You Are Dead (20 page)

Grace and Cale climbed out of the car but stayed back as the protocols required until the property was declared safe by the LST's Inspector, Anthony Martin.

Six of the eight armored officers grouped outside the front door, waiting for the command, while the other two followed the dog handlers around to the rear of the house.

The inspector gave the signal. All six LST officers yelled in unison, in classic shock and awe procedure, “POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!”

The first team member fired up the ram, pushing the two sides of the doorframe wide apart. The second pounded the door with the battering ram, and it splintered open almost instantly. All of them barged through, yelling at the tops of their voices, “POLICE! DON'T MOVE! POLICE! POLICE!”

The two detectives waited on the pavement. After less than two minutes the tall, thin figure of Inspector Anthony Martin appeared in the front doorway, his visor up and with a perplexed expression. He signaled them to come in.

As they walked up to him, he said, “Not very convinced about what we have here, Roy—are you sure about your intel?”

“What do you have?”

“Come and see.”

Inside had a smell of musty furniture and cats. He entered a living and dining area, with an elderly three-piece suite and a small dining table, on which lay the remains of a meal and a copy of today's
Daily Express
, and an old fashioned kitchen beyond that reminded Grace of his childhood. Two officers were opening cupboards and removing cushions from the sofa and chairs. Accompanied by Tanja Cale, he followed Martin up the narrow stair treads. As they reached the landing at the top, two fat tabby cats shot past them and downstairs.

“Is the ambulance coming? I thought you was the ambulance,” said an elderly, whining, female voice. “I called them—I have to get to Worthing hospital—I have an appointment, you see. I thought you was the ambulance.”

Grace looked down at a carpet discolored with stains and what looked like cat feces littering it, and wrinkled his nose. There was a smell of urine and body odor. It was the kind of place officers used to joke, in his early days when he had been a beat copper, where you had to wipe your feet on the way out. Above him was an open loft hatch, with an extended loft ladder down to the floor.

Following the inspector, and trying to step in the patches of carpet between the droppings of cat shit, he entered a bedroom. Lying on the bed was an elderly woman in her late seventies or even mid-eighties, patches of pink skull showing through her threadbare white hair, who was so fat it took him some moments to figure out where her multiple chins ended and her face began. Her face reminded him of one of the three-dimensional maps in geography lessons at school, showing hills in relief.

“They said the ambulance would be here by nine o'clock. I can't get up, you see. I'm ill.”

Grace had to struggle to stop himself telling her what he thought was actually wrong with her, as he stared at the box of doughnuts, and another, almost empty giant-size box of Cadbury's Dairy Milk chocolates on her bedside table. On the ancient television on a table just beyond the end of the bed was a fuzzy image of James Martin cooking in his kitchen.

Instead, he flashed his warrant card at her, holding his breath, trying not to breathe in any more of her stinking vapor than he needed. “Detective Superintendent Grace, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,” he said. “I'm afraid we're not your taxi service. I'm looking for Martin Horner.”

“Who d'you say?” She wrinkled her face.

“Martin Horner. His Volvo car is registered at this address.”

“Never heard that name, and he didn't have no car here. Is the ambulance on its way? I'm going to be late for my appointment. I can't get out of bed on me own, you see. I'm very ill.”

“What's your name, madam?” Tanja Cale asked.

“Anne—Anne Hill.”

“Do you have a carer who comes in, Mrs. Hill?” Grace asked.

“No. I'm all on me own. I had one for a short time, but not any more. He stopped coming.”

Probably because he'd seen through her, Grace thought, and stared at her eyes. “What's your full name, Mrs. Hill?”

“Hill. Anne. Just Anne Hill.”

Still staring at her eyes, he asked, “Someone had breakfast downstairs, Mrs. Hill—and bought a copy of today's
Daily Express
. Can you explain that?”

“No,” she said. “No, I dunno nothing about that. I can't get up, you see.”

Grace pressed. “If you can't get out of bed, then who else is here or was here?”

The old woman was silent for some moments. Her eyes were racing around from right to left, as if searching for a convincing answer. “Just me, dear.”

Behind him, he heard a voice call out, “The loft's empty.” He turned to see an officer from the LST, torch in his hand, clambering down the ladder.

“So who had breakfast here this morning, Mrs. Hill?” Tanja Cale asked. “Martin Horner?”

She screwed up her face, looking puzzled. “Martin Horner—who's he?”

The two detectives looked at each other.

“As you are bedridden and unable to get up, I'm assuming Martin Horner is the man who bought today's
Express
and ate his breakfast downstairs. Unless you have a better suggestion?”

The old woman's face reddened. She looked fearful, her eyes like two marbles, rolling round as if disconnected from any nerves or tendons. “No—no—I—no, I can't explain that.”

“Anne Hill, I'm arresting you on suspicion of obstructing the police. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?”

With even greater agility than her two overweight cats, the elderly woman suddenly sprang out of bed, her layers of fat wobbling beneath her translucent nightie, and stood, unsteadily for some moments, then unhooked a filthy-looking dressing gown from behind the door and pulled it around her. “It's all right,” she said. “It was me—I went out and got me paper and had me breakfast.”

“Why did you lie to us?” Tanja Cale said, sternly.

To his dismay, because he knew what was coming, Grace realized the woman was telling the truth. Paramedics were always complaining about people like this woman who abused the Ambulance Service. They would feign immobility to get a free ride to hospital, instead of having to fork out for a taxi. It was a standing, sour joke among the paramedics that for many hours each day their ambulances were nothing other than big yellow taxis.

“Shall I call and cancel the ambulance, Mrs. Hill?” he asked. “Or would you like me to arrest you for defrauding the National Health Service instead of a charge of obstructing the police?”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, dear, cancel, I'll call a taxi.”

She scurried, with surprising speed, down the stairs. Grace and Cale looked at each other and shook their heads.

“So where is Martin Horner?” the DI asked him.

“Not here,” Grace replied, gloomily. “And never has been. We've been led on a sodding wild goose chase.”

As he stepped outside and walked back to the car, his iPhone pinged with an incoming text, with a photograph. It was from the duty inspector at John Street police station.

Roy, was told you needed this urgently. Photograph of misper Ashleigh Stanford.

He tapped on the postage-stamp-sized image on his screen, to enlargen it.

And stopped in his tracks.

 

44

Saturday 13 December

Logan cried with terror and frustration. The salty tears stung her eyes, and she was desperate to wipe them. She struggled against her bonds, but still she could not move her arms. She lay in the pitch darkness, shaking, alternating with flashes of fury, her thoughts a constant jumble.

Was anyone looking for her?

Was she in Hell?

Her maternal grandmother was devout, a member of a strict chapel. She had warned Logan on every occasion they had met of Hell and Damnation. To beware of sinning and the consequences of being a sinner.

Had the old woman been right?

What the hell was going on? Who was this weirdo who was keeping her here? What was going on in the outside world beyond this hell hole?

Hell.

She was beginning to realize what Hell really was. Hell wasn't some Biblical dungeon of fire and brimstone. Hell was darkness. Hell was listening to people she could not see and did not know crying out in terror and pain. Listening to people being hurt and dying.

Hell was eternal darkness and eternal fear.

Praying had not worked. It had changed nothing.

Her mouth was parched. She had to find a way of communicating with her captor. Had to bond with him, somehow. Whoever he was.

Wherever she was.

Sometime ago, she wasn't sure if it was minutes or hours, she had heard what sounded like birdsong. Very faint. The dawn chorus? Sparrows, thrushes, starlings, blackbirds?

Was she in the city or in the countryside?

Suddenly, very faintly, she heard a siren wailing. Her hopes rose. The police? On their way? Still faint, as if in the distance, the siren grew louder. Louder still.
Please, God! Please! Please!

Then it faded again.

Please come back. Please. Please. Come back.

Her thigh still burned like hell. Agonizing cramp had returned to her right leg and she couldn't stretch it away. She wanted to scream out for help, but she was scared of the man. So scared.

She had to be smart. Strong. But how?

Her thoughts went back to the terrified voice she'd heard some while back.

Help me, oh my God, help me!

The thudding sounds. The cries. More thudding sounds.

And then silence.

Whoever had brought her here—the man in the shadows in the underground car park—must want something.

What?

What could she offer him? Her body? Money? Jamie had always been fascinated by television documentaries on serial killers.

She twisted in terror at the thought.

Maniacs who got pleasure out of torturing and killing women.

Please don't let any of this be happening to me.

She heard a scraping sound above her. The lid was being moved back. She saw a green glow, then blinding light in her face.

Moments later she tasted honey. She sucked it gratefully. Then more. She swallowed. It was followed by deliciously cold water. She gulped it down. Then she said, “Can we talk? Please? Please can we talk?”

She heard another scraping sound. The lid was closing again.

Then silence.

 

45

Saturday 13 December

We're having a bloody emergency early meeting this morning. That stupid bitch Ashleigh Stanford should not have hit me, she should not have resisted. My
projects
are meant to be passive. I dictate what happens to them. It's
my
agenda, not theirs. Everything's going pear-shaped. That's how it feels. And it feels that I'm surrounded by flakes. Ashleigh Stanford died before I had any fun with her, the bitch.

Felix is telling me to calm down, that it's fine, that sometimes shit happens. He's really the one I can trust the most. I don't think Harrison's helped matters with his idea about that sodding London shrink. What was he thinking? He has a dangerous sadistic streak. He's a loose cannon. He's suggesting another visit, but I don't think that's a good idea. He says he likes to push the envelope, that it gives him pleasure to present people with conundrums. Although I have to admit what the shrink said made me smile. It's the only thing that has made me smile for a long time.

I've now got two dead
projects
. Two that I need to dispose of. Marcus is angry with me, he thinks I should have controlled myself last night, taught Ashleigh Stanford a lesson, but not killed her. Now I'm all out of sequence. Logan Somerville should have been next. I need to find a new one this week, then I can move Logan up the chain.

The good news is there are plenty of potential new
projects
lining up. The four of us are taking a look at their photos right now, the front-runners in my Hall of Fame!

On the big screen on the wall, copies of each of the thirty-five photographs of the young women who might make suitable
projects
, whom he had spotted and followed during the past months, appeared in sequence, their names and addresses beneath them. Two of them he had first seen on the Volks Railway; another had arrived grinning, with her boyfriend, at the end of the ghost train ride on Brighton Pier; another he had snapped sitting outside Lovefit café in Queen's Road; another he had first seen lying on the grass, with two girlfriends, on the Pavilion lawns; another on the Hove Lawns; another outside the Big Beach Café. Another, one that really excited him for reasons he couldn't totally explain, except that she looked like a younger version of his bitch wife, was eating prawns outside the Brighton Shellfish and Oyster Bar—a cream-painted stall, famed for its seafood, down by the arches.

Eating standing up.

That was a sin in his book. He despised people who ate standing up. Food wasn't just fuel, it should be savored, enjoyed, shared with friends. Eaten seated. It was like those vile women who smoked while walking along. Smoking sitting down was fine, sometimes elegant. But women who walked with a fag in their mouth were slags.

Flotsam.

They should be eliminated.

But he could hardly be expected to clean up the entire city single-handed. On that point, Felix, Marcus and Harrison were all agreed. Nice to have consensus.

And now, as he froze one particular image, they all agreed again.

“That one!” Felix said.

Harrison studied it for some moments, and then said, “Yes, that one.”