Dead Like You (20 page)

52

Sunday 11 January

St Patrick’s night shelter relaxed the rules on Sundays that it applied for the rest of the week. Although the residents still had to vacate the premises by 8.30 a.m., they could return at 5 p.m.

Even so, Darren Spicer thought that was a bit harsh, since it was a church and all that, and wasn’t a church supposed to give you sanctuary at any time? Especially when the weather was crap. But he wasn’t going to argue, as he didn’t want to blot his copybook here. He wanted one of the MiPods. Ten weeks of personal space and you could come and go as you pleased. Yeah, that would be good. That would enable him to get his life together – though not in the kind of way the people who ran this place had in mind.

It was pissing down outside. And sodding freezing. But he did not want to stay in all day. He’d showered and eaten a bowl of cereal and some toast. The television was on and a couple of the residents were watching a replay of a football match on its slightly fuzzy screen.

Football, yeah. Brighton and Hove Albion was his home team. He remembered that magical day, when he was a teenager, they’d played at Wembley in the FA Cup Final and drawn. Half the homeowners of Brighton and Hove had gone up there to watch the game, while the other half were in their sitting rooms, glued to their tellies. It had been one of the best day’s burgling of his whole career.

Yesterday he’d actually been along to the Withdean Sports Stadium for a game. He liked football, not that he was much of an Albion supporter. He preferred Manchester United and Chelsea, but he had his reasons yesterday. He needed to score some charlie – as cocaine was known on the street – and the best way was to show his face. His dealer was there, in his usual seat. Nothing had changed there, apart from the price, which had gone up, and the quality, which had gone down.

After the game he’d acquired himself an eight ball for £140, dipping deep into his meagre savings. He’d washed down two of the three and a half grams with a couple of pints and a few whisky chasers almost straight away. The last gram and a half he’d saved to see himself through the tedium of today.

He pulled his donkey jacket on and his baseball cap. Most of the rest of his fellow residents were lazing around, talking in groups or lost in their thoughts or watching the TV. Like himself, none of them had anywhere to go, particularly on a Sunday, when the libraries were shut – the only warm places where they could hang out for hours for free without being hassled. But he had plans.

The round clock on the wall above the now closed food hatch said 8.23. Seven minutes to go.

It was at times like this that he missed being in prison. Life was easy in there. You were warm and dry. You had routine and companionship. You had no worries. But you had dreams.

He reminded himself of that now. His dreams. The promise he had made himself. To make himself some kind of a future. Get a stash and then go straight.

Lingering in the dry for those last few minutes, Spicer read some of the posters stuck to the walls:

MOVING ON?
FREE CONFIDENCE BUILDING COURSE FOR MEN

FREE FOOD SAFETY COURSE

FREE NEW COURSE –
FEELING SAFER AT HOME AND IN THE COMMUNITY

INJECTING INTO MUSCLE? PLEASE BE AWARE

DO YOU THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE A PROBLEM WITH COCAINE OR OTHER DRUGS?

He sniffed. Yeah, he did have a problem with cocaine. Not enough of it, that was the problem right now. He didn’t have cash spare for any more and that was going to be a real problem. That’s what he needed, he realized. Yeah. The coke he’d scored yesterday had made him fly, had put him in a great mood, made him horny, dangerously so. But what the hell?

Now he was down with a bang this morning. A deep trough. He’d get himself a few drinks, take the rest of his charlie and then he wouldn’t care about the crap weather – he’d set off around a few parts of the city he’d decided to target.

Sunday was a dangerous day to break into houses. Too many people were at home. Even if someone was out, their neighbours might not be. He would spend today on research, casing. He had a list of properties from contacts in insurance companies that he’d been steadily building up while in prison so as not to squander his precious time there. A whole list of houses and flats where the owners had quality jewellery and silverware. In some cases, he had the complete list of their valuables. Some very rich pickings to be had. If he was careful, enough to set him up for his new life.

‘Darren?’

He turned, startled to hear his name. It was one of the volunteer workers here, a man of about thirty in a blue shirt and jeans, with short hair and long sideburns. His name was Simon.

Spicer looked at him, wondering what was wrong. Had someone reported him last night? Seen his enlarged pupils? If they caught you taking drugs or you were even just high on them in here, you could be thrown straight out.

‘There are two gentlemen to see you outside.’

The words were like a sudden sideways pull of gravity deep inside him. As if all his innards had turned to jelly. It was the same feeling he always had when he realized the game was up and he was being arrested.

‘Oh, right,’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant and uninterested.

Two gentlemen
could only mean one thing.

He followed the young man out into the corridor, his stomach really churning now. His brain was racing. Wondering which of the things he had done in the past few days they had come to get him for.

It felt more like a church out here. A long corridor with a pointed arch at the end. The reception office was next to it, glassed in. Outside it stood two men. From the way they were suited and booted, they could only be coppers.

One of them was thin and tall as a beanpole, with short, spiky hair that was a mess; he looked like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in many months. The other was black, with his head shaven as bald as a meteorite. Spicer vaguely recognized him.

‘Darren Spicer?’ the black one said.

‘Yeah.’

The man held up a warrant card, which Spicer barely bothered to glance at.

‘DS Branson, Sussex CID, and this is my colleague, DC Nicholl. Wonder if we could have a chat.’

‘I got a pretty busy schedule,’ Spicer said. ‘But s’pose I could fit you in.’

‘Very accommodating of you.’

‘Yeah, well, I like to be accommodating, with the police and all that.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah.’ He sniffed.

The volunteer worker opened a door and indicated for them to walk through.

Spicer entered a small meeting room containing a table and six chairs, with a large stained-glass window on the far wall. He sat down and the two detectives sat opposite him.

‘We’ve met before, haven’t we, Darren?’ DS Branson said.

Spicer frowned. ‘Yeah, maybe. You look familiar. Trying to think where.’

‘I interviewed you about three years ago, when you were in custody – about some house break-ins. You’d just been arrested for burglary and indecent assault. Remember now?’

‘Oh yeah, rings a bell.’

He grinned at each of the detectives, but neither of them smiled back. The mobile phone of the one with ragged hair rang suddenly. He checked the number, then answered it quietly.

‘I’m tied up. I’ll call you back,’ he murmured, before sticking the phone back into his pocket.

Branson pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. He studied it for a moment.

‘You were released from prison on 28 December, correct?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘We’d like to talk to you about your movements since then.’

Spicer sniffed. ‘Well, the thing is, I don’t keep a diary, you see. Got no secretary.’

‘That’s all right,’ the spiky-haired one said, pulling out a small black book. ‘I’ve got one here. This one is for last year and I’ve got another for this year. We can help you on dates.’

‘Very obliging of you,’ Spicer replied.

‘That’s what we’re here for,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘To be obliging.’

‘Let’s start with Christmas Eve,’ Branson said. ‘I understand you were on day release at Ford Open Prison, working in the maintenance department of the Metropole Hotel up until your release on licence. Is that correct?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When was the last time you were at the hotel?’

Spicer thought for a moment. ‘Christmas Eve,’ he said.

‘What about New Year’s Eve, Darren?’ Glenn Branson went on. ‘Where were you then?’

Spicer scratched his nose, then sniffed again.

‘Well, I had been invited to spend it up at Sandringham with the royals, but then I thought, nah, can’t be spending all my time with toffs—’

‘Cut it out,’ Branson said sharply. ‘Remember you’re out on licence. We can do this chat the easy way or the hard way. The easy way is here, now. Or we can bang you back up and do it there. It’s no sweat to us either way.’

‘We’ll do it here,’ Spicer said hastily, sniffing again.

‘Got a cold, have you?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

He shook his head.

The two detectives caught each other’s eye, then Branson said, ‘Right, New Year’s Eve. Where were you?’

Spicer laid his hands on the table and stared down at his fingers. All his nails were badly bitten, as was the skin around them.

‘Drinking up at the Neville.’

‘The Neville pub?’ Nick Nicholl asked. ‘The one near the greyhound stadium?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, by the dogs.’

‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ Branson queried.

‘I was with a few – you know – acquaintances – yeah. Can give you some names.’

Nick Nicholl turned to his colleague. ‘Might be able to verify that on CCTV if they’ve got it in there. I seem to remember they have, from a past inquiry.’

Branson made a note. ‘If they haven’t wiped it – a lot of them only keep seven-day records.’ Then he looked at Spicer. ‘What time did you leave the pub?’

Spicer shrugged. ‘I don’t remember. I was shit-faced. One, one-thirty maybe.’

‘Where were you staying then?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

‘The Kemp Town hostel.’

‘Would anyone remember you coming home?’

‘That lot? Nah. They’re not capable of remembering nothing.’

‘How did you get home?’ Branson asked.

‘Had the chauffeur pick me up in the Roller, didn’t I?’

He said it so innocently that Glenn had to struggle to stop himself from grinning. ‘So your chauffeur can vouch for you?’

Spicer shook his head. ‘I walked, didn’t I? Shanks’s pony.’

Branson flipped a few pages back in his notebook. ‘Lets move on to this past week. Can you tell us where you were between 6 p.m. and midnight on Thursday 8 January?’

Spicer answered quickly, as if he had already known what the question would be. ‘Yeah, I went to the dogs. Ladies’ night. Stayed there till about 7.30 and then came back here.’

‘The greyhound stadium? Your local pub, then, is that the Neville?’

‘One of ’em, yeah.’

Branson made a mental note that the greyhound stadium was less than fifteen minutes’ walk from The Droveway, where Roxy Pearce was raped on Thursday night.

‘Do you have anything to prove you were there? Betting stubs? Anyone with you?

‘There was a bird I picked up.’ He stopped.

‘What was her name?’ Branson asked.

‘Yeah, well, that’s the thing. She’s married. Her husband was away for the night. I don’t think she’d be too happy, you know, having the Old Bill asking questions.’

‘Gone all moral, have we, Darren?’ Branson asked. ‘Suddenly developed a conscience?’

He was thinking, but did not say, that it was rather a strange coincidence that Roxy Pearce’s husband had been away that night too.

‘Not moral, but I don’t want to give you her name.’

‘Then you’d better deliver us some other proof that you were at the dogs, and during that time period.’

Spicer looked at them. He needed a smoke badly.

‘Do you mind telling me what this is about?

‘A series of sexual assaults have been committed in this city. We’re looking to eliminate people from our enquiries.’

‘So I’m a suspect?’

Branson shook his head. ‘No, but your release date on licence makes you a possible Person of Interest.’

He did not reveal to Spicer that his records had been checked for 1997–8, and they showed he had been released from prison just six days before the Shoe Man’s first suspected attack back then.

‘Let’s move on to yesterday. Can you account for where you were between 5 p.m. and 9 p.m.?’

Spicer was sure his face was burning. He felt boxed in, didn’t like the way these questions kept on coming. Questions he couldn’t answer. Yes, he could say exactly where he was at 5 p.m. yesterday. He was in a copse behind a house in Woodland Drive, Brighton’s so-called Millionaire’s Row, buying charlie from one of its residents. He doubted he’d live to see his next birthday if he so much as mentioned the address.

‘I was at the Albion game. Went for some drinks with a mate afterwards. Until curfew here, right? Came back and had me dinner, then went to bed.’

‘Crap game, wasn’t it?’ Nick Nicholl said.

‘Yeah, that second goal, like …’ Spicer raised his hands in despair and sniffed again.

‘Your mate got a name?’ Glenn Branson asked.

‘Nah. You know, that’s a funny thing. See him about, known him for years – yet I still don’t know his name. Not the sort of thing you can ask someone after you’ve been drinking with them on and off for ten years, is it?’

‘Why not?’ Nicholl asked.

Spicer shrugged.

There was a long silence.

Branson flipped his notebook over a page. ‘Lock-up here is 8.30 p.m. I’m told you arrived back at 8.45 p.m., your voice was slurred and your pupils dilated. You were lucky they let you back in. Residents are forbidden to take drugs.’

‘I don’t take no drugs, Detective, sir.’ He sniffed again.

‘I’ll bet you don’t. You’ve just got a bad head cold, right?’

‘Right. Must be what it is. Exactly right. A bad head cold!’

Branson nodded. ‘I’ll bet you still believe in Father Christmas, don’t you?’

Spicer gave him a sly grin, unsure quite where this was going. ‘Father Christmas? Yeah. Yeah, why not?’