You Are Dead

23

Friday 12 December

Roy Grace pulled up outside the Chesham Gate apartment building, behind a white Crime Scene Investigation van, a marked police car and two unmarked police vehicles. A short way along, the silver Specialist Search Unit van was straddling the kerb in order not to block the narrow street. A small knot of curious onlookers were standing around watching, and a youth was taking pictures with his phone.

On his way here, from the Lagoon, he’d had an idea for the brief, but very emotional speech he had to make on Monday, at Bella’s funeral. He jotted it down, then he climbed out into the cold, blustery wind.

Fluttering crime scene tape sealed off the entrance to the car park. The gates were open and a PCSO scene guard stood in front with a clipboard. She directed Roy Grace to the van to suit up. He entered and shared some banter with two search officers, the highly experienced POLSA Sergeant Lorna Dennison-Wilkins and a recent recruit to her team, Scott, he had not met before, who were having a coffee break.

As he wormed his way into a protective oversuit for the second time this morning, he asked Lorna what was happening and where the Crime Scene Manager, John Morgan, was.

‘Lots of pissed-off residents who can’t get their cars out, sir. And another bunch who can’t get their cars in. You might like to have a word with some of them. John Morgan’s in a stroppy mood this morning and not being at his most diplomatic.’

Morgan was good at his job, but not always known for his tact. Protection of a crime scene was vital to prevent contamination, but when it inconvenienced the public, as was often the case, it required a delicate hand to explain the reasons. Mostly the public were understanding and helpful, but some were anything but — those who hated the police, and those who were just plain selfish or bloody-minded.

He signed the scene log and walked down the ramp into the underground car park in his clumsy, ungainly protective blue oversuit and shoes. A wide variety of cars were parked in the bays, including several sleek shapes beneath covers. There was a sharp, dry smell of engine oil, paintwork and dust. Several search officers, similarly clad, were on their hands and knees, shoulder to shoulder inside a taped-off area. Further along he saw another officer from the unit, on top of the SSU’s portable scaffolding tower, checking behind a roof-light fitting.

The stocky figure of John Morgan appeared from around a corner and greeted him with a surly but polite, ‘Morning, boss!’

‘What do you have, John?’

The Crime Scene Manager shook his head. ‘Something that might be of interest — a footprint in a patch of engine oil.’ He led Grace over to an empty parking bay next to where the Fiat had been parked, where there was a small pool of black sludge on the ground. ‘Looks like a male, because of the size. There are several weaker prints heading across towards the far end of the car park, but that’s it.’ Then he pointed up at a CCTV camera. ‘If that had been working, we might have got a lot more that could be useful.’

Accompanied by Morgan, Grace walked around the entire car park, noting the fire escapes, the lift and the main steps up beside it. Plenty of ways in which someone could enter pretty much unnoticed except by cameras. Then the caretaker took them to the couple’s flat, where Grace had met the boyfriend last night. Morgan told Grace that Logan Somerville’s laptop and mobile phone had been taken across to the High Tech Crime Unit for a high-priority examination. In particular they’d be looking at recent calls, her emails and social networking sites to see if there were any clues to her disappearance there.

The boyfriend was lined up for a 1 p.m. appeal on the local news, with Grace. Meanwhile the police CCTV camera footage around the city was being examined for any sightings of Logan Somerville, or the estate car that had been seen in the area.

The good news was that most of the mispers reported annually in the UK turned up within a few days, and there was always a raft of different explanations for their absence.

Was Logan Somerville going to turn up within a few days, with a perfectly plausible explanation for her absence? He had a bad feeling about this particular young woman. The report by her fiancé of her screaming. The vehicle coming out of the underground car park at high speed around the same time. Despite Jamie Ball’s alibi that would appear to eliminate him from suspicion, Roy Grace was not happy about this man. No one at this stage would be eliminated entirely. He’d be in a better position to decide on the young man after he had been interviewed, and in particular, after his performance at the televised appeal, later. Would he be shedding real or crocodile tears?

He looked at a photograph of the pair in cycling outfits; then at another of them lying on a beach. A young, attractive, happy-looking couple, like a thousand other young lovers, seemingly without a care in the world. Except, in his jaded cynicism, he didn’t believe there were many people who genuinely could say they didn’t have a care in the world. Everyone had some kind of a problem they had to deal with.

His phone rang. He answered it, looking down at the signal on the display which showed just one dot. ‘Roy Grace.’

It was Glenn Branson, his voice crackly, sounding excited. ‘Hey, boss, are you very tied up for half an hour? We’re at the mortuary. There’s something I think you should see.’

Grace looked at the time on his phone. 10.55 a.m. At midday he was due to attend a meeting with ACC Cassian Pewe to brief him on Logan Somerville. He needed to prepare for it, and ensure there was no missing persons procedure he had missed out that Pewe could trip him up on. And he wanted to be in time for the 1 p.m. appeal as well as to observe the interview due to be taking place later with Logan’s fiancé — but he could watch the recording if he missed it.

‘I’ll be over as soon as I’ve finished here.’