Peter James - Dead Like You

She hurried over to assist him, but when she touched the fridge it felt strange, not like a fridge at all.

A hand grabbed the back of her neck, hurling her forward into the van. She slithered across the floor, cracking her head against something hard and unyielding. Before she had time to recover her senses, a heavy weight on her back pinned her down, crushing her, then something sickly sweet and damp was pressed over her face, stinging her nose and throat and blinding her with tears.

Terror seized her.

She tried to remember her moves. Still early days, she was just a novice, but she had learned one basic. Bend before kicking. You didn’t get enough power if you just kicked. You brought your knees towards you, then launched your legs. Coughing, spluttering, trying not to breathe the noxious stinging air, but already feeling muzzy, she clenched her elbows hard into her ribs and rolled sideways, her vision just a blur, trying to break free, bending her knees, then kicking out hard.

She felt them strike something. She heard a grunt of pain. Heard something clattering across the floor, kicked again, shook her head free, twisted, feeling dizzy now and weaker. The sickly sweet wetness pressed against her face again, stinging her eyes. She rolled sideways, breaking free of it, kicking hard with both feet together, feeling even dizzier now.

The weight lifted from her back. She heard sliding, then the slam of the door. She tried to get up. A hooded face was staring down at her, eyes peering through the slits. She attempted to scream, but her brain was working in slow motion now and disconnected from her mouth. No sound came out. She stared at the black hood, which was all blurry. Her brain was trying to make some sense of what was happening, but the inside of her head was swirling. She felt a deep, nauseous giddiness.

Then the sickly, stinging wetness again.

She went limp. Engulfed in a vortex of blackness. Falling deeper into it. Hurtling down a helter-skelter in a void.

Saturday 17 January

There was an almost celebratory mood in the Ops Room at Brighton Central. Roy Grace ordered the surveillance team to stand down; they were free to go home. But he was in no mood to share any of their elation and it was going to be a while yet before he got to head home.

This John Kerridge – Yac – character had bugged him all along. They’d released him too damned easily, without thorough enough questioning and investigation. He just thanked his lucky stars that the creep had been caught before harming another victim, which would have made them all look like even bigger idiots.

As it was, difficult questions were going to be asked, to which he was going to have to provide some damned good answers.

He was cursing himself for having allowed Norman Potting to run the initial interview, and for so readily agreeing with Potting’s decision that Kerridge should be released. He intended to be fully involved in planning the interview strategy and in the whole interview process of this suspect from now on.

Thinking hard, he left Brighton police station and drove back towards the Custody Centre, behind Sussex House, where Kerridge had been taken. He was fully expecting a phone call at any moment from Kevin Spinella at the Argus.

It was shortly after 7 p.m. when he pulled the Ford Focus estate into the bay in the front of the long, two-storey CID HQ building. He phoned Cleo to tell her that, with luck, he might be home earlier than he had thought, before midnight at any rate, then climbed out of the car. As he did so, his phone rang. But it wasn’t Spinella.

It was Inspector Rob Leet, the Golf 99 – the Duty Inspector in charge of all critical incidents in the city. Leet was a calm, extremely capable officer.

‘Sir, in case this is connected, I’ve just had a report from East Sector – a unit is attending a van on fire in remote farmland north of Patcham.’

Grace frowned. ‘What information do you have on it?’

‘It seems to have been on fire for some time – it’s pretty well burnt out. The fire brigade’s on its way. But this is why I thought it might be of interest. It’s a current model Ford Transit – sounds similar to the one you have an alert out on.’

The news made Grace uneasy. ‘Any casualties?’

‘It appears to be empty.’

‘No one seen running away from it?’

‘No.’

‘Anything from its registration?’

‘The licence plates are burned beyond recognition, I’m told, sir.’

‘OK, thanks,’ he said. ‘We have our man in custody. It may not be connected. But keep me updated.’

‘I will, sir.’

Grace ended the call and entered the front door of Sussex House, nodding a greeting to the night security man.

‘Hi, Duncan. How’s the running?’

The tall, athletic forty-year-old smiled at him proudly. ‘Completed a half-marathon last weekend. Came fifteenth out of seven hundred.’

‘Brilliant!’

‘Working up for the London marathon this year. Hope I can touch you for some sponsorship – for St Wilfred’s Hospice?’

‘Absolutely!’

Grace walked through to the rear of the building and out of the door, crossing the courtyard. He passed the wheelie bins and the SOCO vehicles which were permanently housed there, then went up the steep incline towards the custody block. As he pressed his key card against the security panel to unlock the door, his phone rang again.

It was Inspector Rob Leet once more.

‘Roy, I thought I’d better call you right away. I know you have the Shoe Man in custody, but we’ve got a unit on site in Sudeley Place, Kemp Town, attending a Grade One.’

This was the highest category of emergency call, requiring immediate attendance. Grace knew Sudeley Place. It was just south of Eastern Road. The tone of Leet’s voice worried him. What the Duty Inspector had to say fuelled that worry further.

‘Apparently a local resident happened to be looking out of her window and saw a woman having a fight with a man over a fridge.’

‘A fridge?’

‘He was in some sort of van – a camper of some kind – she’s not very good on vehicles, couldn’t give us the make. She reckons he hit her, then drove off at high speed.’

‘With her on board?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was this?’

‘About thirty-five minutes ago – just after 6.30 p.m.’

‘He could be anywhere by now. Did she get the registration?’

‘No. But I’m treating this as a possible abduction and I’ve cordoned off that section of pavement. I’ve asked Road Policing to check all camper vans on the move in the vicinity of the city. We’re going to see if we can get anything from CCTV.’

‘OK. Look, I’m not quite sure why you’re telling me this. We have our Shoe Man suspect in custody. I’m about to go and see him.’

‘There’s a reason why I think it could be significant for you, sir.’ Leet hesitated. ‘My officers attending have found a woman’s shoe on the pavement.

‘What kind of a shoe?’

‘Very new, apparently. Black patent leather, with a high heel. The witness saw it fall out of the camper.’

Grace felt a falling sensation deep in the pit of his stomach. His mind was whirling. They had the Shoe Man. At this very moment they were booking John Kerridge into custody.

But he did not like the sound of the burning van.

And he liked the sound of this new incident even less.

Saturday 17 January

In the CCTV room of Sussex Remote Monitoring Services, Dunstan Christmas shifted his twenty-stone bulk on the chair, careful not to lift his weight off altogether and trigger the alarm sensor. It was only 7.30 p.m. Shit. Another hour and half to wait before he would be relieved for a five-minute comfort break.