You Are Dead

46

Saturday 13 December

Roy Grace dropped Tanja Cale back at Sussex House, then drove as fast as he dared downtown, heading for John Street police station — better known to all the local officers as ‘Brighton nick’.

He drove almost on autopilot. He was stressed about their impending move, desperately wishing they could delay it — but it wasn’t possible, the new owners were moving into Cleo’s house next weekend. Though he had planned to be there to help Cleo with packing everything up, with the way this enquiry was going, that was not going to be an option.

Sure, he was excited about the new house and the prospect of living in the countryside, but he barely had room for that in his thoughts at this moment. His absolute priority, for however long it took, was Logan Somerville, as well as the new potential abductee, Ashleigh Stanford. His concerns for her were deepening and darkening every second.

Martin Horner.

The HOLMES — Home Office Large Major Enquiry System — analyst team on Operation Haywain had so far identified hundreds of Martin Horners in the UK and was working through the list. One was ninety-three years old, suffering from Alzheimer’s, in a care home in Bradford. One was seventeen, at school in Newark, Lincolnshire, and the third was a sixty-three-year-old vicar in Oldham, Lancashire, with a solid alibi.

He was increasingly certain that Martin Horner was a cleverly constructed false identity. Clever enough to have been able to register a vehicle in this name. The one mystery remaining was why whoever Martin Horner was had selected Anne Hill’s house for his fake registration address.

Did he know her? Or someone who knew her? Or had he just picked her address at random? The old bag who lived there was strenuously denying knowledge of any Martin Horner, and he had a feeling she was telling the truth. But they would find out for sure.

He drove up the steep hill towards the Whitehawk area of Brighton, then made a right into the open, lower car park of the police station, found an empty bay between a row of marked cars, then climbed out, staring affectionately up at the five-storey slab of a building where he had started his career over twenty years ago.

He hurried past a couple of young uniformed officers having a smoke, up to the rear entrance, and used his pass card to open the door. Here at John Street he always felt the pulse of excitement. Street crime, neighbourhood policing, child protection, public order policing, and many other divisional units were run out of this place, which was soon to have a massive facelift.

He’d recently discussed the possibility of promotion to Head of CID. But that would have tied him to a desk and endless meetings. The buzz in his job came from doing exactly what he was doing right now — fully hands-on on a major crime investigation. There was only one promotion he would ever consider, and that was the top job here at John Street — the Chief Superintendent job, Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove. The current commander, Nev Kemp, and his predecessor, Graham Barrington, had both come from similar CID backgrounds to himself. It could be some years before Nev Kemp moved on up the career ladder, but when that time came, he might be tempted to put himself forward for the role.

But right now, as he bypassed the lift and sprinted up the two flights of concrete stairs, that thought was a long way from his mind. He turned right along the familiar corridor then almost instantly turned right again. Ahead of him were signs saying SUPERINTENDENT AND CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT. But before them he stopped at an open door on his left. Inside the small office sat Wayne Brookes, the slightly camp duty CID inspector, hunched over his desk, phone clamped to his ear, writing down notes on an electronic tablet.

Grace waited, impatiently, for him to finish. Then he stepped into the office.

Brookes, a thin, wiry man in a grey suit and with a shaven head, looked up. ‘Roy, darling! Good morning! How are you?’

‘I’ve been better. Congrats on your promotion.’

‘Four months ago, but thank you, it’s wonderful, I’m loving it. Nice to see you here — anything I can help you on?’

‘I hope so. You’ve a reported misper, from last night. Name of Ashleigh Stanford?’

‘Yes — that was her boyfriend I was just on the phone to.’

‘What’s the latest?’

‘Not looking good. No one’s heard from her. Not her parents, nor either of her two closest friends. Sounds out of character — she’s a pretty stable person, not likely to have run off on a one-night stand — although she’s a fashion design student — I’d have thought that world might be a bit flighty — or, you know, flaky.’

‘What info do you have on her?’

‘Just got a couple of pictures through from her mother, and from the boyfriend — that one that was sent to you. I’ve sent copies up to CCTV — there won’t have been that many solitary women cycling home at around 1 a.m. this morning.’

‘Can I see the others?’

‘Sure.’

Brookes tapped his keyboard. After some moments, the image of an attractive young woman appeared. She was smiling, looking like she hadn’t a care in the world, against a glorious, summery backdrop of Brighton Pier and the crowded beach beside it.

Grace stared again at the pretty face he had seen on the text, earlier.

At her high cheekbones, her full lips, her long brown hair.

Ashleigh Stanford, Logan Somerville and Emma Johnson could have been sisters. And so, if you ignored the thirty-year gap, could Katy Westerham.

‘Presumably someone’s tried her mobile phone?’ Grace asked.

‘Yes, her boyfriend’s rung it continuously. It’s still on. We’ve put a request in to EE, the service provider, for triangulation, but I don’t think we’re going to get much back for a while.’

‘Has the boyfriend been interviewed yet?’ Grace asked.

‘Not yet, no.’

He looked at his watch. It was just coming up to midday. ‘Shit! Why not?’ he said, more angrily than he had intended.

‘Because I’m short-handed thanks to all the sodding cuts, darling,’ Brookes said. ‘If you want the truth.’

Grace nodded. ‘Yep. OK, give me his address, I’ll get one of my team there right now to interview him.’

‘Is there something more to this, Roy, that I don’t know about?’

‘I hope to hell not. But if you want the truth, I think there is, and it’s not good news. You need to start increasing the number of officers you have available for this coming week. I’ll give you a heads-up now that we could be looking at cancelling all rest days, imminently, and banning new applications for time off.’

The inspector frowned. ‘Something big going on?’

Grace stared down again at Ashleigh Stanford’s image. ‘It’s looking increasingly like it.’