You Are Dead (24 page)

“You really should go home, Norman. Get some rest,” Grace said.

“I'd prefer to keep working, chief, if it's all right with you.”

Grace smiled at him. “You're doing a good job. We all need some rest before tomorrow.”

“Go tell that to the missing girls,” Potting said.

 

52

Sunday 14 December

With the Chief Constable living in Brighton, and Cassian Pewe in temporary rented accommodation in Hove, it was decided the three of them would meet in Roy's office at Sussex House, rather than make the twenty-five-minute drive, each way, to Police Headquarters in Lewes where Pewe and Martinson were based.

It was shortly after 7:30 p.m. that the two men entered Grace's modest office, the Chief Constable in jeans and a baggy, cable-knit sweater, Pewe in cavalry twills, suede brogues, a thin roll-neck, and one of those natty tweed jackets with epaulettes and leather patches on the sleeves that, Grace thought, Pewe imagined gave the impression of a country squire, but which made him look more like a spiv bookmaker.

Grace made coffee, then joined them at his small round conference table. He thanked them both for coming out on a Sunday evening, and then launched straight into his reason for wanting to see them so urgently. “I'm afraid,” he said, “that all the evidence indicates we have an active serial killer in our city.”

Martinson's face visibly stiffened. Pewe looked like a man who had just swallowed a wasp.

“You realize the implications of this, Roy?” Martinson said.

“Brighton doesn't have serial killers, Roy,” Pewe said. “I mean—not since the Trunk Murders of the early 1930s. How sure are you?”

Grace brought them up to date with both his own and Glenn Branson's investigations into Operation Mona Lisa and Operation Haywain. When he had finished both the Chiefs were silent. They agreed that there needed to be a Gold group set up, and that Pewe would take on the responsibility for organizing this.

“In advance of meeting both of you,” Roy continued, “I spoke to Jonathan Atkins at the National Crime Agency Operational Support Unit today, telling him my views, and he's given me detailed guidelines on how to proceed with the investigations from this point and how to manage the impact on the community. His advice is to go very public and get the press and media on board from the start. I'm also waiting for a callback from an SIO who's currently instructing at the National Police College, who has had past experience on two serial killers.”

“The impact on the community is going to be enormous, Roy,” the Chief Constable said.

“I know,” Grace replied. “I'm putting together a Prevention Strategy which will include measures we can take to help lessen the risk of future victims.”

“We've had some experience in the Met,” Pewe added, pensively.

“You need to understand Brighton isn't Metropolitan London,” Grace said. “You have more than an eight million population there. We have just over a quarter of a million. This is much more of a tight-knit community. People are less used to murder here—our strategy needs to reflect that to avoid panicking the city.”

“We've finally lost the very unwelcome title of Injecting Drug Death Capital of the UK after almost eleven years,” Tom Martinson said. “Now we have this.”

“I agree, sir. And the impact's going to remain until we've got the offender charged and locked up,” Grace said grimly.

“You realize what the consequences will be if you've got this wrong, Roy?” Cassian Pewe asked, the familiar whine, unpleasantly close to a sneer, returning to his voice, as if the wasp was now confidently digested.

“I can imagine there being a short-term impact on the tourist trade, sir,” Grace said, “as well as a lot of very nervous citizens. But the consequences of not warning the public could result in another death. Maybe more than one.”

“How much detail have you been advised to release to the public?” Martinson asked.

“Well, I've also spoken at length to Detective Investigator Jordan Finucci at the FBI's homicide bureau at Quantico—I met him on a course I attended four years ago. He's had experience with two of the USA's worst serial killers, Ted Bundy and Dennis Rader—BTK. He's given me some advice based on how they caught BTK.”

“Which was?” Pewe asked.

“Well, it's a pretty established fact that the overwhelming majority of serial killers have massive egos. Some homicide detectives in the US have had results by using that knowledge. The advice I've had is to rattle our offender's cage, and try to flush him out.”

“But if you do that, and the missing women are still alive, might that not provoke him into killing them?” Martinson queried.

“The statistics are against us, sir, on them still being alive. Most victims are killed within an hour of being abducted; very few are still alive twenty-four hours later. We have to be positive, and conduct the inquiry with the full urgency of trying to find them and save their lives, but we need to have an eye beyond these young ladies. We have to prevent another one—or indeed several more—from being taken. What we have established is that he's a meticulous planner, or clearly thinks he is. He got clean away with killing at least two women thirty years ago, it would seem, and now he probably thinks he's invincible.”

“You know, Roy,” Pewe said, “it seems very strange to me that he should suddenly stop and then start again all these years later.”

“With respect, I recently ran an investigation of a serial rapist—the Shoe Man. He'd stopped for many years—the reason being he got married and had kids. BTK in the USA stopped for a similar period, for similar reasons.”

“Roy's right, Cassian,” Tom Martinson said. “And we don't know for sure this offender did stop offending. We just believe he stopped in Sussex for a long time. He might have continued elsewhere in the UK or even abroad and then recently returned here.”

“Presumably your Intel cell is checking throughout the UK, back thirty years, Roy, for matching offenses?” said Pewe.

“Yes, they are working on it, but with no results so far. One other thing I've done today is contact a forensic psychologist, Tony Balazs. He worked on two high-profile serial cases—the M25 rapist, Antoni Imiela, and the Ipswich prostitute killer, Steve Wright. His advice concurs with Jordan Finucci's—flush him out through the media.”

“Roy,” Cassian Pewe said, “there's an SIO in the Met I've worked with, Paul Sweetman, who was seconded to help with the Ipswich case. Without in any way wanting to tread on your toes, would you object to my asking him to come down and offer his support?”

Grace stared at him, warily. The relationship between Sussex Police and London's Metropolitan Police had never been an entirely easy one. Many good officers had been poached by the Met through a better pay scale.

“Roy,” Martinson said, diplomatically. “I'm sure Cassian has only the best interests of our city at heart—and has no intention of usurping your command of this case.” He looked to the ACC for confirmation.

“Absolutely, Tom.” Pewe turned to Grace with a smarmy smile. “Roy, I know we've had our differences in the past, but they are firmly in the past. DCI Sweetman is a good guy. I would only suggest he came down—and in a strictly advisory capacity to you—if you were totally comfortable with this. If not, we'll forget it.”

Grace thought for some moments, realizing he had little choice. If he refused and the operation went pear-shaped, Pewe would hang him out to dry.

“I'm sure he'll be of assistance,” he said.

“Good,” Martinson said. “Roy and Cassian, I want you both to work on this together, keep me in the loop, come up with a plan. I will keep the Police and Crime Commissioner informed—I know she's going to be highly concerned, and the senior members of the community should be joining the Gold group tomorrow. Despite the funeral, you need to keep your focus on this. I suggest we hold a press conference later tomorrow, after the funeral and the first meeting of the Gold group, at which you make the announcement that we have a serial killer. But be under no illusion, it is going to rock the city to the core. It's going to cause panic. And it's going to hurt the whole area commercially.”

“On the basis of what you are saying, Roy,” Cassian Pewe said, “I think you should subsume Operation Mona Lisa into Operation Haywain.”

“I've already thought about this, sir,” Grace replied. “I will be in overall command of the total investigation process, and I have asked DCI Iain Maclean to be my deputy. I will then have key officers running individual aspects of the investigation for each of the victims.”

Pewe nodded, then glanced at his phone, which had just beeped.

“Another thing I think we should do,” Grace said, “is come up with a nickname for the offender before the press think up some sensational name of their own. We don't want the
Argus
coming up with something alarmist such as the Brighton Ripper or the Sussex Strangler.”

“Do you have any suggestions, Roy?” Tom Martinson asked.

“Yes. I discussed it with Tony Balazs, and we want something that doesn't glamorize him too much. The one we both like is the Brighton Brander.”

The two senior officers pondered this for some moments. “I think it's clever,” Martinson said.

“Yes,” Pewe said. “Let's confirm that with the Gold group to make sure the community's on board.”

For the next ten minutes they talked about resourcing—and costs. With the potential community impact, Martinson told both officers that money, on this rare occasion, could not be a factor. They had to throw all their resources at this, regardless.

Before the meeting, Roy Grace had already realized the enormity of his responsibility. Now he was feeling it even more.

“Plot 3472 in Hove Cemetery,” Pewe said, suddenly, looking down at the notes he had taken.

“Yes,” Grace said.

From the tone of Pewe's voice, that piece of information was having a seriously detrimental effect on his blood pressure. Grace hoped for a few brief moments it might prove terminal. “That's the oldest trick in the book,” Pewe said.

“Yes, sir,” Grace said. “DI Branson has already pointed that out.”

 

53

Sunday 14 December

Freya Northrop felt stuffed to bursting as she turned the MX5 into the driveway of their house, shortly after 10:30 p.m. She stifled a yawn, totally exhausted. Zak, in the passenger seat beside her, had slept most of the way back from their last stop of the day, an evening meal at The Cat in West Hoathley, a pub restaurant he'd heard great things about and that had not disappointed. He had photographed and written down details about his starter of hazelnut-crumbed goat's cheese with honey-roasted figs and Parma ham, and the coffee parfait served in a cappuccino cup complete with froth and sugar cubes of chocolate jelly, both of which he planned to try out with a view to putting them on his menu.

She never ceased to be astonished at the amount of food Zak could pack away. They'd had two lunches at different restaurants in Whitstable—starters, mains and puds, because he'd wanted to try a range of dishes—and while she had pecked at hers, he'd wolfed down all of his and finished hers. And now they'd had a three-course dinner at The Cat, and again he had scoffed the lot. Yet he was, she thought enviously, ridiculously thin.

Her dad had once told her never to eat in a restaurant where there was a thin chef, it wasn't a good sign. Yet Zak was a brilliant cook. He'd been born with supersonic metabolism, he joked. But it was true. Honest to God, where did he put all those carbs? She patted his sleepy, brush-cut head affectionately. “We're home, my sweet.”

He woke with a start and stifled a yawn. Then he took her hand and kissed it. “Thanks for driving.” He yawned again.

“Want to sleep in the car?” she said with a grin, opening her door.

He unclipped his seat belt, opened his door and climbed slowly out into the cold, damp night air. “I've eaten too much,” he said and patted his stomach.

“Coming from you, that's quite something!”

“I might just make myself a little snack before we go to bed.”

Freya laughed. “Want me to see if there's a suckling pig in the freezer we can chuck on the barbie?”

She stepped up to the front door, unlocked it and went inside, fumbling for the light switch. The smell of fresh paint and new carpet and recently sawn timber greeted her.

Zak followed her in and closed the door behind him. They walked through to the ultra-modern kitchen—the first room to have been completed—with today's
Observer
lying on a huge butcher's block that served as the table.

“As I haven't had a drink all day, I think I deserve a glass of wine before bed,” she said, opening the fridge, removing a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and tugging out the cork. “Want one?”

He shook his head. “Thanks but I've drunk far too much already.”

“No comment!” she said with a grin, lifting a glass and an ashtray out of the dishwasher, and setting them down on the table. She poured some wine, then rummaged in her handbag for her tobacco, filters and licorice roll-up papers.

As she began placing strands of tobacco in the opened-out paper, she noticed Zak frowning at something.

“What?” she said.

“There's a draft. Can you feel it?”

She nodded, she could. A steady, cold draft.

He continued frowning. “Where's it coming from?”

“I've never noticed it before,” Freya said. “It's always been so snug in here.” The kitchen was usually cozy, thanks to the underfloor heating Zak had put in. But she could feel the cold air, definitely.

Zak suddenly stood up and walked across to the back door. “Freya, darling,” he said, his voice sounding strange. “We locked the back door, surely—we locked up carefully before we left this morning, didn't we?”