Dead Man’s Footsteps

Gingerly, inch by careful inch, he pulled his radio out, terrified of dropping it, and called for assistance. He was given reassurance that it was already on its way, that a rescue helicopter was being crewed up.

Jesus. That will take an age.

‘Please don’t let me die!’ Pewe sobbed.

He looked up again, carefully studying the webbing as best he could. It appeared well tangled around his colleague’s feet. The wind held the buckled passenger door open. Then he looked at the way the car was rocking. It was too much. The branches were straining, cracking, breaking. It was a terrible sound. How much longer would they hold? When they gave, the car would toboggan on its roof down the slope, which was as steep as a ski-jump ramp, and straight over the sheer drop.

Pewe was making it worse by bending his body every few moments, trying to reach upwards, but he had no chance.

‘Cassian, stop wriggling,’ he yelled, his voice nearly hoarse. ‘Try to keep still. I need help to lift you. I daren’t do it myself. I don’t want to risk dislodging the car.’

‘Please don’t let me die, Roy!’ Pewe cried, squirming like a hooked fish.

Another fierce gust blew. Grace clung to the branches, his jacket filling with wind, pulling like a sail, making it even harder for him. For several moments, until the gust eased, he didn’t dare move a muscle.

‘You won’t let me die, will you, Roy?’ Pewe pleaded.

‘You know what, Cassian?’ Grace shouted back. ‘I’m actually more concerned about my bloody car.’

120

Grace sipped some coffee. It was 8.30 on Monday morning and they had just begun the fifteenth briefing of Operation Dingo. He had a sticking plaster on his forehead, covering a gash which had required five stitches, blister pads on the palms of both hands, and there wasn’t a bone in his body that wasn’t hurting.

‘Someone said you’re going to be tackling Everest next, Roy,’ quipped one of the DCs present.

‘Yes, and Detective Superintendent Pewe’s applying for a job as a circus high-wire act,’ Roy replied, unable to keep the smirk off his face.

But deep down, he was still very badly shaken. And in truth there wasn’t a lot to smile about. Fine, they had Chad Skeggs banged up in the custody block. Abby Dawson and her mother were safe, and by a miracle no one had been seriously injured on Friday. But that was all a sideshow. They were investigating the murder of two women and their prime suspect could be anywhere. Even if he was still in Australia, he could be using yet another completely different identity by now, and, as he had already demonstrated, new identities did not seem to be a problem for Ro

There was just one ray of sunshine.

‘We’ve had something of a result in Melbourne,’ he continued. ‘I spoke to Norman earlier this morning. They’ve interviewed a woman today who claims to have been a close friend of Maggie Nelson, the woman we believe to be Lorraine Wilson.’

‘How certain are we that Ro

‘Melbourne police have dug up a ton of stuff from the drivers’

licensing offices, the tax office and the immigration services. It all seems to fit together. I’m getting a report faxed over, probably tonight.’

Bella made a note, then plucked a Malteser from the box in front of her.

Looking at his notes, Grace went on, ‘This woman’s name is Maxine Porter. Her ex-husband’s a mobster, currently on trial on a whole raft of tax-evasion and money-laundering charges, and looking at a long sentence. She got dumpedby him for ayounger woman just over a year ago, about three months before he was arrested, so she was happy doing the woman scorned bit, and talking. According to her, David Nelson appeared on the scene round about Christmas 2001. It was Chad Skeggs who introduced him to that particular pleasant circle of friends, which seemed to include the whole of the Melbourne A-list crime fraternity. And Nelson apparently carved out a niche for himself dealing stamps with them.’

‘How sweet is that?’ Gle

Everyone gri

‘I don’t think so,’ Grace said. ‘There’ve been thirty-seven gangland shootings in Melbourne in the past decade. It has a pretty dark underbelly, like a lot of places.’

Like Brighton and Hove actually, he thought.

‘Anyhow,’ he continued, ‘Lorraine – sorry, I mean Maggie Nelson – confided in her new best friend that her husband was having an affair and she didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t happy in Australia, but said she and her husband had burned their bridges in the UK and couldn’t go back. I think it’s significant that she said it was both of them, not just one or the other of them.’

‘When was this, Roy?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood asked.

‘Some time between June 2004 and April 2005. The two women talked a lot, apparently. Both of them with husbands having affairs, they had plenty in common.’

He drank some more coffee and looked down at his notes again. ‘Then, in June 2005, Maggie Nelson vanished. She didn’t turn up for a lunch date with Maxine Porter, and when Maxine phoned, David Nelson told her his wife had left him. Packed and gone back to England.’

‘There seems to be a pattern emerging, doesn’t there?’ Lizzie Mantle said. ‘He tells his friends in England that his first wife, Joa

‘This one didn’t apparently,’ Grace said.

‘So why didn’t she go to the police?’ Bella asked. ‘She must have been suspicious, surely?’

‘Because in her world people don’t go to the police,’ Lizzie Mantle said.

‘Exactly,’ Grace confirmed with a wry smile at the DI. ‘And the criminal fraternity over there is even more male-dominated than it is here. They’re interviewing her again tomorrow, when she’s going to give a list of all the Nelsons’ friends and acquaintances out there.’

‘That’s great,’ Bella said, taking another Malteser. ‘But if he’s legged it abroad-’

‘I know,’ Grace said. ‘But we might find out where his favourite haunts abroad are, or if he had any hankering for some particular su

‘I’ve got some thoughts on that,’ Gle

‘OK. Tell us.’

‘We interviewed Skeggs quite extensively on Friday and on Saturday, and we took a statement from Abby Dawson at her mother’s flat in Eastbourne yesterday morning. We also returned her stamps to her, which we recovered from Skeggs’s vehicle – I took the precaution of copying them first, so we have a record. She also signed the paperwork agreeing to produce the stamps as an exhibit, if necessary, and not dispose of them.’

‘Good thinking,’ DI Mantle said.

‘Thank you. Now, here’s the thing. Bella and me don’t feel we’re getting the truth from Abby Dawson. We’re getting what she wants us to hear. I’m not happy about her story of where she got the stamps. She’s maintaining she inherited them from an aunt in

Sydney by the name of – ’ he flipped back through his notes, then found the page – ‘A