Dead Like You

60

Monday 12 January

There was an insolence about the way Kevin Spinella entered Roy Grace’s office, shortly before ten minutes to midday, pulled up a chair, uninvited, and sat down. Spinella always irked him and yet at the same time there were qualities about the young, ambitious reporter that Grace couldn’t help, privately, liking.

Spinella lounged nonchalantly back in his chair on the other side of Grace’s desk, hands in the pockets of his raincoat. Beneath it he wore a suit, with a slack, clumsily knotted tie. A slight, thin-faced man, Spinella was in his mid-twenties, with alert eyes and thin black hair gelled into tiny spikes. His sharp incisors, as always, were busily working on a piece of gum.

‘So, what do you have for me, Detective Superintendent?’

‘You’re the man in the know,’ Grace replied, testing him. ‘What do you have for me?’

The reporter cocked his head to one side. ‘I hear that the Shoe Man’s back.’

‘Tell me, Kevin, what’s your source?’

The reporter smiled and tapped the side of his nose.

‘I will find out. You know that, don’t you?’ Grace said, his tone serious.

‘I thought you asked me to come and see you because you want to do business.’

‘I do.’

‘So?’

Grace held his cool with difficulty and decided to let the subject of the leaks drop for the moment. Changing tack, he said, ‘I want your help. If I tell you something off the record, can I have your word you’ll keep it that way until I tell you otherwise? I need to trust you absolutely on this.’

‘Can’t you always?’

No, not always, actually, Grace recalled. Although, he had to admit, Spinella had been good as gold during this past year.

‘Usually,’ he conceded.

‘What’s in it for the Argus?’

‘Possibly a credit for helping us to catch the offender. I’d certainly give an interview on that.’

‘Just one offender, is there?’ Spinella asked pointedly.

Shit, Grace thought, wondering where the hell he had got that from. Who had speculated about that outside of the briefing meeting earlier this morning? Was it one of his team members? Just where had that come from? Anger rose inside him. But it was clear from Spinella’s expression he would get nothing from him. For the moment he had to park it.

‘At this stage we believe there is one offender responsible for all the attacks.’

Spinella’s shifty eyes said he did not believe him.

Grace ignored that and went on: ‘OK, here’s the deal.’ He hesitated for an instant, knowing he was taking a massive gamble. ‘I have two exclusives for you. The first I don’t want you to print until I tell you, the second I’d like you to print right away. I’m not giving either of these to the press conference.’

There was a brief silence as the two men stared at each other. For a moment Spinella stopped chewing.

‘Deal?’ Grace asked.

Spinella shrugged. ‘Deal.’

‘OK. The first, not for you to print, is that we think there could be another attack this week. It’s likely to be somewhere in the town centre, possibly in a car park.’

‘Hardly rocket science if there have been three in the past two weeks already,’ Spinella retorted sarcastically.

‘No, I agree with you.’

‘Not much of an exclusive. I could have predicted that off my own bat.’

‘It’ll make you look good if it does happen – you can write one of those A senior detective had forewarned the Argus this attack was likely kind of pieces that you’ve been good at inventing in the past.’

Spinella had the decency to blush. Then he shrugged. ‘Car park? So you think he’s mirroring the same sequence as before?’

‘The forensic psychologist does.’

‘Dr Proudfoot’s got a bit of a reputation as a tosser, hasn’t he?’

‘You said that, not me.’ Grace’s eyes twinkled.

‘So what are you doing to prevent the next attack?’

‘All we can, short of closing down the centre of Brighton to the public. We’re going to throw as much resourcing as we can behind it – but invisible. We want to catch him, not drive him away and lose him.’

‘How are you going to warn the public?’

‘I hope we can get the support of the press and media at the conference we’re about to have – and warn them in a general but not specific way.’

Spinella nodded, then pulled out his notebook. ‘Now tell me the one I can print.’

Grace smiled, then said, ‘The offender has a small dick.’

The reporter waited, but Grace said nothing more.

‘That’s it?’ Spinella asked.

‘That’s it.’

‘You’re joking?’

The Detective Superintendent shook his head.

‘That’s my exclusive? That the offender has a small dick?’

‘Hope I’m not touching a nerve,’ Grace replied.

1998

61

Tuesday 13 January

The old lady sat in the driver’s seat of the stolen van, at the start of the steep hill, with her seat belt on as tight as it would go. Her hands rested on the steering wheel, with the engine idling, but the lights switched off.

He stood beside her, holding the driver’s door open, nervous as hell. It was a black night, the sky densely lagged with clouds. He could have used some moonlight, but there was nothing to be done about that.

His eyes sca

Time to rock and roll!

He reached across her lap, released the handbrake, then jumped clear as the van immediately rolled forward, picking up speed rapidly, the driver’s door swinging shut with a dull clang. The van veered worryingly into the oncoming lane, and stayed there, as it continued to pick up speed.

It was just as well no vehicle was coming up the hill towards the van, because the old lady would have been incapable of taking any avoiding action, or reacting in any way at all, on account of the fact that she had been dead for ten days.

He jumped on his bike and, with the boost of additional weight from his backpack, pedalled, then freewheeled down the hill after her, rapidly picking up speed.

Ahead of him he saw the silhouette of the van, which he had stolen from a construction site, veering towards the offside verge and, for one heart-in-his-mouth moment, he was sure it was going to crash into the thick gorse hedge, which might have stopped it. But then, miraculously, it veered briefly left, made a slight correction and careered on down the hill on a dead straight path, as if she really was steering it. As if she was having the ride of her life. Or rather, he thought, of her death!

‘Go, baby, go! Go for it, Molly!’ he urged. ‘Enjoy!’

The van, which had the name Bryan Barker Builders emblazoned all over it, was continuing to pick up speed. Going so fast now he was feeling dangerously out of control, he touched the brakes of the mountain bike and slowed a little, letting the van pull away. It was hard to gauge distances. The hedgerows flashed by. Something flapped close to his face. What the fuck was it? A bat? An owl?

The cold, damp wind was streaming into his eyes, making them water, half-blinding him.

He braked harder. They were coming towards the bottom, approaching the left-hander. The van went straight on. He heard the crunching, tearing, screeching of barbed wire against paintwork as it ploughed through the hedge and the farmer’s fence. He brought the bike to a skidding halt, his trainers bouncing along on the tarmac for several yards, narrowly avoiding going head over heels.