Peter James - Dead Like You

The Detective Superintendent sat with his back to this, facing the door, as his team filed in, half of them on their phones. One of the last to enter was Norman Potting, who strutted in, looking very pleased with himself.

At 6.30 sharp, Roy Grace opened the meeting by announcing, ‘Team, before I start on the agenda, DS Potting has some news for us.’ He gestured to him to begin.

Potting coughed, then said, ‘I’m pleased to report I’ve arrested a suspect.’

‘Brilliant!’ Michael Foreman said.

‘He’s in custody now while we continue a search of his home, a houseboat moored on the Adur at Shoreham Beach.’

‘Who is he, Norman?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

‘John Kerridge, the man I mentioned at this morning’s briefing. A local taxi driver. Calls himself by a nickname, Yac. We conducted a search of his premises and discovered a cache of eighty-seven pairs of ladies’ high-heeled shoes concealed in bags in the bilges.’

‘Eighty-seven pairs?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood said, astonished.

‘There may be more. The search is continuing,’ he said. ‘I suspect we’re going to find the ones taken from our first two victims – and past ones.’

‘You don’t have those yet?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

‘No, but we’ll find ’em. He’s got a whole stack of current newspaper cuttings about the Shoe Man that we’ve seized, as well as a wodge of printouts from the Internet on the Shoe Man back in 1997.’

‘He lives alone?’ Bella Moy asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Any wife? Separated? Girlfriend, or boyfriend?’

‘Doesn’t sound like it.’

‘What reason did he give for having these cuttings – and the shoes?’ she asked.

‘He didn’t. When I asked him that question he went into a sulk and refused to speak. We also found a large number of toilet chains concealed, as well as the shoes, which he got extremely agitated about.’

Branson frowned, then made a flushing movement with his arm. ‘Toilet chains? You mean as in bog chains, right?’

Potting nodded.

‘Why?’ Branson continued.

Potting looked around, a little hesitantly, and then stared at Roy Grace. ‘Dunno if it’s politically correct to say it – um – chief.’

‘The suspense is killing us,’ Grace replied, with good humour.

Potting tapped the side of his head. ‘He’s not got all his lights on.’

There was a titter of laughter. Potting smiled proudly. Grace watched him, glad for this man to have shown his value to the team. But at the same time, he was thinking hard about Pewe, privately concerned that while this current suspect under arrest ticked a lot of boxes, he left one big unanswered question.

He turned his attention back to DS Potting’s prisoner in custody. Great they had an arrest, and here was a story the Argus would lead with in the morning. But he was experienced enough to know there was a big gap between arresting a suspect and establishing he was the offender.

‘How is he reacting, Norman?’ he asked.

‘He’s angry, chief,’ Potting said. ‘And we could have a problem. His brief’s Ken Acott.’

‘Shit,’ Nick Nicholl said.

There were a number of Legal Aid solicitors available to suspects, and their abilities and attitudes varied widely. Ken Acott was the smartest of all of them, and the bane of any arresting officer’s life.

‘What’s he saying?’ Grace asked.

‘He’s requesting a medical examination of his client before he speaks any further to us,’ the Detective Sergeant replied. ‘I’m arranging that. Meantime I’m holding Kerridge in custody overnight. Hopefully the search team will find further evidence.’

‘Perhaps we’ll get a DNA match,’ DC Foreman said.

‘So far the Shoe Man has shown himself very forensically aware,’ Grace said. ‘It’s one of the big problems that we’ve never obtained anything from him. Not one damned hair or fibre.’ He looked at his notes. ‘OK, excellent work, Norman. Let’s move on for a moment. Glenn, you have something to report on another possible suspect.’

‘Yes, boss. I’m pleased to say we’ve identified the driver of the Mercedes E Class saloon. The one that was seen driving at speed away from the Pearces’ house in The Droveway around the time of the attack on Mrs Roxanna Pearce, and we’ve now interviewed him. It explains the romantic dinner for two she was preparing, but it’s not helpful news, I’m afraid.’ Branson shrugged, then went on. ‘His name’s Iannis Stephanos, a local restaurateur. He owns Timon’s down in Preston Street, and Thessalonica.’

‘I know that!’ DC Foreman said. ‘Took my wife there for our anniversary last week!’

‘Yeah, well, me and E-J went and spoke to Stephanos this afternoon. He admitted with some embarrassment that he and Mrs Pearce were having an affair. She’s subsequently confirmed this. She’d invited him over because her husband was away on a business trip – which we know to be the case. He’d gone to the house but not been able to gain access. He said he’d hung around outside, ringing the doorbell and phoning. He was sure she was in because he’d seen shadows move behind the curtains. In the end, he wasn’t sure what she was playing at – then had a sudden fit of panic that perhaps the husband had returned home early, which was why he left at speed.’

‘Do you believe him?’ Grace looked first at him, then at Emma-Jane Boutwood.

Both of them nodded.

‘Doesn’t make any sense that he should have raped her if he’d been invited over.’

‘Can you be sure she didn’t cry rape because her husband returned and she felt guilty?’ Michael Foreman asked.

‘Her husband didn’t return until we contacted him the next day,’ Branson replied.

‘Does he know about the affair?’ Grace asked Glenn.

‘I’ve tried to be discreet,’ he said. ‘I think we’d best keep that to ourselves, for the moment.’

‘I’ve had Mr Pearce on the phone several times, asking about our progress,’ Grace said. He looked at the SOLO, Claire Westmore. ‘Are you happy for us to try to keep it quiet?’

‘I don’t see any value in making things worse than they already are for Mrs Pearce, at this stage, sir,’ she replied.

After the meeting, Grace asked DC Foreman to come to his office, and there he briefed him, in confidence, about his suspicions concerning Detective Superintendent Pewe.

Foreman had not been around during the time Cassian Pewe was with Sussex CID, so no one would be able to accuse him of being biased against the man. He was the perfect choice.

‘Michael, I want you to check all Detective Superintendent Cassian Pewe’s alibis back in 1997 and now. I have concerns about him, because so much fits. But if we arrest him, it has to be on watertight evidence. We don’t have that yet. See what you can come up with. And remember, you’re going to be dealing with a very devious and manipulative person.’

‘I’m sure I’m his match, boss.’

Grace smiled. ‘That’s why I’ve chosen you.’

Tuesday 20 January

The lab tests confirmed the age of the woman who had been partially incinerated in the van as being between eighty and eighty-five.

Whoever she was – or rather had been – she was not the missing Rachael Ryan. Which now left Detective Sergeant Roy Grace with a second problem. Who was she, who had put her in the van, and why?

Three big unticked boxes.

So far no undertakers had reported a missing body, but Grace could not get the image of the woman out of his mind. During the past couple of days some of her details had been filled in for him. She was five feet, four inches tall. White. Lab tests carried out by Dr Frazer Theobald on her lung tissue and on the small amount of flesh intact on her back confirmed that she had been dead for some considerable time before the van caught fire – several days before. She had died from cancer secondaries.