‘OK. The first, not for you to print, is that we think there could be another attack this week. It’s likely to be somewhere in the town centre, possibly in a car park.’
‘Hardly rocket science if there have been three in the past two weeks already,’ Spinella retorted sarcastically.
‘No, I agree with you.’
‘Not much of an exclusive. I could have predicted that off my own bat.’
‘It’ll make you look good if it does happen – you can write one of those A senior detective had forewarned the Argus this attack was likely kind of pieces that you’ve been good at inventing in the past.’
Spinella had the decency to blush. Then he shrugged. ‘Car park? So you think he’s mirroring the same sequence as before?’
‘The forensic psychologist does.’
‘Dr Proudfoot’s got a bit of a reputation as a tosser, hasn’t he?’
‘You said that, not me.’ Grace’s eyes twinkled.
‘So what are you doing to prevent the next attack?’
‘All we can, short of closing down the centre of Brighton to the public. We’re going to throw as much resourcing as we can behind it – but invisible. We want to catch him, not drive him away and lose him.’
‘How are you going to warn the public?’
‘I hope we can get the support of the press and media at the conference we’re about to have – and warn them in a general but not specific way.’
Spinella nodded, then pulled out his notebook. ‘Now tell me the one I can print.’
Grace smiled, then said, ‘The offender has a small dick.’
The reporter waited, but Grace said nothing more.
‘That’s it?’ Spinella asked.
‘That’s it.’
‘You’re joking?’
The Detective Superintendent shook his head.
‘That’s my exclusive? That the offender has a small dick?’
‘Hope I’m not touching a nerve,’ Grace replied.
1998
61
Tuesday 13 January
The old lady sat in the driver’s seat of the stolen van, at the start of the steep hill, with her seat belt on as tight as it would go. Her hands rested on the steering wheel, with the engine idling, but the lights switched off.
He stood beside her, holding the driver’s door open, nervous as hell. It was a black night, the sky densely lagged with clouds. He could have used some moonlight, but there was nothing to be done about that.
His eyes scanned the darkness. It was 2 a.m. and the country road, a few hundred yards to the north of the entrance to the Waterhall Golf Club, two miles from the outskirts of Brighton, was deserted. There was a half-mile steep descent, with a sharp lefthander at the bottom, the road winding on through the valley between the hills of the South Downs. The beauty of this location, he figured, was that he could see from the headlights if anything was coming, for over a mile in either direction. It was all clear for the moment.
Time to rock and roll!
He reached across her lap, released the handbrake, then jumped clear as the van immediately rolled forward, picking up speed rapidly, the driver’s door swinging shut with a dull clang. The van veered worryingly into the oncoming lane, and stayed there, as it continued to pick up speed.
It was just as well no vehicle was coming up the hill towards the van, because the old lady would have been incapable of taking any avoiding action, or reacting in any way at all, on account of the fact that she had been dead for ten days.
He jumped on his bike and, with the boost of additional weight from his backpack, pedalled, then freewheeled down the hill after her, rapidly picking up speed.
Ahead of him he saw the silhouette of the van, which he had stolen from a construction site, veering towards the offside verge and, for one heart-in-his-mouth moment, he was sure it was going to crash into the thick gorse hedge, which might have stopped it. But then, miraculously, it veered briefly left, made a slight correction and careered on down the hill on a dead straight path, as if she really was steering it. As if she was having the ride of her life. Or rather, he thought, of her death!
‘Go, baby, go! Go for it, Molly!’ he urged. ‘Enjoy!’
The van, which had the name Bryan Barker Builders emblazoned all over it, was continuing to pick up speed. Going so fast now he was feeling dangerously out of control, he touched the brakes of the mountain bike and slowed a little, letting the van pull away. It was hard to gauge distances. The hedgerows flashed by. Something flapped close to his face. What the fuck was it? A bat? An owl?
The cold, damp wind was streaming into his eyes, making them water, half-blinding him.
He braked harder. They were coming towards the bottom, approaching the left-hander. The van went straight on. He heard the crunching, tearing, screeching of barbed wire against paintwork as it ploughed through the hedge and the farmer’s fence. He brought the bike to a skidding halt, his trainers bouncing along on the tarmac for several yards, narrowly avoiding going head over heels.
Through his watering eyes, more accustomed to the darkness now, he saw a massive black shape disappear. Then he heard a dull, rumbling metallic booming sound.
He leapt off his bike, tossing it into the hedge, pulled out his torch and switched it on, then scrambled through the hole in the hedge. The beam found its mark.
‘Perfect! Oh yes, perfect! Sweet! Oh yes, baby, yes! Molly, you doll! You did it, Molly! You did it!’
The van was lying on its roof, all four of its wheels spinning.
He ran up to it, then stopped, switched the torch off and looked in every direction. Still no sign of any headlights. Then he shone the beam inside. Molly Glossop lay upside down, suspended from her lap-strap, her mouth still closed from the stitches through her lips, her hair hanging untidily down in short grey clumps.
‘Thanks!’ he whispered, as if his voice might travel ten miles. ‘Well driven!’
He shrugged his backpack off and clumsily fumbled the buckles open with his trembling, gloved fingers. Then he lifted out the plastic five-litre container of petrol, hurried through the sodden winter wheat and the sticky mud up to the driver’s door and tried to open it.
It would not budge.
Cursing, he put down the container and pulled the handle with both hands, with all his strength, but it only yielded a couple of inches, the buckled metal shrieking in protest.
It didn’t matter because the window was open; that would do. He shot another nervous glance in both directions. Still no sign of any vehicle.
He unscrewed the cap of the container, which came away with a hiss, and poured the contents in through the window, shaking as much of the petrol over the old lady’s head and body as he could.
When it was empty he replaced the lid and returned the container to his backpack, retied the buckles and put it over his shoulders.
Next, he stepped several yards away from the upturned van, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, removed one and stuck it in his mouth. His hands were shaking so much he found it hard to flick the lighter wheel. Finally a flame erupted, briefly, then the wind blew it out.
‘Shit! Fuck! Don’t do this!’
He tried again, shielding it with his palm, and finally got the cigarette alight. He took two long drags on it and once more checked for headlights.
Shit.
A vehicle was coming down the hill.
