Dead Like You

‘Fuck you!’

He started the van, jerked forward, turned right and headed west along the seafront towards Hove. He was breathing in short, sharp gulps. Disaster. This was a disaster. Had to get away from here as quickly as he could. Had to get the van off the road.

The traffic lights ahead were turning red. The drizzle had transformed his windscreen to frosted glass. For an instant he debated whether to run the lights, but a long, articulated lorry had already started moving across. He halted, nervously pounding the steering wheel with the palms of his hand, then flicked on the wipers to clear the screen.

The lorry was taking forever to move across. It was towing a bloody trailer!

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something. Someone to his right was waving at him. He turned his head and his blood froze.

It was a police car.

He was boxed in. That damned lorry towing the trailer belonged to a circus or something and was moving at the speed of a snail. Another great big artic was right behind him.

Should he get out and run?

The officer in the passenger seat continued waving at him, and pointing, with a smile. The officer pointed at his own shoulder, then at him, then back at his own shoulder again.

He frowned. What the hell was his game?

Then he realized.

The officer was telling him to put on his seat belt!

He waved back and pulled it on quickly. Clunk-click.

The officer gave him a thumbs-up. He returned it. All smiles.

Finally, the lorry was gone and the lights turned green. He drove on steadily, keeping strictly to the limit, until, to his relief, the police car turned off into a side street. Then he upped his speed, as fast as he dared.

One mile to go. One mile and he would be safe.

But that bitch would not be.

83

Thursday 15 January

Gle

But this Thursday afternoon, as the Detective Sergeant bullied the unmarked silver Ford Focus through the Brighton rush-hour traffic, Grace was silent for a different reason. He was immersed in thought. He didn’t even react as he saw the old lady step out from behind the bus and hastily jump back as they drove past well over the speed limit.

‘It’s OK, old-timer, I saw her!’ Gle

Grace did not reply. Norman Potting’s suspect had been released at midday, and now this afternoon, in exactly the place the profiler, Dr Julius Proudfoot, had predicted, an attempted attack had taken place.

Of course, it might not be co

Gle

Probably not a good idea to be driven by someone whose marriage was on the rocks and didn’t think he had anything to live for any more, Grace thought suddenly. But fortunately they were approaching their destination. The odds on stepping out of the car intact, rather than being cut out of it by a fire engine rescue crew, were improving.

Moments later they turned up the road beside the Grand Hotel and stopped as they reached what looked like a full-scale siege. There were too many police cars and vans clustered around the entrance to the car park behind it to count, all with their blue-light spi

Grace was out of the car almost before the wheels had stopped. A cluster of uniformed officers, some in high-visibility jackets and some in stab vests stood around, in front of a blue-and-white chequered crime scene tape, along with several onlookers.

The only person who seemed to be missing was reporter Kevin Spinella from the Argus.

One of the officers, the Duty Inspector, Roy Apps, was waiting for him.

‘Second floor, chief. I’ll take you up there.’

With Gle

‘We’re lucky,’ he said. ‘A particularly bright young PC, Alec Davies, who was in the car park’s CCTV room with the attendant, thought there might be more to this and got it all sealed off before we arrived.’

‘Have you found anything?’

‘Yes. Something that may be interesting. I’ll show you.’

‘What about the van?’

‘The CCTV room at Brighton nick picked it up travelling west along Kingsway towards Hove. The last sighting was of it turning right up Queen Victoria Avenue. We dispatched all available patrols and a Road Policing Unit car to try to intercept, but so far no contact.’

‘We have the index?’

‘Yes. It’s registered to a decorator who lives in Moulsecoomb.

I’ve got a unit watching his house. I’ve also got RPU cars covering all exits from the city in the direction he was travelling, and we’ve got Hotel 900 up.’

Hotel 900 was the police helicopter.

They reached the second level, which was sealed off by a second crime scene tape. A tall, young uniformed constable stood in front of it with a clipboard.

‘This is the lad,’ Roy Apps said.

‘PC Davies?’ Grace said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good work.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Can you show me the vehicle?’

The PC looked hesitant. ‘SOCO are on their way here, sir.’

‘This is Detective Superintendent Grace. He’s the SIO on Operation Swordfish,’ Apps reassured him.

‘Ah. OK, right. Sorry, sir. This way.’

They ducked under the tape and Grace followed him across to a row of empty parking bays, at the end of which was a shiny black Volkswagen Touareg with its rear door open.

PC Davies put out a cautionary hand as they approached, then pointed at an object on the ground, just beneath the doorsill. It looked like a wad of cotton wool. Pulling out his torch, the constable directed the beam on to it.

‘What is it?’ Grace asked.

‘It’s got a strange smell, sir,’ the Constable said. ‘Being so close to the scene of the attack, I thought it might have some relevance, so I didn’t touch it, in case it’s got fingerprints or DNA on it.’

Grace looked at the serious face of the young man and smiled. ‘You’ve got the makings of a good detective, son.’

‘That’s what I’d like to do, sir, after my two years in uniform.’

‘Don’t wait until then. If you’ve done twelve months, I might be able to fast-track you into CID.’

The PC’s eyes lit up. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much!’

Roy Grace knelt down and put his nose close to the wad. It gave off a smell that was both sweet and astringent at the same time. And almost instantly he became very slightly dizzy. He stood up and felt a little unsteady for some seconds. He was pretty sure knew that smell, from a course in toxicology he had attended some years back.

The reports from Nicola Taylor and Roxy Pearce were remarkably similar. They tallied with statements from some of the victims of the Shoe Man in 1997. It was the same smell they had described when something had been pressed against each of their faces.

Chloroform.