Ds Roy Grace 11 - You Are Dead Read online

  FOR MY BELOVED LARA

  CONTENTS

  1. Thursday 11 December

  2. Thursday 11 December

  3. Thursday 11 December

  4. Thursday 11 December

  5. Thursday 11 December

  6. Thursday 11 December

  7. Thursday 11 December

  8. Thursday 11 December

  9. Thursday 11 December

  10. Thursday 11 December

  11. Thursday 11 December

  12. Thursday 11 December

  13. Thursday 11 December

  14. Thursday 11 December

  15. Thursday 11 December

  16. Thursday 11 December

  17. Thursday 11 December

  18. Friday 12 December

  19. Friday 12 December

  20. Friday 12 December

  21. Friday 12 December

  22. Friday 12 December

  23. Friday 12 December

  24. Friday 12 December

  25. Friday 12 December

  26. Friday 12 December

  27. Friday 12 December

  28. Friday 12 December

  29. Friday 12 December

  30. Friday 12 December

  31. Friday 12 December

  32. Friday 12 December

  33. Friday 12 December

  34. Friday 12 December

  35. Friday 12 December

  36. Friday 12 December

  37. Saturday 13 December

  38. Saturday 13 December

  39. Saturday 13 December

  40. Saturday 13 December

  41. Saturday 13 December

  42. Saturday 13 December

  43. Saturday 13 December

  44. Saturday 13 December

  45. Saturday 13 December

  46. Saturday 13 December

  47. Sunday 14 December

  48. Sunday 14 December

  49. 1974

  50. Sunday 14 December

  51. Sunday 14 December

  52. Sunday 14 December

  53. Sunday 14 December

  54. Monday 15 December

  55. Monday 15 December

  56. Monday 15 December

  57. Tuesday 16 December

  58. Tuesday 16 December

  59. Tuesday 16 December

  60. Tuesday 16 December

  61. Tuesday 16 December

  62. Tuesday 16 December

  63. Wednesday 17 December

  64. Wednesday 17 December

  65. Wednesday 17 December

  66. Wednesday 17 December

  67. Thursday 18 December

  68. 29 December, 1976

  69. Thursday 18 December

  70. Thursday 18 December

  71. Thursday 18 December

  72. Thursday 18 December

  73. Thursday 18 December

  74. Thursday 18 December

  75. Thursday 18 December

  76. Thursday 18 December

  77. Friday 19 December

  78. Friday 19 December

  79. Friday 19 December

  80. Friday 19 December

  81. Friday 19 December

  82. Friday 19 December

  83. Friday 19 December

  84. Friday 19 December

  85. Saturday 20 December

  86. Saturday 20 December

  87. Saturday 20 December

  88. Saturday 20 December

  89. Saturday 20 December

  90. Saturday 20 December

  91. Saturday 20 December

  92. Saturday 20 December

  93. Saturday 20 December

  94. Saturday 20 December

  95. Saturday 20 December

  96. Saturday 20 December

  97. Saturday 20 December

  98. Saturday 20 December

  99. Sunday 21 December

  100. Sunday 21 December

  101. Sunday 21 December

  102. Sunday 21 December

  103. Tuesday 23 December

  104. Wednesday 24 December

  105. Thursday 25 December

  106. Saturday 27 December

  107. Friday 2 January

  108. Saturday 3 January

  109. Sunday 4 January

  110. Sunday 4 January

  111. Sunday 4 January

  1

  Thursday 11 December

  Logan was driving fast in the pelting rain, hurrying home, glad that her shitty day which had gone from bad to worse, and then progressively worse still, was nearly at an end. She was looking forward to a large glass of chilled white wine and a sneaky cigarette on the balcony before Jamie got home. The familiar Radio Sussex jingle played, then the female presenter announced it was 5.30 p.m. and time for the news headlines. As Logan listened, with half an ear, she was blissfully unaware that by this time tomorrow evening she would be the lead item on the local news, and the subject of one of the biggest manhunts ever launched by Sussex Police.

  Her catalogue of disasters had started as she had got out of bed, late for work, with a splitting headache after a tiresome dinner with clumsy, untidy Jamie and tripped over a boot he’d left on the carpet. She’d stumbled forward, gashing her big toe open on the edge of the bathroom door. She should have gone to hospital, but she couldn’t spare the time for the inevitable wait at A&E, so she’d bandaged it herself and hoped for the best.

  Then to add insult to injury she had been flashed by the same damned speed camera she had driven past every working day for the past few years, at a careful 32 mph. Somehow, today, in her rush to get to work for her first appointment she had totally forgotten it was there, and had gone past it at well over 45 mph.

  The gilding on the lily came when one of her partners in the chiropractic clinic – the woman who brought in the largest share of their income – announced she was pregnant with triplets, and intended if all went well to be a full-time mum. Without her income stream, the future of the place could be in doubt.

  Overshadowing all of that were her concerns about Jamie. He stubbornly refused to accept anything was wrong. But there was; there was so much wrong. His untidiness, which at first had amused her, had grown to irritate her beyond belief – especially when he’d told her crassly that it was a woman’s role to keep the home tidy.

  So she had tidied up. She’d scooped up all the clothes that he had left lying on the floor, and his beer cans and dirty beer glasses – left after a bunch of his friends had come round to watch the footy – and dumped them down the rubbish chute in the corridor of their flat.

  She was grinning in satisfaction at the memory as she indicated right, braked, then halted her car at the entrance to the underground car park beneath their apartment block in Brighton’s Kemp Town. She pressed the clicker to open the electric gates.

  Then, as she drove down the ramp, she was startled by a figure lurking in the darkness. She stamped her foot hard on the brake pedal.

  2

  Thursday 11 December

  Within seconds of answering the phone to his fiancée, Jamie Ball sensed something was wrong.

  The connection was bad as he drove his battered old VW Golf down the M23 towards Brighton in the heavy rush-hour traffic and pelting rain, and it was hard to hear what she was saying; but even through the crackly line, he could hear the unease in her voice.

  ‘Are you OK, darling?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a man down here in the car park. I just saw him. He tried to hide as I drove in.’

  Neither of them liked that underground car park beneath their apartment block. Their small ninth-floor flat, close to Brighton’s Royal Sussex County Hospital in Kemp Tow
n, had views to die for, across the rooftops and far out into the English Channel, but the car park always gave them the creeps.

  It was poorly lit with many totally dark areas, and there was only minimal security. Several vehicles lay beneath dust sheets and never appeared to be moved. Sometimes, when he drove down there, Jamie felt he was entering a mausoleum. If Logan arrived home on her own late at night, she preferred to park on the street and risk a ticket in the morning rather than go down there in the dark.

  He had repeatedly warned Logan to make sure the electronic gates had closed behind her before driving on down the ramp. Now the scenario he had always feared seemed to be happening.

  ‘OK, darling,’ he said. ‘Listen to me. Lock your doors, turn around, and drive straight back out.’

  She did not reply.

  ‘Logan, did you hear me?’

  He heard her scream.

  A terrible scream.

  Then silence.

  3

  Thursday 11 December

  Felix is fine with the fact that I kill people. He gets it, he understands my reasons. I have a sneaking feeling he’d like to do the same himself, if he had more courage. Harrison’s not so sure about the whole moral issue here. As for Marcus – well, really he’s dead against it – no pun intended. He thinks I’m a bad person. But hey, it’s good to have smart friends who have opinions, and aren’t afraid to express them. Personally, I’ve always respected people who speak their mind.

  They say a true friend is someone who knows everything about you, and still likes you, but I would question that unconditional aspect of friendship. We need friends to keep checks and balances on us, to help each of us keep our perspectives, our moral compass. But I have to say that Marcus is wrong. I’m not really a bad person, I’m just a victim. All of us in life, all of us are victims. We’re all prisoners of our past, in some form. Our past defines us in ways that are not always obvious. It’s only later, on occasions, when you read something that touches a nerve, or your therapist points out some connection you had never made. That’s when you have the light-bulb moment. When suddenly it all makes sense. And you can justify everything.

  I’ve just started my next project. She’s a young lady in her mid-twenties, slim, pretty, with long brown hair – the way I like all my projects to look. I’ve been following her for the past three months – from a distance mostly, but also on her Facebook page and through her tweets. I like to make a thorough study of my projects, working out the best way to take them, then thinking about what I’m going to do with them. It’s the anticipation that really gives me the bang. It’s like going online and looking at the menu of some great restaurant I plan to eat in. My beautiful dossiers.

  Logan is quite a girl. She’s fit, in every sense. Runs marathons, was due to get married, though that’s not going to happen now – and that’s nothing to do with me. But that all helps me, navigating by my moral compass. She can’t treat men the way she has.

  She needs punishing.

  4

  Thursday 11 December

  In summer, Hove Lagoon, a children’s park and playground with two large boating ponds, a skate park and a children’s paddling pool, behind the seafront promenade lined with gaily painted beach huts, would be teeming with people. Children, under the watchful eyes of mothers, grandparents, au pairs or nannies, would be playing on the roundabouts, slides and swings, or in the little pool, or sailing their toy boats on one of the two rectangular ponds that gave the place its name, and which they shared with learner dinghy sailors, windsurfers and wakeboarders.

  Many would be stuffing their faces with ice creams or sweets purchased from the Big Beach Café, its utilitarian whitewashed walls, blue windows and steeply pitched roof belying its uber-cool cocktail bar and diner interior – the inspiration of its latest owner, Big Beat musician Norman Cook, aka Fatboy Slim.

  But in the gloom of this foul December Thursday afternoon, with cold rain pelting down, and a strong, gusting wind, the whole place was forlorn and cheerless. A solitary elderly lady, in a see-through sou’wester, walked a reluctant dog, the size of a large rat, on a lead attached to a harness.

  A group of workmen in fluorescent jackets, hard hats and ear defenders, working overtime beneath floodlights, were drilling open the path in front of the café. One, the foreman, stood away from the group, head bowed against the weather, holding up a tablet in a waterproof case, taking measurements and tapping them in. A cluster of cars and a van were parked nearby, as well as a noisy, yellow mobile generator.

  As his drill bit broke through a fresh strip, and he levered it out of the way, one workman suddenly shouted out, in a foreign accent, ‘Oh God! Look!’ He turned anxiously towards the foreman. ‘Wesley! Look!’

  Hearing his cry above the din of their machines, all the other workmen stopped, too. The foreman stepped forward and peered down, and saw what looked to his untrained eye like a skeletal hand.

  ‘Is it an animal?’ asked the workman.

  ‘Dunno,’ the foreman said dubiously. Nor could he tell how old it was. It could have been there decades. But he couldn’t think of any animal that had a paw or claw like this. Except a monkey, possibly. It looked human, he thought. He instructed all three men with the drills to concentrate on the immediate area around the hand, and to be careful not to drill deeper than necessary.

  More chunks of the black asphalt were levered away and a skeletal arm appeared, attached to the hand by black tendrils of sinew. Then part of a rib cage and what was, unmistakably, a human skull.

  ‘OK!’ the foreman said nervously. ‘Everyone stop now. Go home and we start again in the morning, if we are permitted. See you all at 8 a.m.’

  Wondering whether he should have stopped the men sooner, he went over to the van, opened the rear doors, then climbed in, rummaged around, and pulled out a tarpaulin. He laid it over the exposed parts of the skeleton, weighing it down with chunks of rubble. When he had finished, he unholstered his phone and dialled his boss, to ask for instructions. They came back loud and clear.

  He ended the call, then, as he’d been told, immediately dialled 999. When the operator answered, he asked for the police.

  5

  Thursday 11 December

  Shaking with fear, Jamie Ball pulled his Golf over onto the hard shoulder of the motorway, halted, and dialled Logan’s number again. The phone rang, six times, and then he heard her voicemail message.

  ‘Hi, this is Logan Somerville. I can’t take your call right—’

  He ended the call and immediately redialled. Answer, darling Logan, answer, please answer, please answer! Again it rang six times and her message started up. A lorry thundered past, inches from his little car, shaking it and spattering it with spray. He closed his eyes, thinking, feeling close to tears. He could call the caretaker, Mark. Or their next-door neighbour who had a key to their flat.

  But he had heard her scream.

  Something had happened.

  His car shook again as another juggernaut thundered by, far too close.

  He ended the call and immediately dialled 999.

  6

  Thursday 11 December

  Some idiot, an hour or so ago, had mentioned the Q word. Just as in the theatre world, where there was a deep superstition about mentioning the name of the play Macbeth – all thespians only ever referred to it as ‘the Scottish play’ – so in the police world it was considered a jinx to say that a day was quiet. And sure enough, within minutes of the tubby, fully kitted constable breezing into the Communications Department of Sussex Police Headquarters to have a word with his wife, who was one of the radio controllers, and letting slip that Q word, it had all started kicking off, it seemed, right across the county. There was a sudden spate of three separate, serious road traffic collisions; an armed robbery in Brighton; a man threatening to jump off the notorious suicide beauty spot, Beachy Head; and a missing four-year-old boy in Crawley.

  The Comms Department, which was housed in a very large, open-plan r
oom on the first floor of a modern block on the sprawling HQ campus, handled all emergency calls made to Sussex Police throughout the county, and housed the CCTV system. It was presided over by Ops-1 – the call sign for the Duty Inspector in charge. Among the responsibilities of these inspectors was the granting of authority for use of firearms in a spontaneous incident, and running and controlling any vehicle pursuit in the county.

  This afternoon and evening’s Ops-1 was Andy Kille, a tall, strongly built, former British parachuting champion, in his early fifties, with a handsome face, etched cynical from almost thirty years of police service, and topped with a thin fuzz of close-cropped greying hair. Dressed in uniform dark trousers and a short-sleeved black top, with ‘Police’ embroidered in white on the sleeves, his inspector pips on his epaulettes and his ID card hanging from his neck on a blue lanyard, he currently sported a substantial and uncharacteristic pot belly – the result of recently having given up smoking and compensating by binge eating.

  Kille sat at his desk in a cubicle-like space at the rear of the room, surrounded by an array of computer screens and monitors. One displayed a map of the county. Another constantly updated him on all the incidents currently running. A third, with a touch-screen, operated as his eyes and ears on the department he presided over.

  On the wall at the far end of the room were monitors that displayed the performance statistics, whilst over his desk a separate screen showed images from four of the five hundred CCTV cameras around the county, as well as monitors displaying the current news. With the aid of his different and separate keyboards and a toggle lever, Kille could rotate and zoom any of the cameras within seconds. Thirty people worked in this section, most of them civilians, identified by the white embroidered words ‘Police Support’ on their sleeves, and royal blue polo shirts as opposed to the black ones of the police. Several were former police officers. At busy times there could be the best part of one hundred people working over the two levels.

  At a row of desks beneath the CCTV cameras sat the radio operators; each, like almost everyone else in the room, wearing a headset. These were the people who liaised with the police officers who had been dispatched, both in vehicles and on foot. Most radio operators had a CCTV screen for the cameras on their particular area, when needed. Alongside them sat the emergency-call handlers. Emergency – 999 – calls were signalled by a low klaxon, so that in the rare instances all the call handlers were occupied, others in the room, also trained, would be alerted to answer.