Dead Man's Footsteps Read Free Page B

the time lines, evidence, statements and everything else needed by the Crown Prosecution Service for two separate murder trials next year. One concerned a scumbag internet sleaze merchant called Carl Venner, the other a c.
    Glancing through a document prepared by a young woman, Emily Gaylor from the Brighton Trials Unit, he picked up the phone and dialled an extension, taking only a small amount of satisfaction from the fact that he was about to ruin someone else’s weekend too.
    He was answered almost instantly. ‘DS Branson.’
    ‘What are you doing at the moment?’
    ‘I’m about to go home, old-timer, thanks for asking,’ said Glenn Branson.
    ‘That’s the wrong answer.’
    ‘No, it’s the right answer,’ the Detective Sergeant insisted. ‘Ari has a dressage lesson and I’m looking after the kids.’
    ‘Dressage? What’s that?’
    ‘Something involving her horse that costs thirty quid an hour.’
    ‘She’ll have to take the kids with her. Meet me down inthe car park in five minutes. We need to take a look at a dead body.’
    ‘I’d really prefer to go home.’
    ‘So would I. And I expect the body would prefer to be at home too,’ Grace replied. ‘At home in front of the telly with a nice cuppa instead of decomposing in a storm drain.’

4
OCTOBER 2007
    After just a few seconds the lift jerked sharply to a halt, swaying from side to side, banging against the walls with an echoing clang like two oil drums colliding. Then it rocked forward, throwing Abby against the door.
    Almost instantly it plunged sharply again, in freefall. She let out a whimper. For a split second, the carpeted floor dropped away below her, as if she had become weightless. Then there was a jarring crash and the floor seemed to rise, striking her feet with such force it knocked the air out of her stomach – it felt as if her legs were being driven up into her neck.
    The lift twisted, throwing her like a busted puppet against the mirror on the back wall, and lurched again before becoming almost still, swinging slightly, the floor tilted at a drunken angle.
    ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Abby whispered.
    The lights in the roof flickered, went out, came on again. There was an acrid reek of burnt electrics and she saw a thin coil of smoke glide, unhurriedly, past her.
    She held her breath, trapping another cry in her throat. It felt as if the whole damned thing was being suspended by one very thin and frayed thread.
    Suddenly there was a rending sound above her. Metal tearing. Her eyes shot up in stark terror. She didn’t knowmuch about lifts, but it sounded as if something was shearing away. Her imagination running wild, she pictured the shackle holding the cable on to the roof breaking off.
    The lift dropped a couple of inches.
    She shrieked.
    Then another couple of inches, the angle of the floor becoming steeper.
    It lurched left with a massive metallic bang, then sagged. There was a sharp crack above her head, like something snapping.
    It dropped a few more inches.
    When she moved to try to balance herself, she fell over, bashing her shoulder against one wall, then her head against the doors. She lay still for a moment, with dust in her nostrils from the carpet, not daring to move, staring up at the roof. There was a central opaque glass panel, with illuminated strips on either side of it. Had to get out of this thing, she knew, had to get out fast. Lifts in movies had roof hatches. Why didn’t this one?
    The button panel was just out of reach. She tried to get on to her knees to reach it, but the lift started swaying so wildly, banging into the sides of the shaft again as if it really was held by a single thread, that she stopped, afraid that one movement too many could snap it.
    For some moments she lay still, hyperventilating in utter blind terror, listening for any sounds of help coming. There were none. If Hassan, her neighbour two floors below, was away, and if the rest of the residents were either away too or in their flats with their