‘That’s too long to wait. It would mean a whole thirty hours before we could even begin to start searching for any forensic evidence that might help us. We’d be looking at the middle of this coming week, at the very earliest, on any possible matches. I think every hour could be crucial. We can’t leave it that long. This really could be the difference between life and death.’
There was a long silence. Grace knew he was asking for a massive leap of faith. He was taking a huge personal gamble in making this request. It still was not 100 per cent certain that Jessie Sheldon had been abducted. The likelihood was that, after twelve years, there would be no forensic evidence that could help his inquiry anyway. But he’d spoken to Joan Major, the forensic archaeologist that Sussex CID regularly consulted, who told him that it would at least be worth a try.
With the pressures on him at this moment, he was willing to clutch at any straw. But he believed what he was requesting now was much more than that.
Her voice becoming even more imperious, the Coroner said, ‘You want to do this in a public cemetery, in broad daylight, on a Sunday, Detective Superintendent? Just how do you think any bereaved people, visiting the graves of their loved ones on the holy day, might feel about this?’
‘I’m sure they’d be very distressed,’ he replied. ‘But not half as distressed as this young woman, Jessie Sheldon, who is missing. I believe the Shoe Man may have taken her. I could be wrong. We could be too late already. But if there’s a chance of saving her life, that’s more important than temporarily hurting the feelings of a few bereaved people who’ll probably leave the cemetery and head off to do their shopping in ASDA or Tesco, or wherever else they shop on the holy day,’ he said, making his point.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll sign the order. Just be as discreet as you can. I’m sure you will.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll meet you at my office in thirty minutes. I take it you’ve never been involved in one of these before?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘You won’t believe the bureaucracy that’s involved.’
Grace could believe it. But at this moment he was more interested in saving Jessie Sheldon than in worrying about pleasing a bunch of pen-pushers. But he didn’t want to risk saying anything inflammatory. He thanked the Coroner and told her that he would be there in thirty minutes.
105
Sunday 18 January
Jessie heard the familiar grating clatter of the side door of the camper van opening. Then the vehicle rocked slightly and she was aware of footsteps right beside her. She was quaking in terror.
An instant later, she was dazzled by the beam of a torch straight in her face.
He sounded furious. ‘You stink,’ he said. ‘You stink of urine. You’ve wet yourself. You filthy cow.’
The beam moved away from her face. Blinking, she looked up. He was now directing the beam on to his own hooded face deliberately, so she could see him.
‘I don’t like dirty women,’ he said. ‘That’s your problem, isn’t it? You’re all dirty. How do you expect to pleasure me when you stink like you do?’
She pleaded with her eyes. Please untie me. Please free my mouth. I’ll do anything. I won’t fight. I’ll do anything. Please. I’ll do what you want, then let me go, OK? Deal? Do we have a deal?
She was suddenly desperate to pee again, even though she had drunk nothing for what seemed an eternity and her mouth was all furred. What time was it? It was morning, she guessed, from the light that had momentarily filled the interior of the van a few minutes ago.
‘I have a Sunday lunch engagement,’ he said. ‘I don’t have time to sort you out and get you cleaned up, I’ll have to come back later. Too bad I can’t invite you. Are you hungry?’
He shone the torch back on her face.
She pleaded with her eyes for water. Tried to form the word inside her clamped mouth, inside her gullet, but all that came out was an undulating moan.
She was desperate for water. And shaking, trying to keep control of her bladder.
‘Can’t quite understand what you’re saying – are you wishing me bon appetit?’
‘Grnnnnmmmmmoooowhhh.’
‘That’s so sweet of you!’ he said.
She pleaded with her eyes again. Water. Water.
‘You probably want water. I’ll bet that’s what you’re saying. The problem is, if I bring you some, you’re just going to wet yourself again, aren’t you?’
She shook her head.
‘No? Well, we’ll see then. If you promise to be a very good girl, then maybe I’ll bring you some.’
She continued trying desperately to control her bladder. But even as she heard the sound of the sliding door closing, she felt a steady warm trickle again spreading around her groin.
106
Sunday 18 January
The Lawn Memorial Cemetery at Woodingdean was located high up, on the eastern perimeter of Brighton, with a fine view out across the English Channel. Not that the residents of this cemetery were likely to be able to appreciate it, Roy Grace thought grimly, as he stepped out from the long, blue, caterpillar-shaped tent into the blustery wind, and crossed over to the smaller changing room and refreshments tent, his hooded blue paper suit zipped to the neck.
The Coroner had not been wrong when she had talked about the bureaucracy involved in an exhumation. The granting and signing of the order were the easy parts. Much harder, early on a Sunday morning, was to assemble the team that was required.
There was a commercial firm that specialized in exhumations, its main business being the removal of mass graves to new sites for construction companies, or for churches that had been deconsecrated. But they would not be able to start until tomorrow morning without punitive overtime charges.
Grace was not prepared to wait. He called his ACC and Rigg agreed to sanction the costs.
The team assembled for the briefing he’d held at John Street an hour ago was substantial. A Coroner’s Officer, two SOCOs, including one forensic photographer, five employees of the specialist exhumation company, a woman from the Department of the Environment, who made it clear she resented giving up her Sunday, a now mandatory Health and Safety Officer and, because it was consecrated ground, a clergyman. He’d also had present Joan Major, the forensic archaeologist, as well as Glenn Branson, whom he had put in charge of crowd control, and Michael Foreman, whom he had made an official observer.
Cleo, Darren Wallace – her number two at the mortuary – and Walter Hordern, who was in charge of the city’s cemeteries, and drove the Coroner’s discreet dark green van to body recoveries, were also present. He only needed two of them, but because none of the mortuary trio had been to an exhumation before, they were keen to attend. Clearly, Grace thought, none of them could get enough of dead bodies. What did that say, he sometimes wondered, about Cleo’s love for him?
It wasn’t only the mortuary staff who had been curious. He had received phone calls throughout the morning from other members of the CID as word had spread, asking if there was any chance of attending. For many of them, it would be a once-in-a-career opportunity, but he’d had to say no to all of them on the grounds of lack of space, and, in his tired and increasingly tetchy state, he had nearly added that it wasn’t a bloody circus.
It was 4 p.m. and absolutely freezing. He stepped back out of the tent, cradling a mug of tea. The daylight was
