Peter James - Dead Man’s Footsteps

Five minutes later he was all set up. He had a new name, a new email address. This was the start of his new life.

And now, he realized, he was ravenous. He left the store and went in search of a burger and fries. And a gherkin. For some reason, he suddenly could have killed for a gherkin. And fried onions. Ketchup. The works. And a Coke.

Champagne would come later.

‘Come in,’ Alison Vosper said, in response to the knock on her door.

Cassian Pewe had selected his clothes carefully for this meeting. His sharpest blue suit, his best white shirt, his favourite tie, pale blue and white geometrics. And he had sprayed on so much Calvin Klein Eternity cologne he smelled like he had been marinated in the stuff.

You could always tell when you really connected with someone, and Pewe knew that he had with this particular lady Assistant Chief Constable from the very first time they met. It was at a Metropolitan Police conference on counter-terrorism and the Islamic threat in Britain’s cities back in January. He had sensed more than a frisson of sexuality between them. He was quite sure that the reason she had so enthusiastically and proactively encouraged his move to the Sussex CID – and championed his promotion to Detective Superintendent – was because she had extracurricular activities in mind.

Quite understandably, of course. He knew just how attractive to women he was. And throughout his career to date, he had always focused on the women in power in the police force. Not all were malleable; in fact some were as steely as their male counterparts, if not more so. But a fair percentage were normal women, intelligent and strong, but with emotional vulnerabilities. You just had to press the right buttons.

Which made the coldness of the ACC’s reaction as he entered her office all the more surprising.

‘Take a seat,’ she said, without looking up from the array of morning papers fanned out on her desk like a poker hand. ‘Or perhaps I should say, “Take a pew .”’

‘Oh, that’s very witty,’ Pewe cooed.

But no smile cracked her icy expression. Seated behind her huge rosewood desk, she continued reading an article in the Guardian, holding him at bay with her elegantly manicured hand.

He eased himself down into the black leather armchair. Although it was four months since the taxi he had been travelling in had been T-boned by a stolen van, fracturing his left leg in four places, it was still painful to stand for prolonged periods of time. But he kept that to himself, not wanting to risk his future career chances by being marked as a semi-invalid.

Alison Vosper continued reading. Pewe looked at the framed photographs of her husband, a burly, shaven-headed police officer several years older than her, and her two children, boys in school uniform wearing rather goofy spectacles.

Several framed certificates bearing her name hung on the walls, along with a couple of old Brighton prints, one of the racecourse, the other of the long-gone chain pier.

Her phone rang. She leaned forward and stared at the display, then hoisted it from its cradle, barked, ‘I’m in a meeting, call you back,’ replaced it and continued reading. ‘So, how are you getting on?’ she asked suddenly, still reading.

‘So far, great.’

She glanced up and he tried to hold and maintain eye contact, but, almost immediately, she looked down at something else on another part of her desk. She reached over, picked up and then shuffled through some sheets of typewritten papers, a report of some kind, as if she was trying to find something. ‘I understand you’ve been allocated cold cases?’

‘Yes.’

She was dressed in a short, tight-fitting black jacket over a white, Mandarin-collared blouse, which was closed at the neck by an opal in a silver clasp. Her breasts, which he had fantasized about, were almost flattened. Then she looked at him and smiled. A long, almost come-on smile.

Instantly he melted. Then lost eye contact again as she looked down and began shuffling through the papers once more.

There was something intensely fragrant about her, he thought. She wasn’t beautiful, but he was powerfully attracted. Her skin was silky white and even the small wart just above the neckline of her blouse, her one tiny blemish, intrigued him. She was wearing a citrus fragrance that was setting off fireworks deep in his belly. She looked pure, and strong, and exuded authority. He wanted to go around the far side of that desk, rip her clothes off and roll around with her on the carpeted floor.

He was getting an erection at the thought.

And she was still looking down at her desk, shuffling through the damn papers!

‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said gently, as a prompt.

He left an expectant gap. Was she was feeling the same way about him and just being coy? Maybe she was going to suggest a place where the two of them could meet later for a drink. Somewhere cosy.

He could invite her over to his pad at the Marina. With its view of the yachts, it was pretty cool.

Now she was reading the Guardian again.

‘Are you looking for something?’ he asked. ‘Is there some mention of Sussex Police?’

‘No,’ she said dismissively. ‘Just trying to catch up on the day’s news.’ Then, without looking up, she said, ‘I presume you’re starting an audit of how many cold cases are outstanding?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, yes, absolutely.’

‘Murders, suspicious deaths? Long-term missing persons? Other undetected serious crimes?’

‘All of those.’

She moved on to the Telegraph and scanned the front page.

He stared at her uncertainly. There was an invisible barrier between them and he felt completely thrown. ‘Look, I – I was wondering if I could speak to you off the record.’

‘Go ahead.’ She turned several pages in rapid succession as he spoke.

‘Well, I know I’m meant to report to Roy Grace, but I have concerns about him.’

Now he had her full attention. ‘Go on.’

‘You know about his missing wife, of course,’ he said.

‘The entire force has lived with it for the past nine years,’ she replied.

‘Well, I went to interview her parents last night. They are deeply concerned. They don’t feel that anyone in Sussex Police has carried out an impartial investigation.’

‘Can you elaborate?’

‘Yes. Well, here’s the thing. In all that time, the only officer in Sussex Police who has taken responsibility for reviewing the investigation into her disappearance is Roy himself. To me, that doesn’t sit right. I mean, that wouldn’t have happened in the Met.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Well,’ Pewe continued unctuously, ‘her parents are deeply uncomfortable about this. Reading between the lines, I think they suspect Roy is hiding something.’

She looked at him for some moments. ‘And what do you think?’

‘I’d like your permission for me to prioritize this. Dig further. Use my discretion to take whatever investigatory steps I consider necessary.’

‘Granted,’ she said. Then she looked back down at her papers and dismissed him with a single wave of her hand. The one with the diamond solitaire and wedding band.

When he stood up, his hard-on had gone but he felt a whole new kind of excitement.

The light and the extractor fan had been on for what seemed like hours and hours. In the tiny, windowless room, Abby had lost all track of time. She didn’t know if it was still the middle of the night or morning. Her mouth and throat were parched, she was ravenously hungry and almost every part of her body was numb or hurting from the bindings.