Peter James: You Are Dead

‘Do you have a key to her flat?’

‘Yes, give me a few moments to find it.’

‘I’ll stay down here and have a look around, and stop anyone else from entering or leaving,’ Kyrke said. ‘You go up to the flat.’

Susi Holliday went up the internal staircase to the ground floor, then waited in the corridor while Schulz went into his flat. He came back out holding a bunch of keys, like a gaoler, and led her into the lift.

At the ninth floor they stepped out into a gloomy corridor with a badly worn carpet and a musty smell. Somewhere, music was pounding out insanely loudly. Susi Holliday recognized it as ‘Patient Love’ by Passenger. She followed the caretaker along the corridor, till he stopped outside a door and pressed the bell.

After some moments he rang again. Then he knocked hard. He waited several seconds then looked quizzically at the police officer. ‘No answer.’

‘Could you open it so I can check if she is there?’

‘I don’t really like to go in, you know?’

‘We’re very concerned for her safety — we need to know if she is all right.’

He shrugged. ‘OK, sure, no problem.’

He opened the door and called out, ‘Hello! Miss Somerville! Hello, it’s the caretaker! I have the police with me.’

They were greeted with silence. The place had a deadened, empty feeling.

‘Do you mind if we go in?’ PC Holliday asked.

He rolled his mouth pensively, then gestured with his hand. ‘No, do go in.’

They entered a small hallway, with two mountain bikes leaning against the wall and a cluster of coats and anoraks hung above them, and then walked through into a bright, airy but untidy living/dining room. It had a modern feel, with a cream carpet, beige sofas, and a breakfast bar dividing the room from the small kitchen, on which lay a copy of the Independent newspaper and The Week magazine. At the rear of the bar was a tropical fish tank, immaculately clean and brightly illuminated, with several tiny fish swimming around.

There were a number of framed photographs, which Susi Holliday looked at with interest. One showed a good-looking young couple, both in cycling gear, posing with muddy bikes against a rugged, mountainous landscape. Another was of the same couple lying on a beach, looking up and grinning at the photographer. Another showed them in ski gear. There were several large, colourful abstract prints depicting deckchairs on the beach, the skeletal remains of the old West Pier and a row of beach huts, and a spaniel which looked like it was by an artist she really liked, a Lewes-based painter called Tom Homewood.

They checked the bedroom, which contained a double bed with a neatly folded duvet and plumped pillows, a television and a table with a lamp either side of the bed. A stack of books lay on one table and a woman’s magazine and a partially empty water glass on the other. Susi Holliday noted a boot lying on the floor, and then saw what looked like a small bloodstain at the bottom of the en-suite bathroom door, and some tiny drops on the floor.

The bathroom was tidy and dry, with a wicker laundry basket, on top of which lay Lycra cycling shorts and a vest. The shelves were lined with shower gel, shampoo, body cream and other unguents, male and female razors and several bottles of perfume, cologne and aftershave. It seemed as though no one had been here for a few hours, at the very least.

Susi Holliday radioed in her report, and stated that whilst there was no sign of a struggle, she had seen a small amount of blood.

The controller told them that the woman’s fiancé was now just minutes away and to wait at the scene.

Thursday 11 December

Jamie Ball, normally a careful driver, tore like a man possessed along Edward Street, peering through the windscreen blurred by the pelting rain, weaving in and out of the heavy rush-hour traffic, flashing his lights and hooting, and ignoring the angry horns and waved fists that came back at him. His entire body was pulsing with fear.

A speed camera flashed him and he didn’t care. He was oblivious to everything but the desperate need to get home, to make sure Logan was OK. He turned sharp left, the car skidding on the wet surface, the tyres juddering for traction as he accelerated up the hill, then made a right into their street. Ahead he saw a police patrol car parked close to the entrance to their apartment block.

He pressed the clicker, waited impatiently for the electronic gates to swing open, then started to drive down the ramp. Almost straight away he was stopped by a uniformed police officer who ran up out of the car park. He identified himself and was directed into an empty bay.

Immediately he jumped out of the car, leaving the door open, and to his immense relief saw her little white Fiat neatly parked in its usual space. She was OK! Thank God, thank God! Then he turned to the police officer and asked, ‘Where’s Logan, my fiancée, what’s happened? Is she OK?’

‘I think it would be best if you go and speak to my colleague who’s gone up with the caretaker.’

He felt a sudden chill of fear. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘They’ll be able to update you upstairs, sir.’

Jamie raced along to the lift, and rode it up to the ninth floor. As the doors opened he stepped out, and saw a uniformed police officer, accompanied by Mark, the caretaker, emerging from their flat.

‘Hi!’ he called out. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Hello Jamie!’ the caretaker greeted him.

‘Logan? Is she OK, Mark? She phoned me — she said she saw an intruder in the car park.’

‘I haven’t seen her,’ Mark said. ‘She’s not home yet, Jamie.’

‘Yes she is, her car’s downstairs!’ He looked at the police officer, ignored her quizzical stare and eased his way past her and into the flat. He strode down the hallway, past their mountain bikes leaning against the wall, turned left into the small anteroom which they had lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves, housing his entire collection of Lee Child novels and many of their other favourite crime, horror and sci-fi writers, and into the large, untidy, square living/dining room. No sign of her.

‘Logan!’ he called, hurrying back into the hallway. He checked their bedroom, the boot Logan had tripped over earlier still lying by the bed, the en-suite bathroom, the tiny guest bedroom, the kitchen, the guest loo and shower room. He went back into the living/dining room and opened the door to the small balcony. Sometimes she went out there for a cigarette, despite his attempts at getting her to quit. But the two plastic chairs and little white table sat there, forlornly drenched in the rain, the soggy stub of a cigarette lying in the ashtray in a pool of water.

He stepped back into the living room and closed the door against the elements. The police officer had returned, with the caretaker standing behind her. ‘I’m PC Holliday,’ she said. ‘My colleague and I attended at the underground car park of this building following your call, earlier. So far we haven’t found anything suspicious — Logan’s Fiat is parked and locked in its allocated space downstairs, and there’s no sign of any disturbance in your flat.’

‘She phoned me from the car park as she drove in. Then she screamed, and her phone went dead.’

‘Have you tried her again, sir?’

‘Yes, I’ve been calling her constantly all my way here.’ He tugged his phone out of his trouser pocket and dialled her number again. Six rings and it went to voicemail. ‘Darling,’ he said. ‘Call me, please, as soon as you pick this up, I’m really worried.’ He ended the call and looked back at Susi Holliday. ‘She always calls me back within minutes. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing — she always calls me back — and I always call her back.’