Not Dead Enough by Peter James
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.’
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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?
If she moved, she would have just a few seconds before he shoved the door open. If she stayed put, it would only be a few minutes before he had smashed a hole in the door big enough to get his arms through. Or even climb through.
Roy!PleaseRoywhereareyouohGodpleaseRoy!
Another loud bang, more wood splintered away and now there was a hole three or four inches across. And she could see one glass lens pressed up against it. The faint shadow of an eye flickering behind it.
She thought for an instant she was going to vomit. Images of people flashed through her mind. Her sister, Charlie, her mother, her father, Roy, people she might never see again.
I am not going to die here.
There was a sharp crack, like a gunshot. For a moment she thought the man had fired a weapon at her. Then she realized, horrified, what it was. The wood on the right-hand bottom drawer of her dressing table had split and her bare foot had gone through. She withdrew it, then jammed it against the next drawer up. That seemed firm, for a moment. Then the whole thing began collapsing.
He was really enjoying himself! It was like opening a particularly challenging tin of sardines. One where you got the lid to lift up just a tiny fraction, so you could see the sardines lying there beneath you, tantalizing you, but you couldn’t yet touch or taste them. Though you knew in a few minutes that you would!
She was feisty! He was staring at her now, her face flushed, eyes bulging, hair all tangled and matted with perspiration. She was going to be great to make love to! Although clearly he was going to have to quieten her down or restrain her first. But not too much.
He took a couple of steps back, then slammed the sole of his shoe, his solid, metal-tipped and heeled workman’s shoe, against the door three times. It yielded a good inch! The most by far for one attempt! Now he was cooking with gas! The lid was peeling! A few more minutes and she would be in his arms!
He licked his lips. He could taste her already.
Not bothering with the hammer any more, he stepped back again and kicked out.
Then he heard the shrill ring of the front-door bell. He saw the change in the bitch’s expression.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to answer it! We don’t want anybody to disturb our little love nest, do we?
He blew her a kiss. Although, of course, she couldn’t see it.
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118
There were windows on either side of Cleo’s front door, but she had vertical venetian blinds carefully adjusted so that she could see out, while it was impossible for anyone to see in. Grace, standing anxiously outside her front door, rang the doorbell for the third time. Then he rapped on a window pane for good measure.
Why wasn’t she answering?
He dialled her mobile phone again. After a few seconds he heard it ringing from somewhere on the far side of the door. Do
Had she gone out and left her phone behind? Gone to get some food or to an off-licence? He checked his watch. It was nine thirty. Then he stepped back, trying to see if he could spot any movement in one of the upstairs windows. Perhaps she was up on the roof terrace, preparing a barbecue, and couldn’t hear the bell? He took another couple of steps back and collided with a young, shaven-headed man in Lycra shorts and a top, pushing his mountain bike.
‘I’m so sorry!’ Grace said.
‘No problem!’
He looked vaguely familiar. ‘You live here, don’t you?’ Grace asked.
‘Yep!’ He pointed at a house a few along. ‘Seen you around a few times, too – you’re a friend of Cleo’s, right?’
‘Yes. Have you seen her this evening by any chance? She’s expecting me, but she doesn’t seem to be in.’
The young man nodded. ‘Actually, yeah, I did see her – earlier. She waved at me from an upstairs window.’
‘Waved at you?’
‘Yeah – I heard a noise and looked up, wondering where it had come from. And I saw her in the window. Just a neighbourly wave thing.’
‘What kind of a noise?’
‘Sort of a bang. Like a gunshot.’
Grace stiffened. ‘Gunshot? ’
‘That’s what I thought for a moment. But obviously it wasn’t.’
Every alarm bell in his body was ringing. ‘You don’t have a key, do you?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Got one for Unit 9, but not Cleo’s, I’m afraid.’ Then he glanced at his watch. ‘I gotta rush.’
Grace thanked him. Then, as the young man walked away, the bicycle ticking, the detective heard several very distinct, muffled bangs coming from right above him. Instantly, his anxiety turned to blind panic.
He looked around for something heavy and saw a pile of bricks beneath a loose blue tarpaulin, outside the house directly opposite, on the other side of the courtyard.
He sprinted across and grabbed one, then removed his jacket as he ran back, wound it around the brick in his hand, then punched Cleo’s left window, shattering it. Too bad if everything was fine and she had just popped out to the shops. Better this than take a risk, he thought, bashing away more glass. Then, with his free hand, he pushed apart some of the slats of the blind.
And saw to his cold, stark terror the mess of water, smashed fish tank, the upturned coffee table, books strewn around.
‘CLEO!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘CLEEEEEEOOOOO!’ He turned his head and saw the young man with the bicycle, who had stopped in the middle of opening his front door and was staring at him, with a startled look. ‘Call the police!’ he yelled.
Then, ignoring the jagged shards sticking out of the frame all around, Grace hauled himself up on to the ledge and dived head first into the room, hitting the floor with his hands, rolling, then scrambling to his feet as fast as he could, looking wildly around him.
Then he saw the trail of blood across the floor leading to the stairs.
Sick with fear for Cleo, he sprinted up them. When he reached the first-floor landing and peered through the open door to her empty office, he shouted out her name again.
From directly above him he heard her voice, muffled and tight, call out, ‘ROY, BE CAREFUL! HE’S IN HERE!’
His eyes shot up the stairs to the second-floor landing. Cleo’s bedroom to the right, guest bedroom to the left. And the narrow staircase up to the roof terrace. At least she was alive, thank God! He held his breath.
No sign of any movement. No sound except the boomf-boomfboomf of his own heart.
He should call for back-up assistance, but he wanted to listen, to hear every sound in the house. Slowly, tread by tread, as silently as he could in his rubber-soled shoes, he made his way up the staircase towards the second floor. Just before he reached the landing, he stopped, pulled out his mobile phone again and called 999. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Grace, I need immediate assistance at—’
All he saw was a shadow. Then it felt as if he had been hit by a truck.
The next moment he was falling through air. Crashing head over heels backward down the stairs. Then, after what seemed an eternity, he was on his back on the landing floor, with his legs up above him on the stairs, and a sharp pain in his chest – a busted or cracked rib, he thought dimly, staring up, straight into Brian Bishop’s face.
Bishop was coming down the stairs, dressed in a green all-in-one suit, holding a claw hammer in one hand and a gas mask in the other. Except that it wasn’t Bishop. Couldn’t be, his dazed mind thought. He was in jail. In Lewes prison.
It was Brian Bishop’s face. His haircut. But the expression on his face was unlike any he had seen on Brian Bishop’s. It was twisted, almost lopsided, with hatred. Norman Jecks, he thought. It had to be Jecks. The two of them were absolutely identical.
Jecks came down another step, raising the hammer, his eyes blazing. ‘You called me an evil creature,’ he said. ‘You don’t have any right to call me an evil creature. You need to be careful what you say about people, Detective Superintendent Grace. You can’t just go around calling people names.’
Grace stared at the man, wondering whether his phone was still switched on and connected to the emergency operator. In the hope that it was, he shouted as loudly as he could, ‘Unit 5, Gardener’s Yard, Brighton!’
He saw the nervous dart of the man’s eyes.
Then upstairs there was a sudden screech of wood on wood.
Norman Jecks turned his head for an instant, looking anxiously back over his shoulder.
Grace seized the moment. He launched himself up on his elbows, then kicked his right foot as hard as he could, straight up between the man’s legs.
Jecks expelled a winded gasp, doubling up in pain, the hammer falling from his hand, clattering down the stairs and thudding past Grace’s head. The detective swung his leg up again, aiming another kick, but somehow Jecks, despite his pain, grabbed hold of it and wrenched it sharply round in fury. Grace rolled over, his ankle hurting like hell, going with the direction of the twist to stop the man breaking it, and lashing out with his other foot, striking something hard and hearing a cry of pain.
He saw the hammer! Lunged after it. But before he could get up, Jecks crashed down on top of him, pinning his wrist to the floor. Using every ounce of strength in his body, Grace jabbed back with his elbows and broke free, rolling over again. The man rolled with him, slamming a punch into his cheek, then another into the back of his neck. And Grace was on his face on the floor, breathing in the smell of wood varnish, a dead weight pinning him down, his throat clamped in a grip that was tightening every second.
He rammed his elbow back, but the grip tightened further, choking him. He was struggling to breathe.
Suddenly the grip slackened. A fraction of a second later, the crushing weight on his body lifted. Then he saw why.
Two police officers were clambering through the window.
He heard footsteps running up the stairs.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ the constable called out.
Grace nodded, clambered to his feet, his right leg and his chest agony, and launched himself up the stairs. He reached the landing, stepping over the gas mask. There was no sign of Jecks. He carried on up to the second floor and saw Cleo’s face, badly bruised and bleeding from a gash in her forehead, peering nervously out of her smashed, partially open bedroom door.
‘Are you OK?’ he gasped.
She nodded, looking in total shock.
There was a bang above them. Oblivious to his pain, Grace ran on up and saw the roof terrace door swinging back against the wall. Then he limped out on to the wooden decking of the terrace. And just caught a flash of olive green disappearing, in the failing light, down the fire escape at the far end.
Breaking into a run, he dodged around the kettle barbecue, the tables and chairs and plants, and hurtled down the steep metal steps. Jecks was already halfway across the courtyard, heading to the gate.
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Grace ran after him, determined to get this fucker. Utterly, utterly determined, everything else in the whole world blocked out of his mind.
Jecks turned left along York Place. The bastard was fast. Christ, he was fast. Grace was sprinting flat out, his chest on fire, his lungs feeling like they were being crushed between rocks. He wasn’t gaining on the man but at least he was keeping pace. He passed St Peter’s Church on his right. A Chinese takeaway, followed by endless shops on his left, everything except the fast-food places closed, just window display lights on. Buses, vans, cars, taxis passed by. He dodged around a gaggle of youths, all the time his eyes locked on to that olive-green suit that was increasingly blending into the closing darkness as York Place became the London Road.
Jecks reached the Preston Circus junction. He had a red traffic light against him and a line of cars crossing in front of him. But he sprinted straight through and on up the London Road. Grace had to stop for a moment, as a lorry thundered past, followed by an interminable line of traffic. Come on, come on, come on! He glanced over his shoulder and saw the two constables some way behind. Then, recklessly, almost blinded by the stinging perspiration in his eyes, he raced across the road in front of the flashing headlights and angry blaring horn of a bus.
He was fit from his regular running, but he didn’t know how much longer he could go on.
Jecks, now about two hundred yards in front of him, slowed, turned his head, saw Grace and picked up speed again.
Where the hell was he going?
There was a park on the right side of the road now. On his left were houses that had been converted into offices, and blocks of flats. The irony did not escape him that he was at this moment running past the Brighton & Hove City Council Directorate of Children, Families and Schools, where he had been earlier today.