Dead Like You

Rap, rap, rap!

He climbed up the wooden steps, into the sun lounge at the top. It had glass patio doors and a big brown sofa, and windows all around with views out on the grey afternoon across the mudflats. It was low tide.

A man in his fifties, balding, with a comb-over, wearing a shabby tweed jacket, grey fla

‘Go away!’ Yac shouted. ‘I’m sleeping!’

Then he turned and started walking back down the stairs. As he did so he heard the rap, rap, rap again. It was starting to a

The sound of splintering glass stopped him in his tracks just as he stepped on to the saloon floor. Anger surged inside him. That idiot. That stupid idiot had knocked too hard! Well, he would go and teach him a lesson!

But as he turned, he heard a cacophony of leather and rubber-soled footsteps.

A voice shouted out, ‘POLICE! DON’T MOVE! POLICE!’

The man with the comb-over was clattering down the steps, followed by several police officers in their yellow vests. The man was still holding up the wallet. Inside it was a badge of some kind and writing.

‘John Kerridge?’ the man asked him.

‘I’m Yac,’ he replied. ‘My name is Yac. I’m a taxi driver.’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Potting, Sussex CID.’ The man was now holding up a sheet of paper. ‘I have a warrant to search these premises.’

You’ll have to speak to the owners. I’m just looking after it for them. I have to feed the cat. I’m late doing that, because I slept in today.’

‘I’d like to have a few words with you, Yac. Perhaps we can sit down somewhere?’

‘Actually I have to go back to bed now, because I need my sleep. It’s quite important for my night shift, you see.’ Yac looked around at the police officers standing in the saloon beside him and behind him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to speak to the owners before I allow you on this boat. You will have to wait outside. It might be difficult getting hold of them because they are in Goa.’

‘Yac,’ Norman Potting said, ‘there’s an easy way to do this and a hard way. Either you cooperate and help us, or I arrest you. Simple as that.’

Yac cocked his head. ‘Simple as what?’

Potting looked at him dubiously, wondering if all the man’s lights were fully switched on. ‘The choice is yours. Do you want to spend tonight sleeping in your bed, or in a cell at our custody unit?’

‘I have to work tonight,’ he said. ‘The man who owns the taxi will be very angry if I don’t.’

‘OK, sunshine, then you’d better cooperate.’

Yac looked at him. ‘I don’t think the sun is always shining.’

Potting frowned, ignoring the comment. ‘Bit of a fisherman, are you?’

‘I’m a taxi driver.’

Potting jerked a thumb up at the deck. ‘You’ve got fishing lines out.’

Yac nodded.

‘What do you catch here? Mostly crabs?’

‘Plaice,’ Yac replied. ‘Flounder. Sometimes Dover soles.’

‘Good fishing, is it? I’m a bit of a fisherman myself. Never fished up this far.’

‘You broke my patio doors. You’d better fix those. They will be very angry with you. I’m not allowed to break anything.’

‘To tell you the truth, Yashmak, I don’t give a toss about your patio doors. I don’t actually give much of a toss about you either, and I don’t like your taste in underpants, but don’t let’s get personal. Either you’re going to cooperate or I’m going to arrest you, then take this floating skip apart, plank by plank.’

‘If you do that it will sink,’ Yac said. ‘You need some of the planks. Unless you’re a good swimmer.’

‘A comedian, are you?’ Potting said.

‘No, I’m a taxi driver. I do night shifts.’

Potting held his temper with some difficulty. ‘I’m looking for something on this boat, Yashmak. Anything you’ve got here you’d like to tell me about – and show me?’

‘I have my high-flush toilet chains, but they’re private. You can’t see those – except the ones I have in my berth. I can show you those.’ Yac perked up suddenly. ‘There’s a really good high-flush toilet near Worthing Pier – I could take you over there and show you them if you like?’

‘I’ll flush you down your own sodding toilet if you don’t shut it,’ Potting said.

Yac stared back at him, then gri

‘Not by the time I finished with you, it wouldn’t be.’

‘I – I’ll bet you!’

‘And I’ll bet you, sunshine. I’ll bet you we find something here, all right? So why don’t you save us all lot of time and show us where the ladies’ shoes are?’

He saw the flicker in the strange man’s face and instantly he knew he had hit the mark.

‘I don’t have any shoes. Not ladies’ shoes.’

‘Are you sure?’

Yac eyeballed him for a moment, then looked down. ‘I don’t have any ladies’ shoes.’

‘That’s good to hear, Yashmak. I’ll get my team to verify that and then we’ll be off.’

‘Yes,’ Yac said. ‘But they can’t touch my toilet chains.’

‘I’ll let them know that.’

Yac nodded, perspiration ru

‘Toilet chains?’ Norman Potting said.

Yac nodded.

The Detective Sergeant stared at him for some moments. ‘Tell you what, Yashmak, how about I flush you down the sodding toilet now?’

1998

74

Friday 16 January

Roy Grace hated coming to this place. He got the heebie-jeebies every time he drove in through the wrought-iron gates. The gold lettering made them seem like the entrance to some grand house, until you took a closer look at the wording: BRIGHTON AND HOVE MORTUARY.

Not even the Rod Stewart cassette playing on his car’s stereo, which he’d put on to try to cheer himself up, was having any effect on his gloomy mood. There was a line of cars occupying all the spaces close to the entrance, so he had to drive to the far end and park beside the exit doors to the covered receiving bay. As if to make it even worse, the rain started coming down harder – solid, pelting stair-rods. He switched the engine off and ‘Maggie May’ died with it. The wipers scratched to a halt across the screen. Then he touched the door handle and hesitated.

He was really not looking forward to this. His stomach felt as though it had curdled.

Because of the heat of the burning van in the field and the difficulty of getting any fire hoses down to it, it had been midday yesterday before the vehicle had cooled enough to allow an inspection, and for it to be identified as stolen. The stench of scorched grass, burnt rubber, paint, fuel, plastic and seared human flesh had made him retch several times. Some smells you never ever got used to, no matter how often you’d experienced them before. And some sights too. The van’s unfortunate occupant had not been a pretty one.

Nor had Sandy’s expression been when he’d arrived home, at 4 a.m. on Wednesday, to get his head down for a few hours before returning to the scene.

She had said nothing – she was in one of her silent moods. It was what she always did when she was really angry, just went silent on him, sending him to Coventry, shutting him out, sometimes for days. Not even the massive bunch of flowers he’d bought her had thawed her.

He had not been able to sleep, but it wasn’t because of Sandy. She’d get over it eventually, she always did, and then it would be forgotten. All night he’d just lain in bed thinking one thought, over and over. Was the body in the van the missing Rachael Ryan?