Dead Like You

autism spectrum, Ken Acott had informed them. John Kerridge, who kept insisting he be called Yac, suffered from Asperger’s syndrome. His client had informed him that he was in pursuit of a passenger who had run off without paying. It was patently obvious that it was his client’s passenger who should have been apprehended, not his client. His client was being discriminated against and victimized because of his disability. Kerridge would make no comment without a specialist medical expert present.
    Grace decided he would like to strangle Ken sodding Acott too at this moment. He stared at the smooth solicitor in his elegantly tailored suit, his shirt and tie, and could even smell his cologne. In contrast his client, also in a suit, shirt and tie, cut a pathetic figure. Kerridge had short dark hair brushed forward, and a strangely haunted face that might have been quite handsome, were his eyes not a little too close together. He was thin, with rounded shoulders, and seemed unable to keep totally still. He fidgeted like a bored schoolboy.
    ‘It’s nine o’clock,’ Acott said. ‘My client needs a cup of tea. He has to have one every hour, on the hour. It’s his ritual.’
    ‘I’ve got news for your client,’ Grace said, staring pointedly at Kerridge. ‘This is not a Ritz-Carlton hotel. He’ll get tea outside of the normal times that tea is provided here if and when I decide he can have it. Now, if your client would care to be more helpful – or perhaps if his solicitor would care to be more helpful – then I’m sure something could be done to improve the quality of our room service.’
    ‘I’ve told you, my client is not making any comment.’
    ‘I have to have my tea,’ Yac said suddenly.
    Grace looked at him. ‘You’ll have it when I decide.’
    ‘I have to have it at nine o’clock.’
    Grace stared at him. There was a brief silence, then Yac eyeballed Grace back and said, ‘Do you have a high-flush or low-flush toilet in your home?’
    There was a vulnerability in the taxi driver’s voice, something that touched a chord in Grace. Since the news of the reported abduction in Kemp Town two hours ago, and the discovery of a shoe on the pavement where it had allegedly taken place, there had been a development. A young man had arrived to collect his fiancée for an evening out at a black-tie function, thirty minutes after the time of the abduction and she had not answered the door. There was no response from her mobile phone, which rang unanswered, then went to voicemail.
    It had already been established that the last person to have seen her was her kick-boxing instructor, at a local gym. She’d been in high spirits, looking forward to her evening out, although, the instructor had said, she was nervous at the prospect of introducing her fiancé to her parents for the first time.
    So she could have funked out, Grace considered. But she didn’t sound the type of girl to stand up her boyfriend and let down her family. The more he heard, the less he liked the way the whole scenario was developing. Which made him even angrier here.
    Angry at the smugness of Ken Acott.
    Angry at this creepy suspect hiding behind no comment and behind his condition. Grace knew a child with Asperger’s. A police officer colleague and his wife, with whom he and Sandy had been friends, had a teenage son with the condition. He was a strange but very sweet boy who was obsessed with batteries. A boy who was not good at reading people, lacking normal social skills. A boy who had difficulty distinguishing between right and wrong in certain aspects of behaviour. But someone, in his view, who was capable of understanding the line between right and wrong when it came to things as major as rape or murder.
    ‘Why are you interested in toilets?’ Grace asked Kerridge.
    ‘Toilet chains! I have a collection. I could show you them some time.’
    ‘Yes, I’d be very interested.’
    Acott was glaring daggers at him.
    ‘You didn’t tell me,’ Kerridge went on. ‘Do you have high flush or low flush in your home?’
    Grace thought for a moment. ‘Low flush.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Why do you like ladies’ shoes, John?’ he replied suddenly.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Acott said, his voice tight with anger. ‘I’m not having any questioning.’
    Ignoring him, Grace persisted. ‘Do you find them sexy?’
    ‘Sexy people are bad,’ Yac replied.

102
    Saturday 17 January
    Roy Grace left the interview room feeling even more uneasy than when