You Are Dead (37 page)

Then suddenly he stopped. And stared. Stared at the photograph beneath the headline.

A young girl, with a pretty face and long brown hair.

The date of the paper was 30 December 1976.

The
Argus
headline said:

HOVE LAGOON DROWNING TRAGEDY

He read on.

An ambulance crew was unable to resuscitate teenager Mandy White, 14, who fell through the ice on Hove Lagoon's big pond after a night out. She was rushed to the Royal Sussex County Hospital shortly before midnight, but was pronounced dead on arrival.

The emergency call had been made by her companion for the evening, Edward Denning, 15, who admitted to the police that they had been drinking heavily. According to Denning, Mandy, daughter of an employee of his family, decided to try skating on the ice, despite his warning. He said he tried to restrain her but she shook free of his arms, and moments later fell through the ice. He tried to pull her out, but became overwhelmed by the cold water and decided to go for help instead.

Mandy's family are said to be devastated. Her mother was too distressed to speak to the
Argus
yesterday. Her father, Ronald White, said she was the apple of his eye, and a lovely girl who worked hard at school and with her paper round. Close to tears he said, “She's my daughter—our only daughter—and I want her back so much.”

Detective Inspector Ron Gilbart of Hove Police said it looked, sadly, as if misguided high jinks by a pair of youngsters had gone tragically wrong, but that a full investigation into the events would take place.

The story dominated the entire front page. Roy Grace read it through twice, making a note of the names, then sat thinking. It had happened close to forty years ago. Some years earlier than Katy Westerham and Denise Patterson. He remembered Tony Balazs's words from yesterday.

The universal profile of serial killers is they are aged between fifteen to forty-five at the time of their first murder and between eighteen to sixty at the time of their last.

Could there be a connection between this incident and his current investigation? The time frame fitted. Could this be where it had begun, he wondered?

He photographed the image on the screen with his iPhone, then took a second photograph as backup.

Detective Inspector Ron Gilbart.
Ambitious officers back then would reach that rank in their early thirties to early forties. Was Gilbart still alive now? If he was, he'd be in his seventies or eighties. He knew exactly who to call to ask.

As he hurried out of the library, he phoned Tish and asked her to get him the number of David Rowland, a former Sussex policeman now in his seventies, who coordinated the local Association of Retired Police Officers. Standing on the pavement in the light drizzle, he waited for her to look up the number. She said she'd call him back in a few moments. As he went to call Cleo's number quickly to see how everything was going, his assistant came back on the line and gave him the number.

He dialed it immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. He left a message asking Rowland to call him back urgently. He strode swiftly up to the Church Street car park, paid what he considered to be the rip-off sum of money demanded by the machine, then began to drive out. Just as the barrier rose, his phone rang.

It was David Rowland. The former copper had a voice that was both elderly, but at the same time imbued with an infectious, almost youthful enthusiasm. “Sorry I missed your call, Roy, I was down in the cells of the Old Police Cells Museum and I'm afraid there's no mobile signal down there. How can I help you?”

“Detective Inspector Ron Gilbart—do you by chance remember him?” Grace drove through the barrier, then stopped and waved a man wheeling a bicycle past, followed by a young couple with a baby in a pushchair.

Rowland sounded surprised. “Yes, very well indeed. We were both at Hove together for quite a time. Sorry to see that station go, it holds good memories for me. What do you want to know about him?”

“Do you happen to know if he's still alive?” In his mirror he saw another car, a black Range Rover, pull up at the barrier behind him.

“Yes he is, but he's not very well, poor bugger. Had a stroke a couple of years ago and he's pretty much housebound. Got all his marbles, but he struggles with his speech. His wife's pretty good at helping him out. They've got a bungalow in Woodingdean.”

“Have you got his address and number?”

The Range Rover gave him an angry blast on his horn. Ignoring it, Grace tapped the number into his phone. Moments later, a short, bald man banged angrily on his window.

“Get a fucking move on, you tosser!”

Grace pulled out his wallet and flashed it open to show his warrant card to the man as he dialed. The bald man raised both arms in the air in frustration. Ignoring him, Grace listened to the ringing tone, then a moment later a female voice answered. It was Gilbart's wife and yes, Ron was home.

Current regulations restricted the breaking of speed limits to emergencies only. In his view this was an emergency. He bullied his way out into the traffic, and drove as fast as he could toward Gilbart's home.

 

82

Friday 19 December

Logan Somerville was hyperventilating. “Help me, someone! Help me! Help me!” she shouted, her voice becoming increasingly hoarse. She had been shouting since she had woken, some while earlier, in a terrible panic. She'd not heard a sound in hours—or maybe even days. She had totally lost track of time and was ravenously hungry, and desperate for water. Her sugar levels were dropping and with that sensation came the shakes and paranoia.

What if?

So many bad possibilities sparked in her mind.

What if her captor had died?

Or been arrested?

Or he had just decided to let her rot and die?

She began working again on her bonds. On her arm restraints, on her leg restraints. But with no success, other than to feel the pain where her flesh had rubbed.

She was not going to get out of here unless someone came to free her. And she did not want to die here, all alone.

“Police. POLICE! Hello! HELP ME!”

Oh, God, please someone help me.

She saw a faint green glow.

“Hello?” she said, weakly. “Please, I need water, sugar. Please.”

Then she heard his muffled voice. “I nearly had you out of here today! But it went a bit wrong. Don't worry, I have someone else in mind. As soon as I bring her here, you'll be free! Free as a bird.”

“Thank you,” she gasped.

“You're welcome.”

 

83

Friday 19 December

Ten minutes after leaving the Church Street car park, Roy Grace turned left up a steep hill opposite the Nuffield Hospital, and drove a short distance looking at the house numbers. It was 3:30 p.m. and already it was starting to get dark. Christmas lights sparkled in most of the downstairs windows, and two adjacent houses had garish light displays in their gardens. He pulled up outside No. 82. A small people carrier with a blue Disabled badge was parked on the driveway.

He stepped up to the porch and rang the bell. Moments later he was ushered inside by Gilbart's wife, Hilary, who was a tiny, sprightly lady nudging eighty, with a twinkling face and neat white hair. “I'm afraid he has trouble hearing as well as speaking, Detective Superintendent,” she forewarned him.

The house felt like a sauna, and there was a faint smell of roasting meat. Much of the tiny hall was taken up by a trophy cabinet filled with silver cups, and a team photograph of rugby players standing in their midst. “Ron's rugby and golf trophies!” she said proudly. “He played for the police rugby and golf teams for years—right up until his stroke, really.”

A male voice called out, slurred and slightly aggressive. The words were just about decipherable. “Schlooo ish it? Warrer they want? Make shure they show shere identity.”

“It's the police officer, darling, the one who phoned a little while ago. Detective Superintendent Roy Grace. The friend of David Rowland.”

“Urr.”

A few moments later, seated on a sofa in front of a blazing gas fire, feeling himself beginning to perspire, Grace was almost deafened by the television. On the wall behind it hung a framed Sussex Police Commendation. He watched the former Detective Inspector, in his recliner armchair, Zimmer frame beside it, grapple with the remote, struggling to mute the television that was showing a cricket match somewhere overseas. Gilbart was a large man, with massive shoulders and thinning gray hair on his liver-spotted head. He gave Grace an expression that could have been a smile or a leer. “Yurnknowd-d-d-david-rowla?”

“Yes, I've known David for years,” Grace said. “I was just admiring your trophies out in the hall—I'm President of the Sussex Police Rugby Team.”

“I carplaynymore,” he said, and looked so sad.

Hilary Gilbart came back into the room with a cup of tea for Grace and a piece of shortbread in the saucer, then she sat on the sofa. “I'll help translate,” she said.

Grace thanked her, then turned to the retired detective. “Ron,” he said, “do the names Mandy White or Edward Denning ring a bell at all? Mandy's body was found in Hove Lagoon in December 1976, when you were the Duty Inspector.”

Staring straight ahead at the silent television, watching a bowler begin his run, Gilbart said, “Lord Denning. Bloodyyud j-j-judge.”

“I don't think Detective Superintendent Grace was referring to Lord Denning, my love,” Hilary said. “It was
Edward
Denning he asked you about.” She turned to Grace. “If you give me a few moments, I will get Ron's scrapbook—I am sure there's some information on that case in it.”

Gilbart again stared at the screen. The ball was returned to the bowler by a fielder, and he walked away from the crease, pacing out his next run. After several moments, Grace was beginning to wonder if the old man had fallen asleep, when suddenly he spoke, quite vehemently, his voice raised.

“Lil shit!”

“Little shit?” Grace prompted. “Edward Denning?”

“Lil shit.”

“In what way?”

“Couldvsave—couldvsave—her—gl– gl– gl–”

“Could have saved the girl?” his wife checked, coming back into the room. “Is that what you're trying to say, my love?”

He nodded.

“Why didn't he, Ron? Why didn't he save her?” Grace asked.

Gilbart's mouth dropped open, and he stared again at the cricket match, his head nodding for some moments. “Becar—becarl—becarl ye lilled her.”

 

84

Friday 19 December

Roy Grace arrived back at Sussex House moments before the start of the 6:30 p.m. briefing. It was the day of their house move. Cleo and Noah would be in their new home by now; he so wished he was with them but he had no idea what time he would get there tonight. Not until very late for sure. He took his place in the conference room, made a quick note about his meeting with Ron Gilbart and what he had read in the scrapbook in his policy book, then looked through the minutes that his assistant had prepared.

The door flew open and Norman Potting, looking a lot more animated than he had seen him in a while, rushed in. He stopped for an instant, staring around at the entire assembled team as if assessing whether it was appropriate for him to interrupt or not, then clearly decided it was.

“Chief,” he said. “I think I have something of interest!”

“Well, we haven't actually started yet, but go ahead, Norman,” he said.

“I went to see Dr. Edward Crisp again this morning, as you requested. He's a slippery bastard. Interviewing him is like trying to write on a wet egg. We know he appeared walking his dog at Hove Lagoon on the evening that the body of Denise Patterson was discovered by the workmen. I wasn't happy with the explanation Dr. Crisp gave me as to why he was there. He said this was his regular evening constitutional after work. He also told me that his daily routine was to walk his dog in the same area during his break, stopping at the Hove Deep Sea Anglers Club or the Big Beach Café for lunch.”

Potting paused and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his inside pocket and glanced at it for some moments. Then he held it up, waving it around. “This is a triangulation report from his mobile phone company. Dr. Crisp is quite correct when he talks about his lunchtime routine, because this backs it up. But he has lied about his evening routine. Every evening, regular as clockwork, he normally walks home from his office in Wilbury Road to Tongdean Villas, via Hove Park, according to this. On the night of Thursday, 11th December—the night Denise's body was discovered—he suddenly varied his routine and went down to Hove Lagoon. I think we need to know why. One of the reasons you asked me to go and talk to him again was that he seemed overly interested in the progress of the investigation. He has contacted me seven times.”

DS Jon Exton raised his hand. “Could it be that on his lunchtime constitutional he saw the workmen drilling up the path, and returned out of simple curiosity?”

“I don't think any normal person would be curious about workmen digging up an old path, would they?” Potting said. “But it might be a different matter if they saw their deposition site being excavated.”

“So far we've had no useful information from any of the workmen we've located who laid that original path?” Grace asked.

“Norman spoke to the one who's now living in Perth, Australia,” Guy Batchelor said. “He was on the original crew and claims he saw nothing.”

“What's his name?” Grace asked.

“Tony Scudder. I had a long chat with him over the phone. I don't think he saw anything suspicious.”

“Do we know anything about Scudder's background?”

“We've checked for any criminal record, but there's nothing.”