Dead Man's Footsteps

‘The lift mechanism’s been tampered with. Vandalized. Sabotaged. And the alarm and the phone in the lift – the wire’s been cut.’
    Now he had Troutt’s full attention. The PC pulled his notebook out.
    ‘Can you give me some details?’
    ‘I can bloody show you. How technical-minded are you?’
    Troutt shrugged. ‘You can try me.’
    ‘I need to take you to the motor room to show you. There are syringes on the floor. More importantly someone has tampered with the brake mechanism while the lift was in operation.’
    ‘All right. First, I need to talk to this gentleman for a moment.’
    The workman nodded. ‘I’m just going to move my van. Bloody wardens round here are like the Gestapo.’
    As he walked off, Troutt addressed the caretaker. ‘You have a resident in flat 82 – Katherine Jennings?’
    ‘She new. Been there only a few weeks. Short let.’
    ‘Can you tell me anything about her?’
    ‘I not speak much to her, except Sunday, after she was stuck in the lift. She got plenty money, I can tell you the rent she pay.’
    ‘Who do you think vandalized the lift? Local yobs? Or something to do with her?’
    The caretaker shrugged. ‘I think maybe he no wants to admit there’s a mechanical problem. Maybe he protect himself or his company?’
    Troutt nodded, not rising to this. He would form his own judgement after visiting the motor room with the engineer.
    ‘So you don’t know what she does for a living?’
    The caretaker shook his head.
    ‘Is she married? Any kids?’
    ‘She on her own.’
    ‘Do you have any idea about her movements?’
    ‘I’m at the other end of the block, I don’t see the tenants in this wing unless they have a problem. She in trouble with the police?’
    ‘No, nothing like that.’ He gave the man a reassuring smile. ‘I should introduce myself – PC Troutt. I’m one of your new neighbourhood officers.’ He fished out a card.
    The caretaker took it and looked at it dubiously, as if it was from a double-glazing salesman. ‘I hope you come down here on Friday and Saturday nights, late. Last Friday night we have little bastards set light to a dustbin,’ he grumbled.
    ‘Yes, well, that’s exactly the sort of thing this new initiative is all about,’ the young PC said earnestly.
    ‘I believe when I see it.’

85
OCTOBER 2007
    ‘Yo, old-timer, taken off yet?’
    Grace, standing in his socks at Gatwick Airport’s South Terminal, watched his shoes appear on the conveyor belt on the far side of the scanner. Holding his mobile phone to his ear he replied, ‘Only my sodding shoes, so far. It pisses me off, this,’ he went on. ‘Have to remove more and more bloody clothes every time you fly. Just because some loony tried to set light to his laces about five years ago! And I’ve had to check my overnight bag in, because it’s too big for the new regulations, which means I’m going to have to wait for it at the other end. Bloody waste of time!’
    ‘So, you had a bad night, did you?’
    Grace grinned at the memory of a very sweet night with Cleo. ‘Actually, no. It was a lot better than the night before. I didn’t get shit-faced with some miserable git pouring out his woes to me.’
    Ignoring the barb, the DS retorted, ‘And the dog didn’t throw up on you again?’
    Grace, who was wearing a suit because he wanted to look businesslike when he arrived in New York, struggled to lace up his right shoe while keeping the phone wedged to his ear. He gave up trying to do it standing up and sat down. ‘No, it just did a dump on the floor instead.’
    ‘You all right, man? Your voice sounds muffled.’
    ‘I’m fine, I’m trying to put my fucking shoes back on. Are you phoning about anything important or is this just a social chat?’
    ‘What do you know about stamps?’ Branson asked.
    ‘First or second class?’
    ‘Very funny.’
    ‘I can tell you a bit about British Colonials,’ Grace said. ‘My dad collected them – first-day covers. Used to get them for me when I was a boy. They’re worthless. My mum asked me to take his whole collection to a dealer after he died – they wouldn’t give me two beans for them. If you’re thinking of a hobby, you could try collecting butterflies – or what about trainspotting?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah! Finished?’
    Grace grunted.
    ‘Listen, me and Bella have just been with the Klingers, right? That cash, all those transactions Lorraine Wilson made – that three million plus quid, yeah? I think she may have been