You Are Dead (44 page)

Grace always believed you could tell a lot about a person by looking at their bookshelves—or lack of them. He got confirmation moments later when he came to the next section. Shelf upon shelf of books on serial killers, many of whose names he recognized. Ian Brady, Myra Hindley, Dennis Nilsen, Dennis Rader, Jeffrey Dahmer, John George Haigh of the Acid Bath Murders, Ed Kemper, Fred and Rose West, Peter Sutcliffe, Richard Ramirez, David Berkowitz—Son of Sam, Kenneth Bianchi and Angelo Buono—the Hillside Stranglers, Peter Manuel, Andrei Chikatilo—the Butcher of Rostov, Gary Ridgway, Harold Shipman, and California's notorious Zodiac Killer, whose identity was, to this day, unknown.

Dr. Edward Crisp would one day be added to that vile hall of fame, he thought, grimly. And, with luck, very soon.

Below them were several books on taxidermy.

“
Psycho!
” Glenn Branson said.

“
Psycho?
You said that about Freya Northrop's house,” Grace replied.

Branson nodded. “Yeah, but this is the real deal. That's what Norman Bates was into, taxidermy. Remember his mother?”

“As I recall, he hadn't done such a great job on her. She was pretty much skeletal.” He could hear the noise of the helicopter above them. Through the leaded-light windows he could see part of the garden brightly illuminated by the NPAS-15 floodlights. Topiaried hedges and a swimming pool with its winter cover secured.

He stared at a silver-framed studio photographic portrait of a happy family. A younger, smiling Crisp, in a cardigan over a blue shirt and gray slacks, his arm around an attractive woman of about forty. Two girls, in their teens, neatly dressed and smiling, stood beside her against a pale blue background. All three had long, shiny brown hair.

The wife who had recently left Crisp, he assumed, from Potting's report. He raised the lid of the desk. Inside was a neat leather-topped surface on which sat a pen-holder and a large, hard-covered notebook. He opened it. The front page listed, in neat handwriting, tradespeople and their phone numbers. Plumber, electrician, cleaning lady, building contractor, pool maintenance company, burglar alarm company, electric gates maintenance, garage door company, television repair man, gardener, lawn-cutting service, vet, Ocado groceries delivery, newsagent.

He turned the next page, which was blank. He turned several more pages, then stopped and stared. There, neatly held in place by photographic corners, was a photograph he recognized instantly. It was Denise Patterson.

On the next page, also neatly held in place, was Katie Westerham. On the following page was Emma Johnson. And on the next, Logan Somerville, then Ashleigh Stanford, then Freya Northrop.

These were the missing photographs, he realized, from the mobile home at the Roundstone Caravan Park.

 

95

Saturday 20 December

“We're in the right place,” Roy Grace said, tersely, leafing again through the pages and staring at the photographs. “The bastard's here, somewhere, he has to be. Glenn, check upstairs yourself—every closet, every loft hatch, look under every sodding bed.”

He turned to the inspector. “Anthony, I want your team to tear this house apart. I want the floorboards up, any hollow walls cut open. This is his place. Even if he has other locations we don't know about, we're going to find something here. What about the grounds?”

“They're all out there checking now.”

“Has anyone found the dog yet? It was barking earlier.”

As if in response, there were several deep barks from a police German Shepherd, close by outside, as the dog and handler ran past the window, brightly illuminated by the overhead floods from the helicopter.

“Crisp's dog is called Smut
.
The dog handler's locked it in a toilet, Roy, for safety.”

In a house this big, and with grounds of well over an acre, there were any number of hiding places possible, Grace knew. “What about releasing it and seeing if it leads us to its owner?” he said.

“It was just standing in the kitchen when we entered,” Martin said. “It was looking bewildered—and distressed—as if it's been abandoned, I'd say.”

“OK, how do I get to the basement?”

“I'll show you.”

He followed the inspector along a corridor and through into a vast, modern and well-equipped kitchen, with an island unit, a large American-style fridge, and a refectory table. It looked spotless. Martin pointed to an open door, with a weak light beyond illuminating steps down.

“There, Roy. Want me to come down with you? We have checked it already.”

“No, get a full search team up here to start taking the place apart, get a CSI crew, and meantime join the others in checking the grounds, Anthony. If he's not in the house, he has to be in the garden somewhere—the pool house, a shed, garages, or even up on the roof. He's bloody here! Just make sure he doesn't give us the slip in any direction.” Outside, above the steady
thwock-thwock-thwock
roar of the helicopter, he heard the police dog barking again, louder now. A deep, steady
woof-woof-woof
, and he felt a burst of excitement and hope. Had the dog found something?

On the radio a crackly voice relayed from the team outside, “Only a sodding fox!”

His thoughts in turmoil, Roy Grace, gripping his small torch in one hand and the handrail in the other, hurried down the steep, bare wooden treads.
The bastard had to be here. Had to be.
At the bottom he entered a cavernous, icy-cold, low-ceilinged junk room that looked as if it had once been the children's playroom. Dusty, bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, only three of them working, throwing a dim light across the whole area. There was a thin, dark green carpet on the floor and some of the paper was peeling off the walls. It smelled musty, with a hint of damp, as if no one ever came down here. A complete contrast to the floor above, Grace thought.

Stacked against the far wall was a trampoline. In front of it was an old ping-pong table and a rocking horse. Grace saw a large, Victorian-looking oil painting of marigolds in a vase, in an ugly, ornate frame, propped against one arm of a busted sofa.

At the other end of the room, past several lumpy shapes beneath dust sheets, was an open door, with a feeble light shining beyond. Grace walked over to the dust sheets and raised one. Beneath were two old armchairs, one with a fringed lampshade perched on the seat, and an old pinball machine with a spider's web crack in its glass top. Then he crossed to the open doorway. Ahead was a narrow passageway with bare brick walls and a concrete floor, lit by another low-wattage bulb. A cluster of very old-looking electrical wires, taped together, ran along the wall just above head height.

He switched on his torch again, for the beam to supplement the light, directing it at the floor. He was looking for any signs of possible recent work, but it did not look as if it had been touched in years. He stood still for some moments listening for any sounds beyond. He could hear the muffled rumble of a boiler, and he detected a faint but distinct reek of sour wine. He continued, warily, along the passage for about ten feet, heading toward the dark space ahead, the vinous smell getting stronger with every step, then stopped in amazement as he reached the end and flashed his beam around.

He was in a brick-walled wine cellar. But not like any cellar he had ever seen in a domestic house before. On either side of him and stretching away thirty or forty feet into the distance were wooden wine racks, floor to ceiling, stacked with dusty bottles. There must be thousands, he guessed. With his gloved hand he carefully gripped the neck of one bottle, at random, and lifted it out. It was covered in decades of dust, and he had to peer closely to read the printing on the label.

In outlined red letters was the word,
PETRUS
. Above, even more faint, was the date,
1961
. Above that was a black and white drawing of a bearded man that looked to Grace like St. Peter.

He was no expert on wine, but there were a few famous names that he recognized, because they had been in the news at some point or other, and Petrus was one of them. He had the sense the bottle he was holding was very valuable, and replaced it carefully. He stood still, listening again, then walked on between the racks, shining the torch beam down at the floor, checking it carefully.

Then he stopped and frowned.

The bottles on the fully stacked wine rack to his right looked cleaner than the rest down here—their necks at least. Were they a recent purchase?

He lifted one out, and it was much lighter than he had expected. The label read,
GEVREY CHAMBERTIN 2002
. It felt too light. He shone the beam of his torch directly on it. The bottle was empty. Puzzled, he pulled out the one directly below it. That was empty, too. He tried more on the same rack, and they were all empty as well. Each had its cork pushed right in and the seal intact. The rack took six bottles lying across. There were forty-eight bottles on the entire rack.

Were they showcase samples? Like in some restaurants where you saw all kinds of different-size bottles upright, on display?

Why the hell would anyone have an entire rack full of dummy bottles? To show off? Were other parts of this cellar filled with dummy bottles, also?

His phone rang. It was Pete Darby. Reception was bad down here, the surveillance officer's voice crackly and breaking up.

“I've double checked with the previous shift, and no one has been in or out of there.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes—we were keeping an eye on the street, but our focus as briefed was on the target's house.” Then the voice became too crackly for Grace to decipher the words. He heard, “Fair … traffic … through…” Then silence.

He looked down at his phone and saw the words
no service
on the display.

Grace put his phone back in his pocket, staring at the rack again. Something was wrong about it. He studied it carefully, playing the beam of his torch along each row. Then a faint glint caught his eye. It glinted again as he moved his torch. Hastily he removed several bottles from the rack, and then could see what it was. A hinge.

He felt a sudden beat of excitement. Gripping the wine rack firmly with both hands he gave a gentle pull and, taken by surprise, stumbled backward as the entire section of the rack swung out easily and silently, on well-oiled hinges. Yet all that was behind it was just a continuation of the solid brick wall.

He played the torch beam across it, then noticed that the bricks directly behind the rack seemed newer and more even than those on either side. Frowning, he ran the torch beam up and down the join on the right. And saw the faint, vertical hairline crack. Then a horizontal one, about five feet high. And another vertical crack joining it and running down to the ground. Holding the torch in his mouth he pushed hard, first on one side then the other, and suddenly a whole section swung forward, inward. He was right, he realized with a chill. It was a concealed wooden door, clad on the outside with brick tiles.

Crisp had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep something hidden, Grace thought, crouching and shining the light through the opening. It was a short, rough-hewn tunnel, with crude wooden uprights and crossbeams every few feet along, holding back the walls and supporting the roof. Hessian matting covered the floor. It was like something out of a World War Two movie about prisoners escaping from German prisoner of war camps, he thought.

Then he remembered the particular section of books on the shelves up in Crisp's library. Had the idea come from those? Or the technique?

He pulled his phone out and tried to call for backup. The display showed no signal. He knew he should get backup but his adrenaline rush was pushing him forward. He jammed it back into his pocket, then shone the torch warily all around the cellar behind him, watching the shadows jumping. His nerves were jangling. What the hell was at the far end of the tunnel?

He shone the beam along it again, and a tiny pair of eyes sparkled like rubies, ten feet or so in the distance. He'd always been claustrophobic, and right back as a child had felt uncomfortable playing hide and seek, when he'd had to conceal himself in a closet, or one time in an old trunk in his parents' loft. He remembered a case when he'd had to crawl along a storm drain to see a body that had been discovered there, and it had taken all his courage.

Gripping the torch in his teeth again, and ignoring his fear, he entered the tunnel, keeping his head as low as he could. Ahead of him the beam fell away into darkness for some moments, then he saw the tiny rubies sparkling again. The rat scurried off as he approached.

He should go back, he knew, get Martin's team down here, but curiosity and determination kept him moving forward. Something that felt like a spider's web brushed his hair and he shuddered, swiping at it with his right hand, and continued. Thoughts were flashing through his mind. They had moved house—home—yesterday. And he was in this sodding tunnel. With what at the end of it?

The air was cold, but intermittently there were strange eddies of warmth. The ground was rough and stony beneath the matting. Each time he tried to raise his head it bashed against the tunnel roof. Part of him wanted to retrace his steps, go back and send in a search team. But another part, the voice of resolve and determination inside his head that had always driven him, told him to keep going.

Keep going.

Logan Somerville might be at the end of this. Could she still be alive?

And suddenly, the tunnel gave way to a vast, pitch-dark space. He shone the beam of his torch up and saw a high, vaulted brick ceiling. He straightened up, held the torch in his hand and flashed the beam around, striking more bare brick wall in every direction.

Then a voice rang out of the cavernous darkness. It was crystal clear, a posh public school accent, slightly condescending, accompanied by a faint echo.