Dead Like You (28 page)

71

Wednesday 14 January

twitter

jessiesheldonuk

Working late today. Audit review – soooo boring! But Benedict taking me out after for sushi meal at Moshi Moshi. Yayyyy!

He read the text which had just Tweeted through on his phone.
Sushi
, he thought disdainfully. He didn’t understand that stuff. What was the point of going to a restaurant to eat uncooked fish? Seemed like easy money for the chef. He’d read somewhere that in Japan there were restaurants where you could eat sushi off the naked bodies of women. He could think of much better things to do with naked women.

He was looking forward to doing those things with Jessie Sheldon.

Too bad Jessie was going to be busy tonight. But it didn’t matter. Dee Burchmore was making her speech at the Martlets lunch tomorrow. She would be wearing her blue satin Manolo Blahniks with the diamanté buckles. He knew where she was going to park and the place was perfect. He was going to enjoy her.

Meantime, Jessie Sheldon would be keeping in touch. She had 322 followers on Twitter. It was so thoughtful of her to let him know all her movements.

72

Wednesday 14 January

Back in his office after the morning briefing, Roy Grace was deep in thought. Was it possible that a serving police officer could be the Shoe Man?

There had been bad apples in the Sussex Police, as in all other forces around the country in the past, at some time or other. Murderers, rapists, thieves, porn merchants, drug dealers and fraudsters hiding behind one of the ultimate façades of respectability and trust. It was rare, but with a team of over 5,000 people in Sussex alone, it could never be ruled out.

And it fitted. The inside information that had been fed to the press on the Shoe Man back in 1997, and now on the current investigation, could have been supplied by anyone with the access codes to the Sussex Police computer network. Cassian Pewe had access to them back in October last year. Who knew what he could have copied or taken then?

He dialled the central internal number for the London Metropolitan Police, his thoughts on what he planned to say crystal clear.

After two minutes of being shunted around various extensions, he heard Detective Superintendent Pewe’s voice, as sharp and invasive as a dentist’s drill, and as charming as a pipette full of sulphuric acid.

‘Roy! How good to hear from you! Need me back, do you?’

Cutting to the chase, he said, ‘No, I need some information from you. When you were with us, you logged out a cold-case file from the storeroom. You are the last signature on the form. It’s regarding a missing person, Rachael Ryan, who disappeared on Christmas morning, 1997. Ring a bell?’

‘I looked at a lot of files in the brief time I was with you, Roy.’ His voice sounded pained.

‘Well, there are two pages missing from this one, Cassian. Just wondering if by any chance you had given them to anyone else? A researcher perhaps?’

‘Let me think. No, absolutely not. No way! I wanted to review everything myself.’

‘Did you read that particular file?’

‘I honestly can’t remember.’

‘Try harder.’

Pewe sounded uneasy suddenly. ‘What is this, Roy?’

‘I’m asking you a question. Did you read that file? It’s only a few months ago.’

‘It rings a faint bell,’ he said defensively.

‘Would you have noticed if the last two pages were missing?’

‘Well, yes, of course I would.’

‘So they weren’t missing when you read them?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Do you remember what they said?’

‘No – no, I don’t.’

‘I need you to remember what they said, because they may now be crucial to a current investigation.’

‘Roy!’ He sounded pained. ‘Come on. Do you remember stuff you read three months ago?’

‘Yes, actually, I do. I have a good memory. Isn’t that what detectives are supposed to have?’

‘Roy, I’m sorry. I’m really busy at the moment on a report I need to have finished by midday.’

‘Would it help to refresh your memory if I had you arrested and brought you back down here?’

Grace heard a sound like the blade of a lawnmower striking a half-buried flint. ‘Ha-ha! You are joking, aren’t you?’

On an operation last October, Roy Grace had saved Cassian Pewe’s life – at considerable risk to himself. Yet Pewe had barely thanked him. It was hard to imagine that he could ever feel more contempt for any human than he felt for this man. Grace hoped it wasn’t clouding his judgement, although at this moment he didn’t really care that much if it was.

‘Cassian, Tony Case, our Senior Support Officer, whom you will remember from when you were with us, has informed me that since Sussex House became operational, back in 1996, all cold-case files have been kept down in a secure storeroom in the basement. Access is strictly controlled, for chain-of-evidence purposes. A digital alarm protects it and anyone entering needs access codes, which are registered. He has a log, signed by you, showing that you returned the Shoe Man’s file to one of his assistants last October. No one has looked at that file subsequently, until the Cold Case Team this week. OK?’

He was greeted with silence.

‘You were in Brighton during the Labour Party Conference of 1997, weren’t you? On secondment from the Met when you were working for Special Branch. You then continued working in Brighton straight after that, on an inquiry into a series of armed jewellery raids in London that were linked with Brighton. You bought a flat, with a view to living here. Correct?’

‘Yes. So?’

‘The dates you were in this city coincide exactly with the dates that the Shoe Man committed his offences. You spent Christmas Eve, 1997, in Brighton, didn’t you?’

‘I can’t remember without checking my diary.’

‘One of my staff can verify that, Cassian. Bella Moy? Remember her?’

‘Should I?’

‘You tried to shag her in the back of your car at about midnight, after a boozy night out with a bunch of local officers. You drove her home, then tried to stop her getting out of your car. Remember now?’

‘No.’

‘Probably a good thing. She remembers it well. You’re lucky she didn’t press charges for sexual harassment.’

‘Roy, are you trying to tell me you’ve never snogged a girl pissed?’

Ignoring him, Grace said, ‘I want to know what you did after you left Bella outside her mother’s house. Those hours between midnight and Christmas morning? I want to know what you did on Halloween, 1997. I have more dates for you. I want to know where you were a fortnight ago on New Year’s Eve. Where were you last Thursday evening, 8 January? Where were you last Saturday evening, 10 January? I hope you are writing all those down, Cassian.’

‘You’re wasting police time, Roy!’ He tried to sound good-humoured. ‘Come on. Do you really expect me to be able to tell you where I was at any given moment twelve years ago? Could you tell me where you were?’

‘I could, Cassian. I could tell you exactly. So tell me, this past New Year’s Eve – where did you spend it?’

There was a long silence. Then Pewe said reluctantly, ‘In Brighton, actually.’

‘Can someone vouch for you?’

There was another long silence before Pewe said, ‘I’m sorry, Roy, I’m not prepared to continue this conversation. I don’t like your tone. I don’t like your questions.’

‘And I don’t like your answers,’ Grace replied.

73

Wednesday 14 January

Yac was tired. At 3 a.m. the city had been quiet. The second Tuesday in January and people were staying home. He’d cruised around because the man who owned the taxi got angry if he stopped too early, but he’d only had two fares since midnight – barely enough to cover the cost of the fuel. He’d been about to head home when a call had come in to take two people up to Luton Airport. He’d only got back to the boat just before 7 a.m. Exhausted, he’d fed the cat and crashed out in his berth.

Footsteps woke him. A steady
clump
,
clump
,
clump
on the deck above his head. He sat up and looked at the clock. It showed 2 p.m.

Tea!
was his first thought. His second was,
Who the hell is up there?

He never had visitors. Ever. Apart from the postman and delivery men. But he was not expecting any deliveries.

It sounded like a whole group of people up there. Was it kids? Kids had been on the boat a few times, jeering and shouting at him, before he’d chased them off.

‘Go away!’ he shouted at the ceiling. ‘Piss off! Sod off! Screw off! Fuck off! Take a hike! Get lost, kids!’ He liked using words he heard in the taxi.

Then he heard knocking. A sharp, insistent
rap, rap, rap.

Angrily, he swung his legs out of his bunk and staggered into the saloon, padding across the wooden floor, partially covered with rugs, in his underpants and T-shirt.

Rap, rap, rap.

‘Go to hell!’ he shouted. ‘Who are you? Didn’t you hear me? What do you want? Are you deaf? Go away! I’m asleep!’

Rap, rap, rap!

He climbed up the wooden steps, into the sun lounge at the top. It had glass patio doors and a big brown sofa, and windows all around with views out on the grey afternoon across the mudflats. It was low tide.

A man in his fifties, balding, with a comb-over, wearing a shabby tweed jacket, grey flannel trousers and scuffed brown brogues, was standing outside. He held up a small black leather wallet and mouthed something at him that Yac did not understand. Behind him stood a whole group of people wearing blue jackets with POLICE written on them, and helmets with visors. One of them was lugging a big yellow cylinder that looked like a fire extinguisher.

‘Go away!’ Yac shouted. ‘I’m sleeping!’

Then he turned and started walking back down the stairs. As he did so he heard the
rap, rap, rap
again. It was starting to annoy him.
They should not be on his boat. This was private property!

The sound of splintering glass stopped him in his tracks just as he stepped on to the saloon floor. Anger surged inside him. That idiot. That stupid idiot had knocked too hard! Well, he would go and teach him a lesson!

But as he turned, he heard a cacophony of leather and rubber-soled footsteps.

A voice shouted out, ‘POLICE! DON’T MOVE! POLICE!’

The man with the comb-over was clattering down the steps, followed by several police officers in their yellow vests. The man was still holding up the wallet. Inside it was a badge of some kind and writing.

‘John Kerridge?’ the man asked him.

‘I’m Yac,’ he replied. ‘My name is Yac. I’m a taxi driver.’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Potting, Sussex CID.’ The man was now holding up a sheet of paper. ‘I have a warrant to search these premises.’

You’ll have to speak to the owners. I’m just looking after it for them. I have to feed the cat. I’m late doing that, because I slept in today.’

‘I’d like to have a few words with you, Yac. Perhaps we can sit down somewhere?’

‘Actually I have to go back to bed now, because I need my sleep. It’s quite important for my night shift, you see.’ Yac looked around at the police officers standing in the saloon beside him and behind him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to speak to the owners before I allow you on this boat. You will have to wait outside. It might be difficult getting hold of them because they are in Goa.’

‘Yac,’ Norman Potting said, ‘there’s an easy way to do this and a hard way. Either you cooperate and help us, or I arrest you. Simple as that.’

Yac cocked his head. ‘Simple as what?’

Potting looked at him dubiously, wondering if all the man’s lights were fully switched on. ‘The choice is yours. Do you want to spend tonight sleeping in your bed, or in a cell at our custody unit?’

‘I have to work tonight,’ he said. ‘The man who owns the taxi will be very angry if I don’t.’

‘OK, sunshine, then you’d better cooperate.’

Yac looked at him. ‘I don’t think the sun is always shining.’

Potting frowned, ignoring the comment. ‘Bit of a fisherman, are you?’

‘I’m a taxi driver.’

Potting jerked a thumb up at the deck. ‘You’ve got fishing lines out.’

Yac nodded.

‘What do you catch here? Mostly crabs?’

‘Plaice,’ Yac replied. ‘Flounder. Sometimes Dover soles.’

‘Good fishing, is it? I’m a bit of a fisherman myself. Never fished up this far.’

‘You broke my patio doors. You’d better fix those. They will be very angry with you. I’m not allowed to break anything.’

‘To tell you the truth, Yashmak, I don’t give a toss about your patio doors. I don’t actually give much of a toss about you either, and I don’t like your taste in underpants, but don’t let’s get personal. Either you’re going to cooperate or I’m going to arrest you, then take this floating skip apart, plank by plank.’

‘If you do that it will sink,’ Yac said. ‘You need some of the planks. Unless you’re a good swimmer.’

‘A comedian, are you?’ Potting said.

‘No, I’m a taxi driver. I do night shifts.’

Potting held his temper with some difficulty. ‘I’m looking for something on this boat, Yashmak. Anything you’ve got here you’d like to tell me about – and show me?’

‘I have my high-flush toilet chains, but they’re private. You can’t see those – except the ones I have in my berth. I can show you those.’ Yac perked up suddenly. ‘There’s a really good high-flush toilet near Worthing Pier – I could take you over there and show you them if you like?’

‘I’ll flush you down your own sodding toilet if you don’t shut it,’ Potting said.

Yac stared back at him, then grinned. ‘I wouldn’t fit,’ he said. ‘The diaphragm’s too small!’

‘Not by the time I finished with you, it wouldn’t be.’

‘I – I’ll bet you!’

‘And I’ll bet you, sunshine. I’ll bet you we find something here, all right? So why don’t you save us all lot of time and show us where the ladies’ shoes are?’

He saw the flicker in the strange man’s face and instantly he knew he had hit the mark.

‘I don’t have any shoes. Not ladies’ shoes.’

‘Are you sure?’

Yac eyeballed him for a moment, then looked down. ‘I don’t have any ladies’ shoes.’

‘That’s good to hear, Yashmak. I’ll get my team to verify that and then we’ll be off.’

‘Yes,’ Yac said. ‘But they can’t touch my toilet chains.’

‘I’ll let them know that.’

Yac nodded, perspiration running down him. ‘I’ve been collecting them a long time, you see.’

‘Toilet chains?’ Norman Potting said.

Yac nodded.

The Detective Sergeant stared at him for some moments. ‘Tell you what, Yashmak, how about I flush you down the sodding toilet now?’