Not Dead Enough

74

Saturday’s press conference had been bad enough, but this one now was even worse. Around fifty people were crammed into the briefing room and a lot more than on Saturday were packed along the corridor. A capacity house, Grace thought grimly. The only good thing was that he had heavyweight support here this morning.

Flanking him on either side, so they formed a line of three in front of the concave board carrying the Sussex Police website address and the Crimestoppers legend, were Assistant Chief Constable Alison Vosper, who had changed clothes since he left her office and was now wearing her spotless, freshly pressed uniform, and the Brighton Police Divisional Commander, Chief Superintendent Ken Brickhill, a blunt, plain-speaking policeman of the old school, in his equally immaculate uniform. A tough individual, Brickhill had no time for the politically correct lobby, and would happily hang most of the villains in Brighton and Hove, given half a chance. Unsurprisingly, he was respected by just about everyone who had ever served under him.

Some of the windows in here actually opened, but even so, with sunlight beating through the blinds, it was stiflingly hot. Someone made a quip about the Black Hole of Calcutta, while the press officer, flamboyantly but slightly shabbily dressed Dennis Ponds, squeezed his way around the table to join the trio, muttering an excuse for being late.

Ponds started by leaning too closely to the microphone, so that his first words were almost lost in squawk-back. ‘Good morning,’ he said, starting again, his rather unctuous, ingratiating voice clearer this time. ‘This press conference will start with Detective Superintendent Grace running through the investigations into the deaths of Mrs Katherine Bishop and Miss Sophie Harrington. Then Assistant Chief Constable Vosper and Chief Superintendent Brickhill, Divisional Commander of Brighton Police, will talk about the community and the public at large.’ He handed over to Grace with a theatrical sweep of his arm and stepped away.

Flashbulbs strobed for some moments, as Roy Grace outlined the details of the investigation so far. He of course didn’t tell them everything, but kept to the facts on times and events, confirming a lot of information that they already knew. He appealed in respect of both investigations for witnesses to come forward, particularly anyone who knew either woman and had seen her in the last few days. He stated, also, that he was keen to talk to anyone who had seen anything suspicious near either murder scene.

Having concluded all he wanted to say about the murders at this stage, Grace then asked those present if they had any questions.

A female voice, someone at the back whom Grace could not see, shouted out, ‘We understand there is a serial killer at large. Can you reassure us that the people of Brighton and Hove are safe, Detective Superintendent?’

Grace had the usual problem of what to do with his hands, well aware that his body language was as important as what he said. Resisting the temptation to clasp his hands in front him, he dropped them firmly to his sides, and leaned into the microphone. ‘At present there is nothing to indicate that this is a serial killer. But people should take care and be a little more vigilant than usual.’

‘How can you say this isn’t a serial killer, when two women have been murdered within twenty-four hours of each other?’ demanded a squeaky-voiced old stringer for a bunch of provincial papers. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, can you give an assurance to young women living in Brighton that they are safe?’

A bead of perspiration dropped, stinging, into Grace’s right eye. ‘I think it best now that my colleagues, who are here to talk about community issues, respond to that,’ he said, looking first at Alison Vosper and then at Ken Brickhill.

They nodded and the Chief Superintendent then said, in his no-nonsense voice, ‘No one can ever give a 100 percent guarantee like that in a modern city. But police and local community leaders are doing everything they can, with additional resources, to catch the killer – or killers.’

‘So it might be one person responsible for both killings?’ the reporter persisted.

Evasively, Brickhill replied, ‘If anyone has concerns they should contact the police. Police patrols are going to be increased. Anyone who sees anything suspicious should contact us. We don’t want the public to panic. A lot of resources have been allocated to the investigation and we are doing everything to ensure the citizens of Brighton and Hove are safe.’

Then Kevin Spinella, who was standing a short distance away, at the front of the pack, said, ‘Are you not going to admit, Detective Superintendent, that there is a crazed serial killer at large in Brighton somewhere?’

Grace responded calmly by reiterating the overview from both murder scenes. Then he continued by adding, ‘We are still in the early stages of our investigation, but there would appear to be some similarities between the two cases, yes.’

‘Detective Superintendent, do you have a prime suspect?’ asked a young reporter from the Mid-Sussex Times.

‘We are following a number of lines of inquiry and every day we are getting more information in. We would like to thank the public for all the information they have supplied so far. At this moment our teams are sifting through a large volume of phone calls and we are waiting for forensic results back from the labs. We have detectives working around the clock to identify who is responsible and bring them to justice.’

‘So what you are saying,’ Kevin Spinella said, in a loud, important voice, ‘is that people in Brighton and Hove should lock themselves in their houses and not go out until the killer has been caught.’

‘No,’ Grace retorted, ‘that’s not what we are saying. The police have no idea who or where the killer of either woman is, and all women must be at risk. But that does not mean anyone needs to panic.’ He turned to his chief. ‘I’ll let Assistant Chief Constable Vosper respond to that in more detail.’

If looks could kill, Vosper’s smile would have sliced Grace open and then disembowelled him.

A solidly built earth mother standing near the back called out loudly, ‘Assistant Chief Constable, will you be allowing Detective Superintendent Grace to consult a medium?’

There was a titter of laughter. The woman had touched a raw nerve. Maintaining a poker face, Grace smiled inwardly, watching Alison Vosper’s sudden discomfort and really quite enjoying it. He had been pilloried over a previous case, a few months back, when it had come out in court that he had taken a shoe, a key piece of evidence in a murder trial, to a medium. The press had had a field day. And so had Vosper – with him.

‘It is not normal practice for the police to follow such a line of inquiry,’ she replied sharply. ‘That said, we listen to anyone who can provide us with information, and then assess how it may progress the investigation.’

‘So you don’t rule it out?’ the reporter persisted.

‘I think I’ve already given you my answer.’ Then she looked around the room. ‘Any more questions?’

At the end of the conference, as Grace was leaving, Alison Vosper collared him and they stepped into a vacant office.

‘We’ve got the whole eyes of the city on us, Roy. If you are planning to go and see any of your psychics, please discuss it with me first.’

‘I don’t have any plans, not at this stage.’

‘Good!’ she said, with the gusto of someone praising a puppy for urinating in the right place. For a moment he thought she was going to pat him on the head and give him a biscuit.