Dead Man's Footsteps

the base of which was engraved the legend – a terrible pun – Carpe diem .
    His briefcase sat open on the table, together with his mobile, his dictating machine and a bunch of transcripts relating to the court hearings he was helping to prepare,one of which he had to go through this morning, because the CPS lawyer was on his back for it.
    What’s more, thanks to his promotion, he now had new stacks of files, growing by the minute, that Eleanor was bringing in and placing on every available flat surface. They contained case summaries of all the major crimes that Sussex CID were currently investigating, which he now had to review.
    He made a list of everything he needed to follow up on Operation Dingo , then he went through the transcript, which took him an hour. When he had finished, he pulled out his notebook and, starting at the back, read his most recent jotting. His handwriting was bad, so he took a moment to decipher it and remember.
    Katherine Jennings, Flat 82, Arundel Mansions, 29 Lower Arundel Terrace.
    He stared at it blankly, for some moments. Waiting for his brain’s synapses to kick in and provide him with some recollection of why he had written that down. Then he remembered Kevin Spinella cornering him after the press briefing yesterday. Telling him something about her being freed from a trapped lift and that she had seemed frightened about something.
    Most people trapped in a lift would have been frightened. Mildly claustrophobic and with a fear of heights, he probably would have been too. Scared witless. Still, you never knew. He decided to do the dutiful thing and report it to East Brighton District. He dialled the internal number of the most efficient officer he knew there, Inspector Stephen Curry, gave him the woman’s name and address, and explained the provenance.
    ‘Don’t make it a priority, Steve. But maybe have oneof your beat officers swing by some time, make sure all is OK.’
    ‘Absolutely,’ said Stephen Curry, who was sounding rushed. ‘Leave it with me.’
    ‘With the greatest pleasure,’ Grace said.
    Having hung up, he looked down at the workload on his desk and decided he would stroll down later this morning, towards lunchtime, to collect his car. Take in a bit of fresh air. Enjoy a rare bit of sunshine and try to clear his head. Then make his way downtown to see if he couldn’t find one or two of Ronnie Wilson’s old acquaintances. He had a good idea where to start looking.

59
12 SEPTEMBER 2001
    Ronnie spent a restless night lying between unwashed nylon sheets, trying to cope with a foam pillow that felt as if it was filled with rocks and a mattress whose springs bored into him like corkscrews. He had a choice between keeping the window shut and enduring the air-conditioning unit that made a noise like two skeletons fighting in a metal shed, or opening it and being kept awake by the non-stop wailing of distant sirens and the chop of helicopters.
    At a few minutes to 6 he lay wide awake, scratching one of several tiny red bites on his leg. He soon discovered more that were itching like fury on his chest and stomach.
    He fumbled on the bedside table for the remote and switched the television on. The urgency of the outside world suddenly filled his room. Images of New York were on the screen. There were distraught-looking people, women and men, holding up hand-made boards, placards, signs, some with photographs, some with just names, in red or black or blue writing, all asking, have you seen?
    A newscaster appeared, giving an estimate of the numbers dead. Emergency phone numbers to call ran along the bottom, as well as more breaking news.
    All kinds of bad stuff.
    Bad stuff was churning around inside his head too, together with everything else that had been in the mix allnight long. Thoughts, ideas, lists. Lorraine. Donald Hat-cook. Flames. Screams. Falling bodies.
    His plan.
    Was Donald OK? If he had survived, was there any guarantee he would agree to back his biodiesel venture? Ronnie had always been a gambling man and he didn’t reckon the odds on that were as good as the odds on his new plan working. So far as he was now concerned, alive or dead, Donald Hatcook was history.
    Lorraine would be hurting. But in time she would understand that there was no gain without pain .
    One day the silly cow would understand – one day soon, when he showered her in fifty-quid notes, bought her everything she ever wanted and more!
    They would be rich!
    Just had to suffer some pain