You Are Dead (40 page)

“You're thinking Dr. Crisp.”

“If we bring him in, I want it belt and braces. I want a fingerprint or DNA.” He pulled out his phone and called the Critical Incident Manager, Chief Inspector Jason Tingley. He explained the situation and asked if he could have a Local Support Team on standby in position near Edward Crisp's address, to support the Surveillance Team.

Tingley agreed.

The Ops-I Controller called Grace back to say that the helicopter's camera had not detected any life in Unit R-73.

Grace thanked him, then asked if NPAS 15 could be diverted to Brighton to do an immediate high-altitude photo survey of Dr. Edward Crisp's home and the surrounding terrain, while there was still sufficient daylight.

He was assured the helicopter would be over Crisp's house in twelve minutes, flying high enough not to alert anyone.

 

88

Saturday 20 December

“You've never told us—what exactly was your agenda in going to see the shrink in London,
Dr. Harrison Hunter
?” Marcus sneered.

“Was it your ego again, running rampant?” Felix quizzed. “Or was it because, as we've always known, you are just plain raving mad?”

“Come on, guys, give me some credit!”

“We're all ears!” Marcus said. “Yes? Talk us through the credit?”

“It was to try to take the heat off us.”

“There was no heat on us,” Felix said. “Now there's a fucking picture out there of you.”

“It doesn't look that much like me.”

“Yeah, right,” Marcus said, sourly. “We all recognized you without much trouble.”

“That's because you know me.”

“If I didn't know better,” Marcus said, “I would say you had some kind of a death wish. That you're bored. You think it's time for game over. You're having one final tilt at Mr. Plod. Am I right? You've decided it's time to abandon us. Easy for you to exit. But what about us?”

“Give me one reason why I should give a toss about you?”

“Because we're your life, all you have. Your wife walked out on you. Your children have gone with her. You're just one of life's losers, like you always were.”

“Tch, tch. You never read Sun Tzu's
Art of War
, did you? You know something he said that might give you some insight into why I went to see Dr. Jacob Van Dam?
Stand by the river bank for long enough, and you'll see the bodies of all your enemies float by
.”

“Just what the hell's that meant to mean?” Marcus demanded.

“Oh, you'll find out soon enough. Really quite soon.”

“The suspense is killing me,” Felix said, then broke into giggles. “I'm so waiting for that day!”

“You don't get it, do you?”

“What's not to get? We've been floating down your river for decades. We've all grown to like it. We even like you!”

“Yep, well, don't like me too much. Because there's another quote I'm favoring at the moment.”

“And that is?”

“
Life's a bitch, and then you die.
”

 

89

Saturday 20 December

Norman Potting drove the unmarked Ford along the congested high street of the small, rural Surrey town. The pavements were crowded with people, dressed up against the biting cold, and in the falling darkness the shop windows flashed, twinkled and sparkled with Xmas decorations and messages. As he sat waiting for traffic lights to change he could hear a brass band belting out “Good King Wenceslas.”

A tear trickled down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Christmas
, he thought. He and Bella had rented a cottage in Cornwall where they had been planning to spend their first Christmas together—taking her elderly mother with them. Now he had no plans. His sister had invited him to spend the holidays with her family in Devon, but although he liked her he wasn't up for the jollity of a family gathering. His preference at the moment was to spend the time immersed in work.

Taking the winding road out of the far side of the town, he reached a picturesque humpback bridge over a river. Ordinarily, in happier times, he would have defaulted to the child inside him and accelerated hard, gleefully, and felt the car lift off over the brow. But he was in no mood for that any more—if he ever would be again, he pondered.

He reached a junction, then turned left and started driving up a long, steep hill, following the signs to The Cloisters, one of the nation's most famous schools. He passed a row of terraced cottages, then smart, detached houses either side of the road. A cluster of large, modern, institutional buildings loomed up on his left. Toward the top of the hill he passed beneath a stone bridge, following the signs to the school, made a sharp right turn, followed by another, and drove through a Gothic-revival archway with leaded-light windows above it. He entered the school grounds, with more Gothic-looking buildings all around and a huge chapel in front of playing fields, over to the left. He saw two teenage boys in tweed jackets and gray flannel trousers walking along, one with the middle button of his jacket done up, and halted beside them, lowering his window.

“Can you tell me how I find the Bursar's office?” he asked.

“Oh ya,” one of the boys said, with a cut-glass accent.

Two minutes later, following the instructions he had been given, Potting drove past a cloistered courtyard, and several more boys similarly attired, and pulled up in front of a dull, single-story building with a modern glass and concrete structure just beyond it. A modest sign on the blue front door read,
BURSAR'S OFFICE
.

The Detective Sergeant climbed out of the car, paused to look around, walked up to the door and rapped on it. Moments later it was opened by a tall man in his fifties, with a military bearing. He was dressed in a brown corduroy jacket over a checked shirt, knitted tie and beige cavalry twill trousers, and sported a short-back-and-sides haircut. He spoke with a confident, faintly patronizing, public school voice.

“Detective Sergeant Potting?” He gave him an enthusiastic smile.

“Yes,” he said and produced his warrant card. “Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.”

“I'm Neville Andrew, the Bursar.”

“How do you do?” Potting said, then added a deferential “sir” as the man shook his hand, firmly. “Bit of a posh establishment, this.”

“Yes, it is rather splendid here!” he said, while studying the card more assiduously than most people usually did. He led Potting through into a small office, with a tiny, old-fashioned wooden desk on which sat a computer monitor flanked by a photograph of a conservatively dressed woman in her fifties, and another of three children. Two old and functional wooden chairs with leather seats faced it. The room was crammed with gray metal filing cabinets and on the wall behind him hung a framed crest and the school motto, in Latin, which Potting was unable to decipher. There was a faintly musty smell of old paper and the sterile, weekend scent that many offices had, of polish.

“Founded in 1611, this marvelous establishment,” the Bursar said, brightly. “Originally in London, then moved out here in 1843—a bit before both our times! Are you a public schoolboy yourself?”

“Oh no,” Potting replied in his deep rumble of a voice, heavily tinged with his native Devon burr. “A comprehensive in Tiverton. Don't think my parents could have afforded the fees for a place like this. Bet they run to a pretty penny.”

“About thirty-five to forty thousand a year depending on extras.”

“Pounds?”

“Yes.”

“That's what I earn in a year!” he exclaimed. “Bloody hell! All that money to watch your spoiled little bastard get bullied!”

“I was a pupil here myself,” the Bursar said. “I don't recall being a spoiled little bastard, or being bullied. Can I get you a tea or coffee?”

“Er—builder's tea, please,” Potting said. “With two sugars.” Then he added, “I appreciate your coming in on a Saturday, and I hope I haven't inconvenienced you.”

“Got me out of a dreaded shopping trip to the supermarket with she-who-must-be-obeyed—so not at all.” He thawed a little. “We've one or two of our old boys who've joined your finest. One we're particularly proud of is a superintendent in the Sussex Police, who's in regular contact with us, Stephen Rogan. Ever come across him?”

“Superintendent Rogan? Yes indeed. Didn't realize he'd been to a top people's school. Do you keep up with all your old boys—alumni, isn't that the right word?”

“Oh, we like to keep tabs on them all, the good ones and the occasional not-so-good. Part of my role is to try to convince them to support their alma mater—and persuade them to leave bequests to us in their wills. It's not easy to keep a place like this going, financially.”

“Well, I'm here to talk to you about one particular old boy,” Potting said.

“You said on the phone it was in connection with a murder inquiry?” He raised his eyebrows.

“It is actually a murder and an abduction inquiry. We believe the abducted woman may still be alive and this is time critical.”

“Most intriguing—I'll be back in a mo.” Neville Andrew disappeared through a doorway, and Potting took the opportunity to look around. There were several photographs on the walls of football, cricket and hockey teams, as well as an army regimental picture with, presumably, Andrew in one of the rows of officers, he thought, scanning the picture in search of him without success. He glanced back at the photographs of the woman and three smartly dressed and happy-looking children on the desk, and thought wistfully of his own private life. A string of former wives, and numerous children—most of whom he hadn't spoken to in over twenty years. And now his fiancée dead.

The Bursar reappeared after a few minutes with two steaming mugs and a plate of digestive biscuits, handed one mug to Potting then sat down in front of the desk, his tall frame dwarfing it. “So how can I help you on this inquiry, Detective Sergeant? It's fairly recent your merger of Surrey and Sussex, I believe?”

“Within the last couple of years,” Potting said.

“Working well, is it?”

“Reasonably,” Potting replied. He felt a bit like a fish out of water here in this grand school, as if he was in a different world—almost a different universe—to the one he was familiar with. He pulled out his notebook. “To come to the point, Mr. Andrew—”

“It's Brigadier, actually.”

Potting raised a respectful finger in the air. “Ah, mea culpa! I beg your pardon,
Brigadier
Andrew.”

The Bursar seemed pleased with his use of Latin, Potting thought. He plowed on. “You had a pupil here during the 1970s by the name of Edward Denning. At some point his parents divorced and he took his mother's new name of
Crisp.
He subsequently became a private family doctor in Brighton and he is currently a person of interest to us in our inquiry. I'm wondering if you could give me any information on his early background?”

Andrew frowned. “Denning? Then Crisp? Hmmmn. This is actually ringing a bit of a bell. When I came here, three years ago, I introduced a computer program to connect us with all our alumni, and to establish links between them. If you can bear with me?”

“Of course.” Potting helped himself to a biscuit, which he dunked into his tea. To his minor irritation, part of the biscuit detached and floated on the surface of his tea. Embarrassed, he attempted to fish it out with his fingers and then clumsily dropped some onto his trousers.

The Bursar pulled on a pair of half-moon glasses, and tapped his keyboard for some moments, peering intently at the screen. “Ah yes, here he is.” Then he hesitated. “You do know I shouldn't really be telling you any of this without something more formal from you, because information I have here falls under the Data Protection Act.” He shrugged. “Denning came here in the summer quarter, 1974, in Lark House, and left in the summer quarter, 1979. He continued his studies at Sussex University and King's College medical school in London. And you are quite right. During his time here he changed his name to Crisp.” He continued reading. “Not a particularly distinguished pupil. He became a house monitor in his last year. A rather solitary character, he showed no interest in sport or team games of any kind, but did join the school potholing and caving trip to Wales. Left with respectable A-level grades in physics, chemistry and biology.” Then he frowned again. “But there is something a bit interesting about this chap.”

“Oh?” Potting said, sipping his tea. He was tempted to try another dunk, but decided against it and instead put the piece of dry biscuit into his mouth and chewed.

“Well, yes. I told you we try to keep tabs on all of our alumni, in the hope we can persuade them to support the school. Well, this concerns some of Crisp's contemporaries, whom I've not been able to trace.”

“How many pupils do you have here at any one time?” the DS asked.

“We have seven hundred and ten, currently. Four hundred and eighty boys and the rest girls. It was different back then, of course. Hardly any girls.”

“How many of your past pupils are you unable to trace?” Potting asked.

“Gosh, there's over three hundred on our
missing
list.” He grinned. “But I'm bloody well determined to track them down. I began my career in the Army in the Intelligence Corps. I'm on a mission to find every damned one of them and wring whatever spondula I can out of them. For the sake of future generations.”

Future generations of toffs
, Potting thought, but did not say. Instead he asked, “What can you tell me, Brigadier, about these contemporaries of Crisp you are unable to trace?”

The Bursar hesitated. “Well, I'm afraid I really can't give out any information—because, as I said, of the Data Protection Act.”