Dead Like You

different agenda. To keep the streets of Brighton and Hove safe. Or at least to make the citizens feel they were safe in a world that never had been safe and never would be. Not with the kind of human nature he had come to know as a police officer.
    There was a predator out on the streets of this town. As a result of the Shoe Man’s reign of terror, there was not a woman in Brighton who felt comfortable right now. Not a single woman who did not look over her shoulder, did not ram home her door chain, did not wonder if she might be next.
    Roy Grace was not involved in the Shoe Man investigation. But he had an increasingly certain feeling that Operation Houdini and the search for Rachael Ryan were one and the same thing.
    We’re going to get you, Shoe Man, he promised silently.
    Whatever it takes.

23
    Monday 29 December
    Rachael was in a helicopter with Liam. With his long, spiky hair and his sulky, boyish face he looked so much like Liam Gallagher of Oasis, her favourite group. They were swooping low through the Grand Canyon. Crimson rocks of the cliff face were passing either side, so close, dangerously close. Below them, a long, long way down, the metallic blue water snaked along through jagged grey-brown contours.
    She gripped Liam’s hand. He gripped hers back. They couldn’t speak to each other because they had headsets on, listening to the pilot’s commentary. She turned and mouthed I love you to him. He grinned, looking funny with the microphone partially obscuring his mouth, and mouthed I love you back.
    Yesterday they’d walked past a wedding chapel. For a joke he’d suddenly dragged her through the door, into the tiny golden-coloured interior. There were rows of pews either side of the aisle and two tall vases of flowers acting as a kind of cheesy non-denominational altar. Fixed to the wall behind was a glass display cabinet containing on one shelf a bottle of champagne and a white handbag with a floral handle, and on another an empty white basket and big white candles.
    ‘We could get married,’ he said. ‘Right now. Today!’
    ‘Don’t be daft,’ she’d replied.
    ‘I’m not being daft. I’m serious! Let’s do it! We’ll go back to England as Mr and Mrs Hopkirk!’
    She wondered what her parents would think. They’d be upset. But it was tempting. She felt so intensely happy. This was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.
    ‘Mr Liam Hopkirk, are you proposing to me?’
    ‘No, not exactly – but I’m thinking, you know, screw all the crap and bridesmaids and stuff that goes with a wedding. It would be fun, wouldn’t it? Surprise them all?’
    He was being serious and that shocked her. He meant it! Her parents would be devastated. She remembered sitting on her father’s knee when she was a child. Her father telling her how beautiful she was. How proud he would be one day to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day.
    ‘I couldn’t do this to my parents.’
    ‘They mean more to you than me?’
    ‘No. It’s just…’
    His face darkened. Sulking again.
    The sky darkened. Suddenly the helicopter was sinking. The walls turning dark and rushing past the big bubble window. The river beneath rushing up towards them.
    She screamed.
    Total darkness.
    Oh, Christ.
    Her head was pounding. Then a light came on. The feeble glow of the dome lamp of the van. She heard a voice. Not Liam, but the man, glaring down at her.
    ‘You stink,’ he said. ‘You’re making my van stink.’
    Reality crashed through her. The coils of terror spiralling through every cell in her body. Water. Please. Water. She stared up at him, parched and weak and dizzy. She tried to speak but could only make a feeble deep whine in her throat.
    ‘I can’t have sex with you. You revolt me. Know what I’m saying?’
    A faint ray of hope lifted her. Perhaps he would let her go. She tried again to make a coherent sound. But her voice was just a hollow rumbling mumble.
    ‘I should let you go.’
    She nodded. Yes. Yes, please. Please. Please.
    ‘I can’t let you go, because you saw my face,’ he said.
    She pleaded with her eyes. I won’t tell anyone. Please let me go. I won’t tell a soul.
    ‘You could put me behind bars for the rest of my life. Do you know what they do to people like me in prison? It’s not nice. I can’t take that chance.’
    The knot of fear in her stomach spread like poison through her blood. She was trembling, quaking, whimpering.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and he really did