‘You just told me that. What’s your question?’
‘Well, it’s like – if I said to you that I was, like – like, I saw something, right? Like – someone I know saw something, like, when they were somewhere that they shouldn’t ought to be? Yeah? If they, like, gave you information that you really needed, would you still prosecute them because they were somewhere they shouldn’t have been?’
‘Are you trying to tell me you were somewhere you shouldn’t have been and saw something?’
‘It wasn’t like I breached my licence restrictions or anything. It wasn’t like that.’
‘Do you want to come to the point?’
Spicer was silent for a moment, then said, ‘If I saw something that might help you catch your Shoe Man, would that give me immunity? You know, from prosecution.’
‘I haven’t got that power. Calling to collect the reward, are you?’
There was a sudden silence at the other end, then Spicer said, ‘Reward?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Reward for what?’
‘The reward for information leading to the arrest of the man who attacked Mrs Dee Burchmore on Thursday afternoon. It’s been put up by her husband. Fifty thousand pounds.’
Another silence, then, ‘I didn’t know about that.’
‘No one does yet, he only informed us this morning. We’re about to pass it on to the local media, so you’ve got a head start. So, anything you’d like to tell me?’
‘I don’t want to go back inside. I want to stay out, you know, try to make a go of it,’ Spicer said.
‘If you’ve got information, you could call Crimestoppers anonymously and give it to them. They’ll pass it on to us.’
‘I wouldn’t get the reward then, would I, if it was anonymous?’
‘Actually, I believe you might. But you’re aware that withholding information’s an offence, aren’t you?’ Branson said.
Instantly he detected the panic rising in the old lag’s voice.
‘Yeah, but wait a minute. I’m phoning you, to be helpful, like.’
‘Very altruistic of you.’
‘Very what?’
‘I think you’d better tell me what you know.’
‘What about if I just give you an address? Would that qualify me for the reward if you find something there?’
‘Why don’t you stop fucking about and tell me what you have?’
92
Saturday 17 January
Shortly after 2 p.m. Roy Grace drove in through the front entrance of a large, tired-looking apartment block, Mandalay Court, then down an incline at the side, as he had been directed. He was curious to see what Darren Spicer’s tip-off revealed.
As he headed around the rear of the building, his wipers clearing away a few tiny spots of drizzle, he saw a long row of shabby lock-up garages that did not look like they had been used for years. At the far end were three vehicles: Glenn Branson’s unmarked silver Ford Focus, identical to the one Grace had come in; the little blue van, which he presumed belonged to the locksmith; and the white police van, containing two members of the Local Support Team, who had been requested in case they had to break their way in, and had brought a battering ram with them as backup. Not that there were many doors, in Grace’s experience, that could defeat ever-cheery Jack Tunks, whose day job was maintaining the locks at Lewes Prison.
Tunks, in heavy-duty blue overalls, a grimy bag of tools on the ground beside him, was busy inspecting the locks.
Grace climbed out of the car, holding his torch, and greeted his colleague, then nodded towards the last of the garages in the row. ‘This the one?’
‘Yep. No. 17, not very clearly marked.’ Branson double-checked the search warrant that had been signed half an hour ago by a local magistrate. ‘Yep.’
‘Blimey,’ Tunks said. ‘What’s he got in there? The blooming crown jewels?’
‘Does seem a lot of locks,’ Grace agreed.
‘Whoever’s had these put on isn’t messing about. I’ll guarantee the door’s reinforced behind too.’
Grace detected a degree of grudging respect in his voice. The recognition of one professional’s work by another.
While Tunks applied himself to his task, Grace stood rubbing his hands against the cold. ‘What do we know about the owner of this garage?’ he asked Branson.
‘I’m on to it. Got two PCSOs going round the apartment block now so see if anyone knows who the owner is, or at least one of the tenants. Otherwise I’ll see what we can get from the Land Registry online.’
Grace nodded, dabbed a drip from his nose with his handkerchief, then sniffed. He hoped he didn’t have a cold coming – he especially didn’t want to give any infection to Cleo while she was pregnant.
‘You’ve checked this is the only way in?’
The Detective Sergeant, who was wearing a long, cream, belted mackintosh, with epaulettes, and shiny brown leather gloves, made a duh! motion with his head, rocking it from side to side. ‘I know I’m not always the sharpest tack in the box, old-timer, but yeah, I did check.’
Grace grinned, then took a walk around the side to check for himself. It was a long garage, but there was no window or rear door. Returning to Branson, he said, ‘So, what news on the Ari front?’
‘Ever see that film War of the Roses?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Michael Douglas?’
‘You got it. And Kathleen Turner and Danny DeVito. Everything gets smashed up. We’re about there – only worse.’
‘Wish I could give you some advice, mate,’ Grace said.
‘I can give you some,’ Glenn replied. ‘Don’t bother getting married. Just find a woman who hates you and give her your house, your kids and half your income.’
The locksmith announced he was done, and pulled the door back and up a few inches, to show it was now free. ‘Would one of you like to do the honours?’ he said, and stepped away, a tad warily, as if worried a monster was going to leap out.
Branson took a deep breath and pulled the door up. It was much heavier than he had imagined. Tunks was right, it had been reinforced with steel plating.
As the door clanged home on its rollers, sliding parallel with the roof, all of them stared into the interior.
It was empty.
In the shadows they could make out an uneven dark stain towards the far end, which looked like it had been made by a parked vehicle dripping oil. Roy Grace detected a faint, car-park smell of warm vehicle. On the right-hand side of the far end wall was floor-to-ceiling wooden shelving. An old, bald-looking vehicle tyre was propped against the left-hand side. A couple of spanners and an old claw hammer hung from hooks on the wall to their left. But nothing else.
Glenn stared gloomily into the void. ‘Having a laugh on us, is he?’
Grace said nothing as he shone his torch around the walls, then the ceiling.
‘I’ll tear fucking Spicer’s head off!’ Glenn said.
Then they both saw it at the same time, as the beam fell on the two plain, flat strips of plastic on the floor. They strode forward. Grace snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then knelt and picked the up first strip.
It was a vehicle front registration plate, black lettering on a reflective white surface.
He recognized the index instantly. It was the cloned registration on the van which had shot away from the Grand Hotel car park on Thursday afternoon, almost certainly driven by the Shoe Man.
