You Are Dead by Peter James

Brighton area called the Argus. Take a look online, later. You’ll see a story about skeletal remains of a woman discovered yesterday in a small park close to the seafront, called Hove Lagoon.”
    â€œWhy do you want me to look at this story?”
    â€œBecause I know who killed her, and why.”
    The psychiatrist studied him for some moments, watching his chaotic body language. Then he said, “Have you told the police?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause, Dr. Van Dam, you and I need each other.”
    â€œDo we? Can you explain that to me?”
    â€œThere’s another story in the Argus today. It didn’t make the printed edition this morning, but you’ll be able to read it online. You have a niece, Logan Somerville?”
    Van Dam stiffened, visibly. “What about her?”
    â€œAre you very fond of her?”
    â€œI don’t discuss my private life with my patients. What does my niece have to do with this?”
    â€œYou haven’t heard, have you?”
    â€œHeard what?”
    â€œAbout Logan. She disappeared last night.”
    Van Dam blanched. “Disappeared?”
    â€œThere’s a manhunt going on all over Brighton for her. For your niece. Logan Somerville. You need me very badly.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œBecause I’m the only person who may be able to save her life.”

 
    23
    Friday 12 December
    Roy Grace pulled up outside the Chesham Gate apartment building, behind a white Crime Scene Investigation van, a marked police car and two unmarked police vehicles. A short way along, the silver Specialist Search Unit van was straddling the curb in order not to block the narrow street. A small knot of curious onlookers were standing around watching, and a youth was taking pictures with his phone.
    On his way here, from the Lagoon, he’d had an idea for the brief, but very emotional speech he had to make on Monday, at Bella’s funeral. He jotted it down, then he climbed out into the cold, blustery wind.
    Fluttering crime scene tape sealed off the entrance to the car park. The gates were open and a PCSO scene guard stood in front with a clipboard. She directed Roy Grace to the van to suit up. He entered and shared some banter with two search officers, the highly experienced POLSA Sergeant Lorna Dennison-Wilkins and a recent recruit to her team, Scott, who he had not met before, who were having a coffee break.
    As he wormed his way into a protective oversuit for the second time this morning, he asked Lorna what was happening and where the Crime Scene Manager, John Morgan, was.
    â€œLots of pissed-off residents who can’t get their cars out, sir. And another bunch who can’t get their cars in. You might like to have a word with some of them. John Morgan’s in a stroppy mood this morning and not being at his most diplomatic.”
    Morgan was good at his job, but not always known for his tact. Protection of a crime scene was vital to prevent contamination, but when it inconvenienced the public, as was often the case, it required a delicate hand to explain the reasons. Mostly the public were understanding and helpful, but some were anything but—those who hated the police, and those who were just plain selfish or bloody-minded.
    He signed the scene log and walked down the ramp into the underground car park in his clumsy, ungainly protective blue oversuit and shoes. A wide variety of cars were parked in the bays, including several sleek shapes beneath covers. There was a sharp, dry smell of engine oil, paintwork and dust. Several search officers, similarly clad, were on their hands and knees, shoulder to shoulder inside a taped-off area. Further along he saw another officer from the unit, on top of the SSU’s portable scaffolding tower, checking behind a roof-light fitting.
    The stocky figure of John Morgan appeared from around a corner and greeted him with a surly but polite,