You Are Dead

87

Saturday 20 December

Residents of Horsham had different theories about where the name had first originated. Some said it was from Horse Ham, meaning a place where horses were kept. Others claimed it was named after a Saxon warrior, called Horsa’s Ham, who had been granted land in the area.

Roy Grace knew this from his dad, who had been passionately interested in Sussex’s history. He liked the town, but with its modern urban sprawl in all directions, equally it frustrated him, because he always got lost there.

‘Where the hell is this place?’ he said.

‘We should have taken the A24 like I suggested,’ Glenn Branson replied.

Grace, trying to read the satnav app on his jigging phone, shook his head. ‘This thing should bloody know.’

There were three missed calls from Cleo on his phone. So far he’d only spent a few hours in their new home. He had no idea what time he would get back today or when he would be able to start unpacking any of his things.

Ten minutes later, a vast array of shiny caravans appeared on their right, each with a price tag in the front window, and a large sign which said, ROUNDSTONE CARAVANS, HOLIDAY HOMES, CALOR GAS.

During the drive Grace had started making the initial arrangements to move some extra resources towards their location, as he was confident this sounded like a good lead, and he hoped they would be needed sooner rather than later. He had asked them to meet at an RV point a short distance away.

They turned in through the gates and followed the signs to reception, a modern building attached to an attractive, large Edwardian house. They pulled up and climbed out. A sign on the office door read, WHEN CLOSED RING HOUSE BELL.

They walked up to the porch of the house and Grace rang the bell. A dog barked and after a few moments a short, well-preserved fair-haired woman in her mid-fifties appeared, dressed in a black roll-neck sweater, jeans and boots.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said with a friendly, if quizzical, smile.

Grace held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. We had a phone call a short while ago from an Adrienne Macklin here in response to an appeal on the lunchtime news.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Adrienne who made the call on my behalf is off this afternoon — I’m the owner — Natalie Morris. I have all the information you need. Would you like to come in?’

She led them through into a large, cosy living room, with a log fire burning in the grate, and ushered them to a sofa, then sat down in an armchair opposite. ‘How can I help you? Would you like a drink? Cup of tea?’

Branson was about to say yes, but Grace, in a hurry, cut him short. ‘We’re fine, thank you, Mrs Morris.’ Then he pulled a photograph of Edward Crisp from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Do you recognize this man?’

She studied the photograph for a few moments. ‘When I saw him on TV I was pretty sure that’s our Mr Hunter, but now I am not so certain.’ She looked again. ‘It’s not a very clear picture.’

Grace leaned forward, adrenaline surging. ‘Harrison Hunter?’

‘Give me a couple of minutes,’ Natalie Morris said.

She hurried out of the room, then reappeared with a large burgundy-covered ledger, and began leafing through it. ‘Mr Harrison Hunter!’ she said. ‘Unit R-73.’

‘Unit R-73?’ Grace queried.

‘Yes, it’s quite a substantial mobile home. One of our permanent ones.’

‘How long has he lived here?’

‘Quite a while. I do hope I’m not wasting your time. The thing is,’ she said nervously, ‘we don’t pry into our customers’ lives.’

‘Of course not,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Why would you?’

‘It wouldn’t be very nice for them, would it?’ she said. ‘We always hope that we have respectable people here. We just let them come and go as they please.’

‘So long as they pay their rent on time?’ Grace said.

‘Precisely.’ The woman was starting to look increasingly ill at ease.

‘How well do you know Hunter, Mrs Morris?’ Grace asked.

‘To be honest, I don’t really know him at all. He pays on the nail, he is always pleasant. But he’s not really here much at all. We don’t ask questions. Some of our residents use their places for — you know — meeting their ladies. Others as an escape from city life. My attitude is so long as no one is any bother to the other residents, what they do is up to them.’

‘Mr Hunter’s not here at the moment?’

‘I haven’t seen him,’ she said. ‘There’s normally a car outside when he is.’

‘What car?’

She thought for a moment. ‘From memory it’s a big dark grey thing.’

‘Do you have a contact phone number for him?’ Glenn Branson asked.

She looked again at the ledger. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing here. But that’s not unusual.’

‘Could you point out Mr Hunter’s unit for me, please?’ Grace asked, his excitement surging.

‘Certainly.’ She stood up and walked across to an aerial photograph of the site on the wall. ‘Unit R-73,’ she said, indicating with her finger. ‘I could take you over, you could see the outside, but if he’s not in, I don’t have a key.’

‘I don’t want to approach it obviously at this moment,’ Grace said. ‘Do you have an old raincoat or anorak, a hat or a cap, and a wheelie bin I could borrow for a few minutes?’

She gave him a strange look. ‘Well, yes, I do.’

The light was failing and in less than an hour it would be pitch dark, Grace thought, as he pushed the empty bin across the wet grass, wearing an old tweed cap and an anorak several sizes too big for him, which the proprietor had found. He zigzagged his way past the caravans and mobile homes of different sizes, trying to look nonchalant, as he finally reached Unit R-73, and trundled his bin on past it.

The blinds were down, and there were three keyholes on the door, he noticed, which looked like overkill. There did not appear to be any lights on inside and he could hear no sound. However, just in case he was being watched, he continued past, slowly completed his circuit and returned to the office. Then he stopped before entering, called the Ops-1 Controller and asked if the helicopter was free. Sited at Redhill, it would be a little over five minutes’ flying time from here.

To his relief the Controller told him it was.

Grace asked him to get it airborne immediately, while there was still some daylight, and that he would email over a JPEG of the aerial map of the site. He needed the helicopter to use its thermal-imaging camera to tell him whether anyone was in Unit R-73. He re-entered the office and asked Natalie Morris for permission to photograph the plan, which she gave him.

As Grace was doing that, Glenn Branson asked, ‘Do you have security issues here, Mrs Morris?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘The whole estate is monitored by CCTV and we have someone on security around the clock. We have very little trouble. I can’t remember the last time we had a break-in at any of our units — it was when my husband was alive — over ten years ago, at least.’ Then she hesitated, looking nervous, suddenly. ‘Surely you don’t suspect Mr Hunter of being this Brighton Brander man, do you?’ she asked.

‘What makes you think we might?’ Branson asked.

‘Oh, you know, I like cop shows on the telly. Sometimes my imagination runs riot. But Adrienne and I saw the pictures on the news, and we both said, “That could be Mr Hunter!”’

‘And what sort of person is Harrison Hunter?’ Grace interceded.

She smiled. ‘Well, not weird, exactly. No, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. More, just very private.’

‘I’m going to request a search warrant, Mrs Morris. It will take about an hour. I don’t want to inconvenience you, or cause you any problems with any of your residents. So we’ll be as discreet as possible.’

Natalie Morris raised her hands. ‘I’m always very happy to cooperate with the police.’

Grace thanked her.

‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea, or coffee, or something stronger while you are waiting?’

‘Coffee would be good,’ Grace said.

Branson nodded. ‘Yes please.’

Moments after she left the room, Grace could hear the distant clatter of the approaching helicopter. His phone rang and the Ops-1 Controller told him it would be overhead in one minute.

Grace thanked him then said quietly to Branson, ‘I think we’re going to need to be prepared to move fast, in case we find something significant in there — and I just have a feeling we will. Once we’ve put the door in, if this Hunter comes back he’ll know we’re on to him. We can’t risk driving him underground. My sense is either we’re going to find something in this caravan that connects us to the killer, or it’s completely innocent. But I don’t think someone innocent would make their place quite so secure.’

‘You’re thinking Dr Crisp.’

‘If we bring him in, I want it belt and braces. I want a fingerprint or DNA.’ He pulled out his phone and called the Critical Incident Manager, Chief Inspector Jason Tingley. He explained the situation and asked if he could have a Local Support Team on standby in position near Edward Crisp’s address, to support the Surveillance Team.

Tingley agreed.

The Ops-I Controller called Grace back to say that the helicopter’s camera had not detected any life in Unit R-73.

Grace thanked him, then asked if NPAS 15 could be diverted to Brighton to do an immediate high-altitude photo survey of Dr Edward Crisp’s home and the surrounding terrain, while there was still sufficient daylight.

He was assured the helicopter would be over Crisp’s house in twelve minutes, flying high enough not to alert anyone.