Peter James - Dead Man's Grip

Someone had got in.

In the CCTV room, Grace stared at the frontal photograph of a dark grey Toyota Yaris on a familiar stretch of the A23, just north of Brighton. But to his dismay the windscreen was even more opaque than the car by Shoreham Harbour in the previous photograph. He could see nothing at all inside, no shadows or silhouettes, no clue as to how many people might be in it.

Branson immediately informed Gold, then listened intently to his radio.

Grace ordered Jon Pumfrey to put out a high-act nationwide marker on the car. He did not intend to take any risks. Then he sat for a moment, clenching his fists. Maybe, finally, this was it.

‘What CCTV units do you have on the A23?’ he asked the controller.

‘The only fixed ones are ANPRs on the motorway. The next one, if he keeps heading north, is Gatwick.’

Grace was feeling excitement but, at the same time, frustration. He would have liked to be out there, on the road, present when they stopped the car. Pumfrey pulled up a road map on to one of the monitors, showing the position of the two ANPR cameras. There were plenty of opportunities for the suspect to turn off the motorway. But with luck the helicopter would have him in sight imminently.

He turned back to the bank of monitors and looked at the car that had been photographed heading east along the seafront, owned, according to its registration document, by Barry Simons. Just as a precaution, he phoned the Incident Room. Nick Nicholl answered. Grace tasked him with finding Barry Simons and establishing for certain that he had been driving his car along Brighton seafront this morning.

From the suspect’s current position on the A23, it would take him about twenty-five minutes, Grace estimated, to ping that next ANPR camera at Gatwick. On the radio he could follow the developments. This was a true fast-time operation. The helicopter, which was also fitted with ANPR, would be over the M23 in ninety seconds. One unmarked car was already on the motorway, approximately two miles behind the target, and two more were only minutes away. It was policy in kidnap pursuits to use unmarked cars wherever possible. That way, the perpetrator would not panic as he might at the sight of a marked car passing him, with the risk of involving his victim in a high-speed chase. If they could get unmarked cars in front of and behind the suspect, a minimum of three vehicles, and preferably four, they could box him in – TPAC him – before he realized what was happening.

‘I need to get back to Sussex House,’ Glenn said.

‘Me too.’

‘I can patch any images you want through to you in the Incident Room,’ Pumfrey said.

Grace thanked him and the two detectives left. As they walked out of the rear of the building into the car park, Grace’s phone rang. It was Inspector Sue Carpenter at the Regency Square car park.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I don’t know if this is significant, but I understand that the Regency Square car park was identified by an application on the missing boy’s iPhone.’

‘Yes,’ Grace replied, his hopes rising. ‘An application called Friend Mapper. We’re hoping he keeps it on – that it could lead us to him if we can’t find him before.’

‘I’m afraid, sir, one of the search team has found a smashed iPhone in a bin in the car park – close to the taxi.’

As he climbed into his car, Grace instructed Sue Carpenter to get the phone checked immediately for finger- and footprints, then get it straight to the High-Tech Crime Unit. He told her he wanted it in their hands, having been dusted for prints, within the next thirty minutes. Getting the contents of the phone analysed was more important to him at this stage than getting forensic evidence from it.

Then, as he drove out and turned left down the steep hill, he said to Branson, who was listening to the Ops-1 instructions on his radio, ‘I’m still struggling to get my head around the motive here. Did the perp take this boy as a substitute because his mother was unavailable?’

‘Because she’d unexpectedly gone to New York, so the boy was the next best thing? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes,’ Grace replied. ‘Or was taking the boy his plan all along?’

‘What’s your sense?’

‘I think he plans everything. He’s not someone who takes chance opportunities. My view is that probably, by going to the States, Carly Chase made seizing the boy a little easier for him.’

Branson nodded and looked at his watch. ‘Just over six hours until she lands.’

‘Maybe we’ll be able to greet her with good news.’

‘I promised I’d get a message to her on the plane as soon as we have any.’

‘With a bit of luck, that could be any minute now.’

Grace gave Branson a wistful smile, then glanced at the car clock. It was half past two. He should eat something, he knew, but he didn’t have any appetite, and he didn’t want to waste valuable time stopping anywhere. He fished in his suit jacket pocket and produced a Mars bar in a very crumpled wrapper that had been there for some days.

‘Haven’t had any lunch. You hungry?’ he said to Branson. ‘Want to share this?’

‘Boy, you know how to give someone a good time!’ Branson said, peeling off the wrapper. ‘A slap-up, no-expenses-spared lunch with Roy Grace. Half an old Mars bar. This been in your pocket since you were at school?’

‘Sod off!’

Branson tore the chocolate bar in two and held out the slightly larger portion to Grace, who popped it in his mouth. ‘You ever see that film about-’

Grace’s phone rang. As he wasn’t driving at high speed, he stuck it into the hands-free cradle and answered. Both of them heard the voice of Chief Inspector Trevor Barnes, the newly appointed Silver Commander. An experienced and methodical Senior Investigating Officer, Barnes, like Roy Grace, had handled many major crime investigations.

‘Roy,’ he said, ‘we’ve just stopped the Toyota Yaris on the M23, four miles south of the Crawley interchange.’

Grace, his mouth full of chewy chocolate and toffee, thumped the steering wheel with glee.

‘Brilliant!’ Branson replied.

‘That you, Glenn?’ Barnes asked.

‘Yeah, we’re in the car. What’s the situation?’

‘Well,’ Barnes said, his voice somewhat lacking in enthusiasm, although he always spoke in a considered, deadpan tone, ‘I’m not sure that we have the right person.’

‘What description can you give us, Trevor?’ Grace asked, the Silver’s words now making him uneasy.

He halted the car at a traffic light.

‘Well, I’m assuming your hit man is not eighty-four years old.’

‘What do you mean?’ Grace had a sinking feeling.

‘Toyota Yaris, index Yankee Delta Five Eight Victor Juliet Kilo? Is that the correct one?’

Grace pulled out his notebook and flipped to the right page. ‘Yes. Those are the plates that were taken from a car at Newport Pagnell that we believe our suspect is using.’

‘The driver of this Yaris is eighty-four years old and has his wife who is eighty-three with him. It’s their car, but it’s not their registration number.’

‘Not their registration?’ Grace echoed.

The lights changed and he drove on.

‘The licence plates on the car aren’t theirs, Roy. The driver may be old, but he has all his marbles, I’m told. Knew his registration number off by heart. Sounds like someone’s nicked his plates and replaced them with different ones.’

‘Where’s he come from?’ Grace asked, but he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

‘They’ve been in Brighton. They enjoy the sea air, apparently. Like to take their dog for a walk between the piers. It’s their regular constitutional. They have fish and chips at some place on the front.’