Dead Man’s Footsteps

84

It was Duncan Troutt’s first day on patrol as a fully fledged police officer. He felt rather proud, rather self-conscious and, in truth, a little nervous of screwing up.

At five feet nine inches tall and just under ten stone, he cut a slight figure, but he knew how to look after himself. A long-time fan of martial arts, he had attained a whole raft of certificates in kickboxing, taekwondo and kung fu.

His girlfriend, Sonia, had given him a framed poster which read:

YEA, THOUGH I WALK ALONE THROUGH THE SHADOW OF

THE VALLEY OF DEATH, I FEAR NO EVIL, FOR I AM

THE MEANEST SON OF A BITCH IN THE VALLEY.

Right now, at 10 a.m., the Meanest Son of a Bitch in the Valley was at the junction of Marine Parade and Arundel Road, at the eastern extremity of Brighton and Hove. Not exactly a valley. Not even a small dip, really. The streets were calm at the moment. In another hour or so the drug addicts would be starting to surface. One statistic that the local tourist board did not like to advertise was that the city had the second largest number of injecting drug users – and drug deaths – per capita in the UK. Troutt had been warned that a disproportionately large share of them appeared to live on his beat.

His radio crackled and he heard his call sign. He answered it with excitement and heard the voice of Sergeant Morley.

‘All OK, Duncan?’

‘Yes, Sarge. So far, Sarge.’

The area of Troutt’s beat extended from the Kemp Town seafront back to the Whitehawk estate, which housed, historically, some of the city’s roughest and most violent families – as well as many decent folk. And recent community policing initiatives were resulting in big and positive changes. The warren of terraced streets in between contained the transients’ world of rooming houses and cheap hotels, a prosperous urban residential community, including one of the largest gay communities in the UK, and dozens of restaurants, pubs and smaller independent shops. It was also home to several schools as well as the city’s hospital.

‘Need you to check out a person of concern. A woman reportedly in an anxious state.’ He then outlined the circumstances.

Troutt pulled out his brand-new notebook and wrote down the name, Katherine Jennings, and her address.

‘This has come from the Inspector, and I think it’s come down from someone high up in the brass, if you know what I mean.’

‘Absolutely, Sarge. I’m very close – will attend now.’

With a new urgency to his stride, he strutted along blustery Marine Parade and turned left away from the seafront.

The address was a mansion block of flats, eight storeys, and there was a builder’s lorry, as well as a van from a lift company, double-parked in the street. He passed a grey Ford Focus that had a parking ticket taped to its windscreen, crossed over and walked up to the front entrance, stepping aside to let two men carry in a large sheet of plasterboard. Then he looked at the doorbell panel. There was no name against number 82. The PC pressed it. There was no answer.

At the bottom of the panel was a bell for the caretaker, but as the front door was wedged open he decided to go in. There was an out of order sign taped across the front of the lift, so he took the stairs, treading carefully up the trail of dust sheets, slightly irritated that the shoes he had carefully polished last night were getting caked in dust. He heard hammering and banging and the sound of drilling directly above him, and on the fifth floor he had to negotiate an obstacle course of building materials.

He walked on up and reached the eighth floor. The door to Katherine Jennings’s flat was directly in front of him. The sight of three separate locks on it, along with the spyhole, aroused his curiosity. Two was not unusual, as he knew from his experience of visiting homes that had suffered repeated break-ins in the Brighton crime hotspots. But three was excessive. He peered more closely at them, noting that they all looked substantial.

You are worried about something, lady, he thought to himself, as he rang the bell.

There was no answer. He tried a couple more times, waiting patiently, then decided to go and have a chat with the caretaker.

As he reached the small downstairs lobby, two men came in. One was in his thirties, with a pleasant demeanour, wearing a boiler suit with Stanwell Maintenance embossed on the breast pocket, and a tool-belt. The other was a bolshy-looking man in his sixties, in dungarees over a grimy sweatshirt. He was holding an old-fashioned mobile phone and had a blackened fingernail.

The workman gave Troutt a bemused smile. ‘Gosh, you came quickly!’

The older man held up his phone. ‘I only phone you, what, less than one minute!’ His guttural accent made it sound like a complaint.

‘Phoned me?’

‘About the lift!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Troutt said. ‘You are?’

‘The caretaker.’

‘I’m afraid I’m actually here on other business,’ Troutt said. ‘But I’m more than happy to try to help if you’d like to tell me the problem.’

‘It’s very simple,’ the younger man said. ‘The lift mechanism’s been tampered with. Vandalized. Sabotaged. And the alarm and the phone in the lift – the wire’s been cut.’

Now he had Troutt’s full attention. The PC pulled his notebook out.

‘Can you give me some details?’

‘I can bloody show you. How technical-minded are you?’

Troutt shrugged. ‘You can try me.’

‘I need to take you to the motor room to show you. There are syringes on the floor. More importantly someone has tampered with the brake mechanism while the lift was in operation.’

‘All right. First, I need to talk to this gentleman for a moment.’

The workman nodded. ‘I’m just going to move my van. Bloody wardens round here are like the Gestapo.’

As he walked off, Troutt addressed the caretaker. ‘You have a resident in flat 82 – Katherine Jennings?’

‘She new. Been there only a few weeks. Short let.’

‘Can you tell me anything about her?’

‘I not speak much to her, except Sunday, after she was stuck in the lift. She got plenty money, I can tell you the rent she pay.’

‘Who do you think vandalized the lift? Local yobs? Or something to do with her?’

The caretaker shrugged. ‘I think maybe he no wants to admit there’s a mechanical problem. Maybe he protect himself or his company?’

Troutt nodded, not rising to this. He would form his own judgement after visiting the motor room with the engineer.

‘So you don’t know what she does for a living?’

The caretaker shook his head.

‘Is she married? Any kids?’

‘She on her own.’

‘Do you have any idea about her movements?’

‘I’m at the other end of the block, I don’t see the tenants in this wing unless they have a problem. She in trouble with the police?’

‘No, nothing like that.’ He gave the man a reassuring smile. ‘I should introduce myself – PC Troutt. I’m one of your new neighbourhood officers.’ He fished out a card.

The caretaker took it and looked at it dubiously, as if it was from a double-glazing salesman. ‘I hope you come down here on Friday and Saturday nights, late. Last Friday night we have little bastards set light to a dustbin,’ he grumbled.

‘Yes, well, that’s exactly the sort of thing this new initiative is all about,’ the young PC said earnestly.

‘I believe when I see it.’