever. How would you like to do that?’

  He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t like it too much. But if I figured I didn’t have any option, then I guess it would be better than the alternative.’

  ‘What – what alternative?’

  He gave Carly a hard stare. ‘Exactly.’

  85
r />   The air-conditioning was too cold and too loud, but nothing Carly did to the controls in her hotel bedroom seemed to make any difference. She couldn’t find any extra bedding either, so had ended up almost fully clothed, under the sheets, tossing and turning, a tsunami of dark thoughts crashing through her mind.

  Shortly after 6 a.m. and wide awake, she slipped out of bed, walked across to the window and opened the blinds. Light flooded in from a cloudless dark blue sky. She watched a jet plane climb into it, then dropped her gaze on to a sprawling mess of industrial buildings and a busy road, thirty floors below.

  Her head was pounding. She felt queasy and very afraid. God, how she desperately wished Kes was here now, more than ever. Just to talk this through with him. He was bigger than any shit the world could throw at him. Except that damned white stuff that had encased and suffocated him.

  Shit happens, he was fond of saying. He was right. His death was shit. Her accident was shit. Fernanda Revere’s death was shit. Everything was shit.

  But most of all, the idea of walking away from her life and going into hiding, forever, was total and utter shit. It wasn’t going to happen. There had to be a better solution.

  Had to be.

  Suddenly her mobile phone rang. She hurried across and picked it off her bedside table, staring at the display. It simply said, International.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered.

  ‘Hi, Carly?’ It was Justin Ellis and his voice was sounding strange.

  ‘Yes. You all right?’ Carly replied, conscious her voice was strained. She needed paracetamol and a cup of tea, badly.

  ‘Well – not really,’ Justin replied. ‘I think there’s been some mix-up over Tyler.’

  ‘How do you mean? His dentist appointment? Have I screwed up?’ She looked at the clock radio, doing a mental calculation. She always got the time differences wrong. England was five hours ahead. Coming up to 11.15 a.m. there. Tyler’s appointment was for 11.30, wasn’t it?