Peter James - Dead Like You

‘I’m tied up. I’ll call you back,’ he murmured, before sticking the phone back into his pocket.

Branson pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. He studied it for a moment.

‘You were released from prison on 28 December, correct?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘We’d like to talk to you about your movements since then.’

Spicer sniffed. ‘Well, the thing is, I don’t keep a diary, you see. Got no secretary.’

‘That’s all right,’ the spiky-haired one said, pulling out a small black book. ‘I’ve got one here. This one is for last year and I’ve got another for this year. We can help you on dates.’

‘Very obliging of you,’ Spicer replied.

‘That’s what we’re here for,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘To be obliging.’

‘Let’s start with Christmas Eve,’ Branson said. ‘I understand you were on day release at Ford Open Prison, working in the maintenance department of the Metropole Hotel up until your release on licence. Is that correct?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When was the last time you were at the hotel?’

Spicer thought for a moment. ‘Christmas Eve,’ he said.

‘What about New Year’s Eve, Darren?’ Glenn Branson went on. ‘Where were you then?’

Spicer scratched his nose, then sniffed again.

‘Well, I had been invited to spend it up at Sandringham with the royals, but then I thought, nah, can’t be spending all my time with toffs-’

‘Cut it out,’ Branson said sharply. ‘Remember you’re out on licence. We can do this chat the easy way or the hard way. The easy way is here, now. Or we can bang you back up and do it there. It’s no sweat to us either way.’

‘We’ll do it here,’ Spicer said hastily, sniffing again.

‘Got a cold, have you?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

He shook his head.

The two detectives caught each other’s eye, then Branson said, ‘Right, New Year’s Eve. Where were you?’

Spicer laid his hands on the table and stared down at his fingers. All his nails were badly bitten, as was the skin around them.

‘Drinking up at the Neville.’

‘The Neville pub?’ Nick Nicholl asked. ‘The one near the greyhound stadium?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, by the dogs.’

‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ Branson queried.

‘I was with a few – you know – acquaintances – yeah. Can give you some names.’

Nick Nicholl turned to his colleague. ‘Might be able to verify that on CCTV if they’ve got it in there. I seem to remember they have, from a past inquiry.’

Branson made a note. ‘If they haven’t wiped it – a lot of them only keep seven-day records.’ Then he looked at Spicer. ‘What time did you leave the pub?’

Spicer shrugged. ‘I don’t remember. I was shit-faced. One, one-thirty maybe.’

‘Where were you staying then?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

‘The Kemp Town hostel.’

‘Would anyone remember you coming home?’

‘That lot? Nah. They’re not capable of remembering nothing.’

‘How did you get home?’ Branson asked.

‘Had the chauffeur pick me up in the Roller, didn’t I?’

He said it so innocently that Glenn had to struggle to stop himself from grinning. ‘So your chauffeur can vouch for you?’

Spicer shook his head. ‘I walked, didn’t I? Shanks’s pony.’

Branson flipped a few pages back in his notebook. ‘Lets move on to this past week. Can you tell us where you were between 6 p.m. and midnight on Thursday 8 January?’

Spicer answered quickly, as if he had already known what the question would be. ‘Yeah, I went to the dogs. Ladies’ night. Stayed there till about 7.30 and then came back here.’

‘The greyhound stadium? Your local pub, then, is that the Neville?’

‘One of ’em, yeah.’

Branson made a mental note that the greyhound stadium was less than fifteen minutes’ walk from The Droveway, where Roxy Pearce was raped on Thursday night.

‘Do you have anything to prove you were there? Betting stubs? Anyone with you?

‘There was a bird I picked up.’ He stopped.

‘What was her name?’ Branson asked.

‘Yeah, well, that’s the thing. She’s married. Her husband was away for the night. I don’t think she’d be too happy, you know, having the Old Bill asking questions.’

‘Gone all moral, have we, Darren?’ Branson asked. ‘Suddenly developed a conscience?’

He was thinking, but did not say, that it was rather a strange coincidence that Roxy Pearce’s husband had been away that night too.

‘Not moral, but I don’t want to give you her name.’

‘Then you’d better deliver us some other proof that you were at the dogs, and during that time period.’

Spicer looked at them. He needed a smoke badly.

‘Do you mind telling me what this is about?

‘A series of sexual assaults have been committed in this city. We’re looking to eliminate people from our enquiries.’

‘So I’m a suspect?’

Branson shook his head. ‘No, but your release date on licence makes you a possible Person of Interest.’

He did not reveal to Spicer that his records had been checked for 1997-8, and they showed he had been released from prison just six days before the Shoe Man’s first suspected attack back then.

‘Let’s move on to yesterday. Can you account for where you were between 5 p.m. and 9 p.m.?’

Spicer was sure his face was burning. He felt boxed in, didn’t like the way these questions kept on coming. Questions he couldn’t answer. Yes, he could say exactly where he was at 5 p.m. yesterday. He was in a copse behind a house in Woodland Drive, Brighton’s so-called Millionaire’s Row, buying charlie from one of its residents. He doubted he’d live to see his next birthday if he so much as mentioned the address.

‘I was at the Albion game. Went for some drinks with a mate afterwards. Until curfew here, right? Came back and had me dinner, then went to bed.’

‘Crap game, wasn’t it?’ Nick Nicholl said.

‘Yeah, that second goal, like…’ Spicer raised his hands in despair and sniffed again.

‘Your mate got a name?’ Glenn Branson asked.

‘Nah. You know, that’s a funny thing. See him about, known him for years – yet I still don’t know his name. Not the sort of thing you can ask someone after you’ve been drinking with them on and off for ten years, is it?’

‘Why not?’ Nicholl asked.

Spicer shrugged.

There was a long silence.

Branson flipped his notebook over a page. ‘Lock-up here is 8.30 p.m. I’m told you arrived back at 8.45 p.m., your voice was slurred and your pupils dilated. You were lucky they let you back in. Residents are forbidden to take drugs.’

‘I don’t take no drugs, Detective, sir.’ He sniffed again.

‘I’ll bet you don’t. You’ve just got a bad head cold, right?’

‘Right. Must be what it is. Exactly right. A bad head cold!’

Branson nodded. ‘I’ll bet you still believe in Father Christmas, don’t you?’

Spicer gave him a sly grin, unsure quite where this was going. ‘Father Christmas? Yeah. Yeah, why not?’

‘Next year write and ask him for a sodding handkerchief.’

Sunday 11 January

Yac did not drive the taxi on Sundays because he was otherwise engaged.

He had heard people use that expression and he liked it. Otherwise engaged. It had a nice ring to it. He liked, sometimes, to say things that had a nice ring to them.

‘Why don’t you ever take the cab out on Sunday nights?’ the man who owned the taxi had asked him recently.

‘Because I’m otherwise engaged,’ Yac replied importantly.

And he was. He had important business that filled his Sundays from the moment he got up until late into the night.