Peter James: Not Dead Enough

‘What the hell is this? Part of his security system?’ Grace asked.

‘He’s got three entrances – can’t see why he’d need ten monitors, sir,’ the officer said. ‘And there aren’t any cameras inside or outside – I’ve checked.’

At that moment Alfonso Zafferone came into the room, holding the signed search warrant for Norman Jecks’s lock-ups.

Ten minutes later, having left Nick Nicholl and the SOCO officer continuing their search of the flat, Grace and Branson stood in the small mews that was tucked behind a wide, leafy residential street of substantial detached and semi-detached Victorian villas. There were a few small business in the mews – a couple of car-repair outfits, a design studio and a software company – all closed for the night – and then a row of lock-up garages. According to the document they had found, Norman Jecks leased numbers 11 and 12. The blue-painted wooden doors of both were secured by hefty padlocks.

The Local Support Team gorilla who had bashed in the door of the flat, and four further members of his team, stood in readiness. It was almost dark now, the mews eerily silent. Grace briefed them all that once the door was open, no one was to go in if the place appeared empty, which seemly likely, to preserve it forensically.

Moments later the yellow battering ram smashed into the centre of the door, splintering the wood around the padlock’s hasp, sending the entire lock, along with a jagged chunk of wood, on to the floor. Several flashlight beams shone in simultaneously, one of them Grace’s.

The interior, mostly taken up by a car beneath a fitted dust cover, was silent and empty. It smelled of engine oil and old leather. On the floor at the far end, two pinpricks of red light gleamed and then were gone. Probably a mouse or a rat, Grace thought, signalling everyone to wait, then stepping in himself and looking for the light switch. He found it, and two startlingly bright ceiling bulbs came on.

At the far end was a workbench on which was a machine resembling the kind he had seen in shops that offered key-cutting services. A variety of blank keys were fixed to the wall behind it, in a carefully arranged pattern. Tools were hung on all the other walls, very neatly again, all in patterned clusters. The whole place was spotlessly clean. Too clean. It felt more like an exhibition stand for tools than a garage.

On the floor was a small, very ancient suitcase. Grace popped open the catches. It was full of old buff file folders, corporate documents, letters, and near the bottom he found a blue Letts schoolboy’s diary for the year 1976. He closed the case – the team would go through the contents carefully later.

Then, with Branson’s help, he removed the car’s cover, to reveal a gleaming, moonstone-white 1962 3.8 Jaguar Mk2 saloon. It was in such immaculate condition that it looked brand new, despite its age. As if it had come straight from the factory to here, without ever being soiled by a road.

‘Nice!’ Branson said admiringly. ‘You ought to get one of these, old man. Then you’d look like that detective geezer on the box, Inspector Morse.’

‘Thanks,’ Grace said, opening the boot. It was empty, and just as brand new-looking as the exterior. He closed it again, then walked towards the rear of the garage and stared at the key-cutting machine. ‘Why would someone have one of these?’

‘To cut keys?’ Branson suggested, less than helpfully.

‘Whose keys?’

‘The keys of anything you want to get into.’

Grace then asked the LST officers to turn their attention to the next-door unit.

As the door splintered open, the first thing his torch beam struck was a pair of licence plates, propped against the wall. He went straight over to them and knelt down. They each read: LJ04. NWS .

It was the number of Brian Bishop’s Bentley.

Possibly the number that had been photographed by the ANPR camera at Gatwick on Thursday night.

He switched on the interior lights. This garage was every bit as immaculate as the one next door. In the centre of the floor was a hydraulic hoist jack capable of lifting an entire car. Other tools were tidily arranged around the walls. And when he walked down to the far end and saw what was lying on the workbench, he stopped in his tracks. It was the workshop manual for an MG TF 160. Cleo’s car.

‘I think we just hit the jackpot,’ he said grimly to Branson. Then he pulled out his mobile phone and dialled Cleo’s home number. He expected she would answer within a couple of rings, as she normally did. But instead it rang on, four rings, six, eight. Ten.

Which was strange, because her answering machine was set to kick in after six. Why hadn’t it? He dialled her mobile. That rang eight times, then he got her voicemail message.

Something did not feel right. He would give it a couple of minutes, in case she was in the loo or bath, he decided, then try again. He turned his attention back to the MG manual.

Several pages were marked with yellow Post-it tags. One was the start of the section on the central locking. Another, the section on the fuel injection. He dialled Cleo’s home number again. It rang on endlessly. Then he tried her mobile again. Eight rings followed by her voicemail. He left a message, asking her to call him straight back, his concern rising every second.

‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ Branson said.

‘What?’

‘That we might have the wrong man in jail?’

‘It’s starting to look that way.’

‘But I don’t get it. You saw the parents of Bishop’s twin. Genuine people, you said, right?’

‘Sad little old couple, they seemed genuine enough, yes.’

‘And their adopted son – Bishop’s twin – they said he was dead, yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘They gave you the number of his plot in a cemetery?’

Grace nodded.

‘So how come if he’s dead, he’s still around? Are we dealing with a ghost or something? I mean, that’s your terrain, isn’t it, the supernatural? You think we’re dealing with a spirit? An unrested soul?’

‘I never heard of a ghost ejaculating,’ Grace said. ‘Or driving cars. Or tattooing people with power drills. Or turning up in the A&E department of hospital with a hand injury.’

‘Dead men don’t do any of those things either,’ Branson said. ‘Do they?’

‘Not in my experience, no.’

‘So how come we have one who does?’

After some moments Grace replied, ‘Because he’s not dead enough.’

117

Somehow the barricade was still holding, but it wouldn’t for much longer. With every jarring thump on the door it opened a fraction more. The chair had already collapsed and she had taken its place with her own body, her back jammed against the foot of her bed, the frame digging into her spine agonizingly, her legs wedged against the drawers each side of her dressing table.

The dressing table was not sturdily built. It was cracking, its joints slowly giving out. At any moment it was going to shatter like the chair had done. And when that happened, the maniac would be able to push the door a good eighteen inches open.

Roy! Where the hell are you? Roy! Roy! Roy!

She could hear the faint ringing of her mobile, downstairs. Eight rings, then it stopped.

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM on the door.

Then a faint beep-beep from downstairs, her mobile telling her, uselessly, that she had a message.

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.

A splinter of wood flew off the door and a new, deep coil of terror spiralled through her.

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.

More wood splinters and this time the head of the hammer came right through.

She tried to control her panic-breathing, to stop herself hyperventilating again. WhatcanIdo?PleaseGodwhatcanIdo?