Dead Like You

preparing.
    ‘So how was your day?’ he asked, dubiously forking another section of burnt fish into his mouth, thinking that the curries really had not been so bad after all.
    She told him about the body of a forty-two-stone man she’d had to recover from his home. It had required the help of the fire brigade.
    He listened in astounded silence, then ate some salad, which she put down on a side plate. At least she had managed not to burn that.
    Switching subjects she said, ‘Hey, something occurred to me about the Shoe Man. Do you want my thoughts?’
    He nodded.
    ‘OK, your Shoe Man – if it is the same offender as before and if he stayed in this area – I can’t see that he would have just totally stopped getting his kicks.’
    ‘Meaning what?’
    ‘If he stopped offending, for whatever reason, he must still have had urges. He would need to satisfy them. So maybe he’d go to dominatrix dungeons – or places like that – weird sex places, fetishes and stuff. Put yourself in his shoes, as it were – forgive the pun! You’re a creep who gets off on women’s shoes. OK?’
    ‘That’s one of our lines of enquiry.’
    ‘Yes, but listen. You’ve found a fun way of doing it – raping strangers in classy shoes and then taking those shoes. OK?’
    He stared at her, without reacting.
    ‘Then, oooops! You go a bit too far. She dies. The media coverage is intense. You decide to lie low, ride it out. But…’ She hesitated. ‘You want the but ?’
    ‘We don’t know for sure that anyone died. All we know is that he stopped. But tell me?’ he said
    ‘You still get your rocks off on women’s feet. OK? You following me?’
    ‘In your footsteps? In your shoes?’
    ‘Sod off, Detective Superintendent!’
    He raised his hand. ‘No disrespect!’
    ‘None taken. OK, so you are the Shoe Man, you are still turned on by feet, or by shoes. Sooner or later that thing inside you, that urge , is going to ride to the top. You’re going to need that. Where do you go? The Internet, that’s where you go! So you type in feet and fetish maybe and Brighton . Do you know what you come up with?’
    Grace shook his head, impressed with Cleo’s logic. He tried to ignore the horrible stench of burnt fish.
    ‘A whole bunch of massage parlours and dominatrix dens – just like the ones I sometimes have to recover bodies from. You know – old geezers who get too excited—’
    Her mobile phone rang.
    Apologizing to Roy, she answered it. Instantly her expression switched to work mode. Then, when she ended the call, she said to him, ‘Sorry, my love. There’s a dead body in a shelter on the seafront. Duty calls.’
    He nodded.
    She kissed him. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. See you in bed. Don’t die on me.’
    ‘I’ll try to stay alive.’
    ‘Just one part of you anyway. The bit that matters to me!’ She touched him gently, just below his belt.
    ‘Slapper!’
    ‘Horny bastard!’
    Then she put a printout in front of him. ‘Have a read – make any amendments you want.’
    He glanced at the paper.
    Mr and Mrs Charles Morey request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter Cleo Suzanne to Roy Jack Grace at All Saints’ Church, Little Bookham
    ‘Don’t forget to let Humphrey out for a pee and a dump before you go up!’ she said.
    Then she was gone.
    Moments after she closed the door, his own phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the display. The number was withheld, which meant almost certainly it was someone calling from work.
    It was.
    And it was not good news.

49
    Saturday 10 January
    In another part of the city, just a couple of miles away in a quiet, residential Kemp Town street, another couple were also discussing their wedding plans.
    Jessie Sheldon and Benedict Greene were ensconced opposite each other in Sam’s restaurant, sharing a dessert.
    Anyone looking at them would have seen two attractive people, both in their mid-twenties, clearly in love. It was evident from their body language. They sat oblivious of their surroundings, and anyone else, their foreheads almost touching over the tall glass dish, each taking it in turn to dig a long spoon in and feed the other tenderly and sensually.
    Neither was dressed up, even though it was Saturday night. Jessie, who had come straight from a kick-boxing class at the gym, wore a grey tracksuit with a large Nike tick across it. Her shoulder-length bleached hair was scooped up into a ponytail, with a few loose strands hanging