Dead if You Don’t

101

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

Norman Potting shot down the oncoming traffic lane, lights flashing and siren wailing, as they approached the roundabout by the large modern structure of the Ropetackle Arts Centre. ‘Which way, chief?’

Left would take them into Shoreham Village, along the north side of the harbour front. Straight over would take them across the bridge, with Brighton City Airport to the right and the residential maze of Shoreham Beach to the left.

Grace did not know. Now they were actually here, the sheer enormity of the area was dawning on him even more. ‘Go round,’ he instructed the DS.

Potting drove, siren screaming, a full 360 degrees.

‘Over the bridge and pull in,’ Grace instructed him again, his brain racing.

His phone rang.

‘Yes?’ he answered.

‘Sir?’

He recognized the voice of Inspector Keith Ellis, who was back on duty as the Oscar-1.

‘Keith?’

‘I don’t know if it’s significant, but a forward-facing ANPR camera on Dyke Road Avenue picked up the index of a motorbike heading away from Boden Court at high speed on the wrong side of the road, overtaking a vehicle. It coincides with the time shortly before you were on the scene of the triple homicide. It’s on false, stolen or copied plates. Then an unmarked RPU car spotted it on the A27 near Lewes — they were alerted because it went twice round the roundabout, and they followed at a safe distance, mindful of your original instructions. They observed it retrace its steps, then head back down Ranscombe Hill and turn into a new development at Ranscombe Farm, where there is an industrial estate.’

‘This could be significant, Keith. Where are they now?’

‘Standing by, at the entrance.’

‘Nice work! Send them in, discreetly, to do a cruise around. If they spot the motorbike, tell them to stand off at a distance and observe — and let me know immediately.’

‘Roger that, sir.’

The moment the call ended, Grace’s phone rang again. It was Detective Inspector Dull.

‘Yes, Donald?’

‘I may have something, sir, from the serials from Shoreham Beach.’

‘Tell me.’

As they crossed the River Adur, Grace looked at the houseboats, then glanced down. The river was approaching high tide. How long did they have? Thirty minutes, maybe?

‘It may be nothing, boss,’ Dull said. ‘Apparently the lady who rang this in, a Mrs Sampson, is a regular caller and a bit of a nuisance, but I thought it might be worth running by you.’

‘What do you have?’

‘Shall I read you the transcript?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘I’m, sorry, madam, we are very busy. What is your emergency, please?’

‘I would like to report new vandalism at Shoreham Fort, please, and something suspicious.’

‘Suspicious?’

‘A new padlock, and I don’t know why it’s there. It might be pikeys, stealing metal from the cannon — they steal it from everywhere, don’t they?’

Grace felt a tiny spark of hope. He said to Norman, ‘Shoreham Beach — take that turn-off!’ Then he replied to Dull. ‘What else?’

‘I’ve got the lady’s phone number.’

‘Give it to me,’ Grace said as Potting started the car, switched the blues and twos back on and drove the short distance towards the turn-off.

He memorized the number, thanked Dull, then immediately dialled it.

After three rings, it was answered by a very hoity-toity-sounding woman. ‘Helllloooo?’

‘Mrs Sampson?’

‘Yes, may I help you?’

‘Where to?’ Potting interrupted.

Grace pointed at a lay-by.

‘This is Detective Superintendent Grace, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ he said, as Potting pulled over.

‘Well,’ she said indignantly. ‘No wonder you people are short of resources if you have to have a Detective Superintendent deal with simple graffiti vandalism.’

‘It’s actually more serious than that, madam,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in your report about a new padlock.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’re after the pikeys, eh? Stealing the metal from the cannon?’

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I’m looking for someone whose life is in immediate danger.’

There was a long silence.

‘Madam, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where exactly did you see this padlock?’

‘On the door to one of the gun emplacements — at Shoreham Fort.’

Grace’s excitement rose. ‘How far from Shoreham Fort do you live, Mrs Sampson?’

‘Ten minutes’ walk. I take our dogs there every day.’

‘If you give me your address I’ll pick you up and drive you there.’

‘No need to do that, it’s a pedestrian area, no cars. I’ll meet you there.’

‘Shoreham Fort?’ he double-checked. As he spoke, he was opening Google Maps on his private phone.

‘Yes.’

He thanked her and began keying it into the app.

‘It’s all right, chief,’ said Potting, ‘I know it — somewhere around here — the young lad of one of my exes was a volunteer there, helping on the restoration.’

An instant later it popped up. The map told Grace it was eight minutes by car from his current position.

‘Go!’ he shouted at Potting, holding up his phone in front of him, the arrow pointing a short distance ahead and then sharp left. ‘Straight ahead then first left — go, go, go! Spank it, drive like you’ve stolen it!’

Norman Potting obeyed him.