Peter James - Dead Like You

Grace shook his head. ‘It’s not about telling the difference. It’s in shoe shops where he finds his victims. Third, and very importantly, he did not make Mandy Thorpe abuse herself with her shoes. That’s how he gets his kicks, through his power over his victims.’

Proudfoot gave a shrug that indicated he might or might not agree with Grace. ‘The young woman was unconscious, so we don’t really know what he did.’

‘Vaginal swabs taken show she was penetrated by someone wearing a condom. There was no indication vaginally or anally of penetration with part of a shoe.’

‘He might have been disturbed and left hurriedly,’ Proudfoot replied.

Grace raised another finger and continued. ‘Perhaps. Fourth, Mandy Thorpe is plump – fat to be blunt. Obese. All the previous victims have been slim.’

The psychologist shook his head. ‘Her figure isn’t the significant factor. He’s on the hunt. What is significant is the time frame. Previously with the Shoe Man it was two-week gaps. This new spate started off as one week, now it is down to two days. Neither of us knows what he was up to in the intervening twelve years, but his appetite could have become stronger – either from being bottled up if he repressed it for that length of time, or from confidence if he’s continued to offend and got away with it. One thing I am certain about, the more an offender like this gets away with things, the more invincible he feels – and the more he’s going to want.’

‘I have a press conference at midday, Dr Proudfoot. What I say then could come home to roost. I want to put out accurate information that will help us catch our man, and give the public some degree of assurance. Presumably for your reputation, you want me putting the most accurate information out there too – you don’t want to be shown up for getting something wrong.’

Proudfoot shook his head. ‘I’m seldom mistaken, Detective Superintendent. You won’t go far wrong if you listen to me.’

‘I’m comforted to hear that,’ Grace said coolly.

‘You’re an old pro, like me,’ Proudfoot continued. ‘You’ve got all kinds of political and commercial pressures on you – I know you have, every SIO I’ve ever worked with has. Here’s the thing: which is worse for public consumption? For them to believe there’s one violent sexual offender out there, preying on your women, or that there are two?’ The psychologist stared hard at Grace and raised his eyebrows. ‘I know which I’d go for if I was trying to protect the reputation of my city.’

‘I’m not going to be driven by politics into making the wrong decision,’ Grace replied.

‘Roy – if I can call you that?’

Grace nodded.

‘You’re not dealing with Mr Norman Normal here, Roy. This is a clever guy. He’s hunting victims. Something in his head is driving him to do the same as he did before, but he knows, because he’s not stupid, that he needs to vary his routine or his methods. He’d be having a laugh if he could hear this conversation between us now. It’s not just power over women that he enjoys; it’s power over the police too. All part of his sick game.’

Grace thought for some moments. His training as an SIO told him to listen to experts, but not to be influenced by them, and always to form his own opinions.

‘I hear what you are saying,’ he said.

‘I hope it’s loud and clear, Roy. Just look at my past record if you’ve any doubts. I’m going to put a marker down about this offender. He’s someone who needs a comfort zone, a bit of routine. He’s sticking to the same pattern that he had before. That’s his comfort zone. He’ll take his victims from the same, or at least similar, places. Someone is going to be seized and raped in a car park in the centre of this city before the end of this week and their shoes will be taken. You can tell them that at your press conference from me.’

The smugness of the man was beginning to irritate Grace beyond belief. But he needed him. He needed every straw he could grasp at this moment.

‘I can’t stake out the whole damned city centre – we just don’t have the surveillance resources. If we cover the city centre with uniform it won’t help us catch him. It will just drive him somewhere else.’

‘I think your man is smart enough and bold enough to do it right under your nose. He might even get a kick from that. You can cover the city wall to wall in police and he’ll still get his victim.’

‘Very reassuring,’ Grace said. ‘So what do you suggest?’

‘You’re going to have to make some guesses – and hope you get lucky. Or…’ He fell silent for a moment, thinking. ‘The case of Dennis Rader in the US – a particularly nasty individual who styled himself BTK – initials that stood for Bind, Torture, Kill. He was caught after twelve years of silence when the local paper wrote something about him that he didn’t like. It was just a speculation…’

‘What kind of thing?’ Grace said, very curious suddenly.

‘I think it was questioning the perpetrator’s manhood. Something along those lines. You can be sure of one thing: that your current offender is going to be keeping a hawk-eye on the media, reading every word your local paper prints. The ego goes with the territory.’

‘You don’t think inflaming him will provoke him into offending even more?’

‘No, I don’t. He got away with those attacks twelve years ago. God knows what he’s got away with since then. And now these new attacks. I imagine he thinks he’s invincible – all-clever, all-powerful. That’s how the press coverage to date has made him seem. Create a demon of our Shoe Man, make him the Monster of Brighton and Hove, and, bingo, newspaper sales shoot up across the nation, and so do news audience ratings. And all the time in reality we’re dealing with a nasty, warped misfit with a screw loose.’

‘So we get the local paper to say something demeaning about his manhood? That he’s got a tiny dick or something?’

‘Or how about the truth, that he can’t get it up – or keep it up? No man’s going to like reading that.’

‘Dangerous,’ Grace said. ‘It could send him on a rampage.’

‘He’s dangerous enough already, Roy. But at the moment he’s clever, calculating, taking his time, not making any mistakes. Put him in a rage, provoke him into losing his cool – that way he’ll make a mistake. And then you’ll get him.’

‘Or them.’

Monday 12 January

Sussex Square was one of the jewels in Brighton’s architectural crown. Comprising one straight row and two magnificent crescents of Regency houses, each with views across five acres of private gardens and the English Channel beyond, the square had originally been built to provide weekend seaside homes for fashionable, rich Victorians. Now most of the buildings were divided up into apartments, but none of their grandeur had been lost in the process.

He drove the van slowly, passing the tall, imposing façades that were all painted a uniform white, checking out the numbers. Looking for no. 53.

He knew that it was still a single-dwelling home on five floors, with servants’ quarters at the top. A fine residence, he thought, to reflect the status of a man like Rudy Burchmore, the Vice-President, Europe, of American & Oriental Banking, and of his socialite wife, Dee. A perfect home for entertaining in style. For impressing people. For wearing expensive shoes in.

He drove around the square again, quivering and clammy with excitement, and this time stopped short of the house, pulling into a gap on the garden side of the road. This was a good place to stop. He could see her car and he could see her front door, but she wouldn’t notice him, regardless of whether she was looking out of her window or coming out of her front door.