Dead Like You (27 page)

69

Wednesday 14 January

Norman Potting entered MIR-1 carrying a coffee he had just made in the kitchenette along the corridor. He was stooping, holding the steaming mug out at arm’s length, as if mistrustful of it. He grunted a couple of times as he crossed the room, seeming to be about to say something, then changing his mind.

Like most of the team, Potting had been at his desk since before 7 a.m. It was now coming up to 8.30 a.m., and the morning briefing. Temporarily absent from the room was Roy Grace, who had an early appointment with the ACC, Peter Rigg, and Julius Proudfoot, who was due at any moment.

A phone rang, loudly, to the sound of a trumpet fanfare. Everyone looked around. Embarrassed, Nick Nicholl plucked his offending machine out and silenced it.

As Roy Grace entered the room another phone went off. The ring tone was the
Indiana Jones
theme. Potting had the decency to blush. It was his.

Mouthing an apology to Roy Grace, he yanked it out of his pocket and checked the display. Then he raised a finger. ‘I’ll just take this quickly … Someone who may have a lead.’

Another phone rang. It was Julius Proudfoot’s. The forensic psychologist entered the room, extricating his mobile from his man bag as he walked, answered it and sat down, holding it to his ear.

The last to arrive was the Sexual Offences Liaison Officer, Claire Westmore, who had been interviewing and spending time with each of the three rape victims. This was the first of the briefings she had attended.

Potting, wedging his phone to his ear with his shoulder, was writing on his notepad. ‘Thank you. That’s very helpful. Thank you.’

He replaced his phone and turned to Roy, looking pleased with himself. ‘We have another suspect, chief!’

‘Tell me?’

‘It’s from a bloke I know, one of my
contacts
.’ Potting tapped the side of his nose. ‘Drives for Streamline Taxis. Told me there’s a bloke – he’s a bit of a joke among the other cabbies apparently – name of John Kerridge. But he calls himself by a funny nickname: Yac. Well, apparently this Yac fellow drives a journeyman night shift and is always going on about strange stuff – ladies’ shoes is one of his things.’

Now he had the full attention of the room.

‘There have been a few complaints about him by passengers – he gets a bit too personal about things, in particular the toilets in their homes and their footwear. I’ve spoken to the Hackney Carriage officer in the council. He tells me this driver hasn’t actually propositioned anyone, but he’s a bit more personal than some of his passengers like. The council want people – particularly women – to feel safe in licensed taxis, not vulnerable. He says he’s planning to have a word with him.’

‘Do you have an address for Kerridge?’ Grace asked.

Potting nodded. ‘Lives on a houseboat at Shoreham.’

‘Good work,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve got
Suspects
on the agenda, so we’ll add him to the list when we get to it.’ He put his briefing notes down on the work surface in front of him, along with his Policy Book. ‘OK, it is 8.30 a.m., Wednesday 14 January. This is our tenth briefing of
Operation Swordfish
, the investigation into the stranger rape of three persons, Mrs Nicola Taylor, Mrs Roxy Pearce and Miss Mandy Thorpe. I’ve asked the SOLO, Claire Westmore, to attend in order to update us on her interviews with the victims.’

He nodded at her.

‘All three of them are, as you would expect, deeply traumatized by what they have been through – the assaults, and the intrusive procedures afterwards,’ the SOLO said in her soft Scouse accent. ‘I’ll start with the first victim, Nicola Taylor, who still has only very limited recall of the attack at the Metropole. Her trauma has deepened since the original interview with her, part of which you and DS Branson witnessed. At the moment she is under sedation at her home in Brighton, being cared for around the clock by a female friend, and has attempted twice to self-harm. She may have to be taken into psychiatric care for a while before we can start a full interview process.’

She paused to look at her notes. ‘I think we are making some progress with Mrs Roxanna Pearce, who was attacked in her home in The Droveway last Thursday night. What is interesting in her situation is that when the offender struck, she was in the process of getting dressed up – while her husband was away on a business trip in Scandinavia. SOCO found evidence in her kitchen that she was expecting a guest.’

There were a few raised eyebrows. Then Bella said, ‘She could simply have invited a girlfriend round. Why the innuendo?’

‘Well,’ Claire Westmore said, ‘I don’t think the signs indicate an
innocent
evening with a mate. There were Italian hors d’oeuvres in a carrier bag on the kitchen table. Two steaks on plates. An open bottle of a very expensive wine and another bottle in the fridge. I’ve asked her who she was going to be cooking these steaks for and she goes very defensive. She keeps repeating that she’d bought them to give her husband a treat when he came home. But he wasn’t due home until the next day.’

‘You don’t let a wine breathe that long. It would be kaput,’ Michael Foreman said. ‘It’s one of my interests. Doesn’t matter what the quality, an hour or two perhaps. But that long? Never. I’ve had a look at the report. That opened bottle would cost over a hundred quid. That’s not plonk you drink over a casual supper.’

‘Yep, well, I don’t know much about wine,’ Westmore said, ‘but I would have to agree with you. I think she was expecting someone.’

‘You mean a lover?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

‘You don’t open a bottle of wine for someone who’s going to rape you,’ Emma-Jane Boutwood said.

‘Maybe she was planning a kinky sex session,’ Norman Potting interjected.

‘In your dreams,’ Bella Moy retorted.

‘She’s obviously not going to tell you the truth if she was up to something while her husband was away,’ Potting went on. ‘And she’s not going to want him finding out now, is she?’

‘Could we be looking at a kinky sex game gone wrong?’ Proud-foot asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Claire Westmore said. ‘Not from the way I’m reading her.’

‘So who was her mystery dinner guest?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

‘She’s denying there was one.’

Glenn Branson spoke. ‘The Mercedes car that was seen leaving her house at around the time of the attack, for which we only have two digits and one letter of the alphabet. We’ve now narrowed that down to eighty-three vehicles registered in the Brighton and Hove area. All the registered keepers are being contacted and interviewed. Of course, we’ve no way of being sure this was a local car, but it seems probable.’

‘How many have been eliminated so far?’ Roy Grace asked.

‘Seventy-one, sir,’ said a young DC, Alan Ramsay. ‘We should have the rest covered in the next twenty-four hours.’

‘So it could be the offender – or her dinner guest,’ Grace said.

‘If it was her guest, why did he drive away, do you think, boss?’ Michael Foreman asked.

‘Sounds like, if Claire is right, we might get a chance to ask him that directly.’ Grace looked at her. ‘Any more on the third victim?’

‘Mandy Thorpe is still in hospital, under observation for her head injury, but she’s improving – physically if not mentally, sir,’ the SOLO said. ‘But she’s responding well to questioning.’

‘Anything new from her?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I’m still not happy about the link with the first two and her. I’m just not convinced it is the same offender.’ Grace looked at Proudfoot, who said nothing. ‘OK, let’s move on to the suspect list. First, can I have an update on where we are with Darren Spicer?’

Glenn Branson spoke again. ‘Me and DC Nicholl interviewed him again last night at the St Patrick’s shelter – we checked first he had been at work all that day at the Grand Hotel, just to see if he was keeping his word about wanting to go straight. We asked him why he’d taken the shoes of his last victim – Marcie Kallestad – after sexually assaulting her.’

‘And?’

‘He said it was to stop her chasing him.’

There was a titter of laughter.

‘Did you believe him?’ Grace asked.

‘Not as far as I could throw him. He’ll tell you whatever he wants you to hear. But I didn’t get the impression he took them for any kinky reason.’

He turned towards Nick Nicholl, who shook his head and said, ‘I agree.’

‘Did he say what he did with them?’

Nicholl nodded. ‘He said he flogged them to a shop down Church Street.’

‘Is it still there?’ Grace asked. ‘Could we get them to verify that?’

‘Think they’re going to remember a pair of shoes twelve years later, sir?’

Grace nodded. ‘Good point. OK. Norman, what can you tell us about this taxi driver, Johnny Kerridge – Yac?’

‘He’s a piece of work, from what I’ve gathered. I’m planning to go and have a chat with him this morning.’

‘Good. If you have enough for an arrest, bring him in. The ACC’s blowing smoke up my backside. But only if you really feel you have enough, understand?’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘What about a search warrant? Take him by surprise and stop him getting rid of any evidence.’

‘I don’t know if we have enough, chief,’ Potting said.

‘From what I’ve heard we’ve enough to justify. We’re going in hard on all suspects now, so that’s your next action, Norman.’ Grace looked down at his notes. ‘OK, where are we with other sex offenders on the register? Has anyone moved up the offender status?’

‘No, sir,’ Ellen Zoratti said. ‘We’re working through the list. I’ve got a possible in Shrewsbury four years ago – very similar MO and no suspect ever apprehended, and another in Birmingham six years ago. I’m waiting for more details.’

Grace nodded. ‘One important question, Ellen, is have we captured all offences so far in our territory? Are we sure we haven’t missed any? We know for a fact that only 6 per cent of rapes get reported. How are we going to get crucial information from the other 94 per cent? We’ve talked so far to our neighbouring forces, Kent, Surrey, Hampshire and the Met as well. That hasn’t yielded anything.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You’ve been trawling SCAS for stranger rapes – any joy there?’

SCAS was the Serious Crime Analysis Section, which covered every county in the UK except for the London Metropolitan Police, who were not linked in on it.

‘Nothing so far, sir,’ she said, ‘but I’m waiting on several forces to get back to me.’

‘Let me know as soon as you have anything.’

Proudfoot coughed and then spoke. ‘As I said, I’d be very surprised if our man hasn’t offended elsewhere in these past twelve years. Very surprised indeed. You can take it as a given that he has.’

‘Offended as in
rape
?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood asked.

‘Urges don’t just go away,’ Proudfoot said. ‘He’ll have needed outlets for his urges.’ His phone rang again. After a quick look at the display, he silenced it. ‘I presume you’re in contact with
Crimewatch
, Roy? They could be helpful here.’

‘We have an excellent relationship with them, Julius,’ Grace replied. ‘Unfortunately, it’s two weeks until they are on air again. I want to have our offender potted long before then.’

He could have added, but did not, that so did the ACC, Peter Rigg, the Chief Constable, Tom Martinson, and the Chief Executive of Brighton and Hove Corporation.

Suddenly, his own phone rang.

It was his former boss from 1997, Jim Doyle, who was now part of the recently formed Cold Case Team.

‘Roy,’ he said. ‘Those missing pages from the Rachael Ryan cold-case file – about the white van seen near her flat on Christmas morning, 1997?’

‘Yes?’

‘We’ve found out who last signed that file out. I think you’re going to like this rather a lot.’

70

Wednesday 14 January

‘I’m all ears,’ Roy Grace said.

The next words from Jim Doyle stunned him. Totally stunned him. After they had fully sunk in, he said, ‘You’re not serious, Jim.’

‘Absolutely I am.’

In his nineteen years in the police force to date, Roy Grace had found his fellow officers tended to be good, decent people and, for the most part, people whose company he enjoyed both at work and socially. Sure there were a few prats: some, like Norman Potting, who at least had the redeeming feature of being a good detective, and others, very occasionally, who were a total waste of space. But there were only two people he could really genuinely say that he did not like.

The first was his acerbic former ACC, Alison Vosper, who seemed to have made her mind up from the start that she and Grace were not going to get on; the second was a London Metropolitan Police detective who’d had a brief sojourn here last year, and had tried very hard to stick the boot into him. His name was Cassian Pewe.

Grace excused himself and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

‘Cassian Pewe? Are you serious, Jim? You’re saying that Cassian Pewe was the last person to sign that file out?’

‘
Detective Superintendent
Cassian Pewe. He was working here in the autumn, wasn’t he?’ Doyle said. ‘Hadn’t he moved here from the Met, to help you out on cold cases?’

‘Not to help me out, Jim, to take over from me – and not just on cold cases, but on everything. That was his plan, courtesy of Alison Vosper! He was out to eat my sodding lunch!’

‘I heard there was a bit of friction.’

‘You could call it that.’

Grace had first met Pewe a few years ago, when the man was a detective inspector. The Met had sent in reinforcements to help police Brighton during the Labour Party Conference, Pewe being one of them. Grace had had a big run-in with him and found him supremely arrogant. Then, to his utter dismay, last year Pewe had moved down to Sussex CID with the rank of detective superintendent, and Alison Vosper had given him Grace’s cold-case workload – plus the clear signal that the former Met officer would be taking over more and more of Grace’s duties.

Cassian Pewe fancied himself as a ladies’ man. He had golden hair, angelic blue eyes and a permanent tan. He preened and strutted, exuding a natural air of authority, always acting as if he was in charge, even when he wasn’t. Working secretly, behind Grace’s back, Pewe had taken it upon himself to ruin Grace’s career by trying to reopen investigations into Sandy’s disappearance – and point suspicion at him. Returning from a trip to New York last October, Grace found, to his utter incredulity, that Pewe had assembled a Police Search Unit team to scan and dig up his garden for Sandy’s suspected remains.

Fortunately, that had proved a step too far. Pewe left Sussex CID and returned to the Met not long after, with his tail between his legs.

After a few more questions to Jim Doyle, Grace hung up and then stood thinking for some moments. There was no way, at this stage, he could mention anything openly to his team. Questioning another officer as high-ranking as Pewe as a suspect would have to be done discreetly, regardless of his personal feelings towards the man.

He would do this himself and it would be a pleasure.