Dead at First Sight, page 17
Eliminate.
It was like he’d been walking around for days with a limp dick, and now he’d been given a shot of Viagra. He’d checked the money was in his account.
He was going after them. On it.
Where were the dopeheads going? He looked at the blue dot on his phone. They had turned right, east.
The interview with the man, Toby Seward, ended and the midday news came on.
When the lights turned green, he accelerated hard.
47
Tuesday 9 October
The presence of Haydn Kelly at the noon meeting Roy Grace had convened brought a smile to his face. A wicked one. Kelly, a former Professor of Podiatry at Plymouth University, was the world’s leading authority on Forensic Gait Analysis. And he was, as the Stella Artois lager adverts used to say, ‘reassuringly expensive’.
Expensive enough to give ACC Cassian Pewe some serious pain.
Mid-forties, solidly built, with thinning, close-cropped hair, the Forensic Podiatrist was smartly attired as ever, today in a navy suit, crisp white shirt and striped tie. There was little about shoes he did not know, although, amusingly to the team, his own were usually in need of a clean. Kelly had pioneering software, which Grace had used on previous cases to considerable effect, enabling him to identify suspects from the way they walked, from just a single footprint.
Kelly travelled the world, much of the time in Asia, and was in constant demand by police forces everywhere. Grace needed him on his team for this investigation, and knew he was lucky the podiatrist had a gap in his schedule and was available to come down today.
‘I don’t think Professor Kelly needs much introduction to most of you,’ Grace said. ‘So, Haydn, what can you tell us about our suspect and his apparent liking for red footwear?’
‘Well,’ Kelly said, ‘it’s early doors, but from the very poor CCTV footage I’ve seen from Munich there appears to be a distinctive “N” on the shoes. That indicates the brand is New Balance. I’ve established they did produce a shoe in this colour last year. I see from your CSI luminol spray of the area that there are footprints in the front garden of the deceased Mrs Driver’s house which match the tread pattern of New Balance shoes manufactured in this red colour.’ He pointed at the wall-mounted monitor above the conference table, on which was displayed the zigzag tread pattern of a trainer, obtained from the Police National Footwear Database. ‘But as a caveat, this trainer was made in a range of colours. You have no CCTV from the area of your crime scene?’
Grace shook his head. ‘Mrs Driver’s immediate and near neighbours have been questioned. All we have to go on, at the moment, is a statement from one of the witnesses that she saw a man, who in her words looked African, running fast in red trainers shortly before hearing a car drive off at speed.’
‘Anything else that jumps out at you, Roy?’ Haydn Kelly asked. ‘Or any of your team?’
He faced a sea of shaking heads.
‘Professor, you’ve just seen the CCTV footage from Munich,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘What, as Sherlock Holmes might say to Watson, can you deduce from that?’
‘I’m afraid, at this stage, nothing too elementary. But I did deduce that the subject might easily be picked out in a crowd. He has a rather peculiar exaggerated arm swing and very distinctive rolling gait. Prior to this meeting I ran the footprints, taken from the deceased’s garden, through my software. They indicate a very similar gait, which would produce that same kind of arm swing. You have hundreds of CCTV cameras in your county, right? Of which close to one hundred are in this city. If your camera operators could pick out anyone in red trainers, I could analyse their gait from what I have, and very probably get a match that way.’
Roy Grace took on board what Kelly had to say, but he knew the immense size of the task. With just four operators on at any one time, how on earth could they trawl through all that footage effectively? But equally, he knew, this was the best shot they had. At least they had some criteria to narrow it down.
‘That was a famous movie, boss,’ Branson said.
‘Famous movie?’
‘The Red Shoes, 1948. Starred Moira Shearer.’
‘Is this relevant, Glenn?’
‘Not really, boss. Just saying.’
48
Tuesday 9 October
The blue dot, now only a few car lengths ahead of Tooth, continued threading its way east, in the direction of Brighton’s Clock Tower. Then it turned north up into the maze of residential streets above Queen’s Road, heading in the general direction of Brighton Station. He closed the gap until he could see the Hyundai ahead, separated from him only by a turquoise taxi.
It made a sharp right, losing the taxi. He slowed down, following at a safe distance. Large terraced houses on either side. The Hyundai made a right at a T-junction at the end of the road, in front of a pub, then headed down a steep hill towards a busy one-way system with a queue of traffic. Just before reaching it, the car made another right.
Holding back again for a brief while, he then followed where the Hyundai had gone, turning into a narrow, one-way street. To his right were dinky-looking terraced cottages, Victorian he guessed from the architecture, set back from the road behind trellis-fenced gardens and narrow car ports. To the left were more modern-looking terraced houses and an old, traditional-looking pub. The Hyundai had stopped a short distance ahead, outside a canary-yellow cottage that looked even cuter than all its neighbours, the front garden a riot of flowers despite the autumnal season.
Tooth halted the car, curious. Watching. Waiting. One of those little Suzuki Cappuccinos, in an almost matching canary yellow, was parked in the driveway. He waited, letting the wipers swipe away the rain. Watching.
The Hyundai drove on.
They were casing the place. Why?
He continued waiting until they had rounded the bend at the end of the street and were out of sight, then drove up to the yellow house, passing it slowly, clocking the number. He stopped a few houses on and texted his paymaster, Steve Barrey.
Within seconds, his phone software told him his message had been read.
The blue dot was now heading north-west, the direction of their base, he guessed.
A reply pinged back.
Why do you need to know?
Tooth responded:
Your buddies are interested.
Another text arrived.
So figure it out. That’s what you’re paid for.
Tooth put two wheels on the pavement so as not to block the street, got out of the car and hurried back through the rain. He checked there was no CCTV, then sidled up past the little Suzuki to the porch and rapped the big, brass lion-head knocker.
He had a story prepared, but no one answered.
He tried again, then again. Satisfied no one was in, he retreated to his car, started it and drove around the block until he was back at the entrance to the street. He pulled over, again partially on the pavement, and settled down to do one of the things he had been trained for in the US military, and did best. Waiting and watching.
It wasn’t long before his vigilance was rewarded. A man hurried past in a trenchcoat, his face obscured by a black umbrella. He turned into the driveway, past the Cappuccino, and let himself in through the front door.
Tooth waited for a decent interval, then climbed out, approached the house and rapped the knocker again. The door was opened a few moments later by a casually dressed man in his late forties, wearing a tight-fitting jumper and holding his wet coat. He looked at Tooth inquisitively. ‘Hello?’
‘Have I got the right address? I’m looking for fifty-seven Campden Terrace?’ Tooth asked.
The man said, almost apologetically, ‘No, I’m afraid this is fifty-seven North Gardens.’ He frowned. ‘Campden Terrace? I’m pretty sure that’s a little further up the hill.’
‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ Tooth said.
‘You’re American?’
‘Uh-huh. Just in town for a few days, looking up an old buddy.’
‘Up the hill. It’s no more than five minutes away.’
Tooth hurried back to his car, arriving moments before a traffic warden. He climbed in and drove off. Thinking.
He recognized the voice of this man, and now he was guessing why Jules de Copeland and Dunstan Ogwang were so interested in him.
The distinctive voice.
The man he had been listening to earlier, the motivational speaker whose identity had been used to attempt to scam the late Suzy Driver and numerous other women. Who was now concerned to warn others.
Toby Seward.
There was a sharp ting from his phone. A new text. He waited until he could pull into a lay-by before looking at it. It would be dumb to get stopped – and then identified – by the police for looking at his phone while driving.
It was from Steve Barrey.
My pal Eddie Keys wants to buy you a drink tonight. The Stag pub on Church Road, Hove, 7.30 pm.
Above the wording was a photograph. An unsmiling, shaven-headed man wearing a singlet and a single earring. His heavily tattooed arms were folded in a defensive pose.
Eddie Keys didn’t look the kind of guy who would want to buy anyone a drink.
Ever.
49
Tuesday 9 October
Johnny Fordwater could not have made that trip to New York a year ago, he reflected. Not while Nero, his Labrador, had still been alive. He would never have left the elderly, arthritic creature home alone for almost two days, and he could never bear the thought of incarcerating him in kennels; he loved that damned, loyal creature too much. In addition, Nero had been a kind of a link between him and his late wife, Elaine. She’d adored that dog, too. During those last months when she was bedridden, before she had moved into the hospice, the dog would spend hours at a time by her side.
Some miles after leaving Heathrow Airport, he turned his fourteen-year-old Mercedes E-Class south off the M25. Until just a few weeks ago he’d been planning to replace it with a more recent model, but now he knew, sadly, he never would.
He yawned, the bright, low sun shining straight through the windscreen, hurting his eyes which were raw from lack of sleep on the transatlantic flight. He’d tried a few stiff drinks to knock him out, but all they’d done was make him thirsty and drink a lot of water. As a result he’d had to clamber, several times, over the legs of two increasingly irate passengers between himself and the aisle to make his way to the toilet. He’d tried watching a movie, but couldn’t concentrate. All he could think about was the mission he was now on, and trying to make a budget for his future. Something he dreaded most was the humiliating thought that he might need to turn to the Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen’s charity for help.
The angry blast of a horn behind shook him; he realized with a start he was drifting across into the fast lane. He swerved back as a van travelling fast shot by, inches from his door. He should pull over somewhere, get some shut-eye for half an hour, he knew. But he didn’t have the luxury of time to do that. The flight had been over two hours late arriving, due to delays at JFK, and then they were stacked for half an hour over Heathrow. His plans to go home first, shower and change were out of the window, because he did not want to miss his appointment.
After an hour, the soft green hills of the South Downs loomed ahead – the sight of which always lifted his spirits. A further twenty minutes later, entering the hilly Brighton suburb of Woodingdean, his satnav announced, ‘You have arrived!’ He halted on a steep residential street, outside a sprawling modern house with a sporty-looking black Audi under the car port.
Five minutes later he was seated in a snug room, surrounded on all sides by books, a veritable library of military history. He had a mug of tea in his hand, a plate of plain digestive biscuits on the low table in front of him and an overweight beagle at his feet looking up at him expectantly. Suddenly the dog jumped up at him.
‘Fatso, down! Down! DOWN!’ Ray Packham said.
Reluctantly the beagle lowered its paws, then gave his master a baleful look. ‘Sorry about him, I didn’t ask – are you OK with dogs, Major?’
‘Love them. And please – call me Johnny.’
‘OK. So, Johnny,’ the IT consultant said, ‘I understand you have a bit of a problem?’
‘You could say that.’
‘How would you like me to help you?’
‘How long do you have?’
‘As long as you need.’
Johnny repeated the whole story, from the start, bringing in Sorokin’s plight, too. When he had finished, he handed Packham his laptop and guided him to the site where he had met Ingrid Ostermann.
‘A very nice-looking lady,’ Packham conceded, looking at her photograph. ‘Whoever she really is.’
Fordwater gave a wan nod.
‘I’m afraid you’ve joined a very big club, Major – Johnny.’
‘So I realize,’ he said glumly, feeling his chin. Feeling the growth of stubble and aware he probably didn’t smell that great.
‘Let me ask you a direct question. What are your expectations from me, or anyone else you’re approaching for help?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘At best, to recover my money, which I know isn’t going to happen. At worst, for my American chum and I to at least nail the bastards who did this and stop them from destroying any more lives.’
Ray Packham looked at him sympathetically. ‘I appreciate your sentiments. I’d love to help you for free, but since leaving the police I have to make a living – I’ve a mortgage over my head – so I do have to charge for my services. But the thing is, I don’t want you throwing good money after bad. To be very blunt, in my experience your chances of recovering a single penny are remote, as I think you understand. The scammers could be anywhere in the world – most likely Ghana, Nigeria or somewhere in Eastern Europe – Romania, Albania. My honest advice to you is to treat this as a life-lesson, bite the bullet, try to forget all about it and move on. Don’t let it destroy the rest of your life.’
‘I can’t do that, Mr Packham, I’m afraid that’s not in my DNA. What is it they say – you can take the man out of the army, but you can’t take the army out of the man? I’m a soldier through and through. One of the reasons I joined the army was because I wanted to correct injustices. These bastards have suckered me out of just about every penny I have. What’s left in the kitty is yours. I’m happy to pay you. I want revenge on these bastards. I need you to understand that.’
‘Revenge? That’s your driver?’
‘Yes.’
Packham looked hard at him. ‘Can I just remind you of the words of Confucius, a very wise man: Before you seek revenge, first dig two graves.’
‘I’m comfortable with that. I’m wiped out, my beloved wife is dead, my eldest child lives in Canada and I’m buggered if I’m going to go and live there, sponging off him until I die. I have nothing to live for. If any good can come out of this appalling mess, I’m happy to dig two graves – and pay for them up front. At least I’ll have one certainty to look forward to.’ Johnny gave him a wistful look, then stood and reached up to one of the bookshelves for a volume he’d spotted. Sun Tzu’s The Art Of War. He pulled it out and handed it to Packham. ‘Ever read this?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Stand by the riverbank for long enough, and the bodies of all your enemies will float past,’ Johnny recited.
There was a brief reflective silence by both men, before Johnny continued.
‘Do you have any idea how it feels to be such a mug as I’ve been, Mr Packham? I’ve served my country to the best of my abilities, always tried to do the decent thing, always treated people fairly, and always put a little bit aside for a rainy day. Now I’m faced with losing my home and every bean I have in the world – and going cap in hand to charity. Shall I tell you what my future holds?’
Packham looked at him expectantly.
‘At my age I have no chance of building up any kind of nest egg again. I’m wiped out. I face a future of living on benefits, in council accommodation. Then at some point in the future, I’ll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they can’t find a defibrillator. That’s the future I face. Not a great prospect, is it? All because of my own stupidity.’ He shrugged. ‘Look, I’m not blaming anyone. I was lucky, I didn’t take a bullet or lose my limbs in the desert. I suppose sooner or later everyone’s luck runs out. I’d just rather mine had run out when I was a younger man, at an age when I could have started over and rebuilt my life. Now I’m an old fart. The best I can hope for, to supplement my meagre income, is a job on a supermarket checkout.’
Packham scribbled a note on a pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Fordwater. ‘I don’t want to take your money, there’s no charge for today’s session. This is who you should go and talk to, he knows more about this field than anyone. Save your money for him.’
Johnny Fordwater looked down at the sheet.
On it was written a name – Jack Roberts, Private Investigator – and a phone number.
‘If he likes you, Mr Fordwater, he’s your man.’
‘How do I get him to like me?’
Ray Packham shrugged. ‘Can’t help you on that one, mate. But good luck.’
50
Tuesday 9 October
The Force Control Room was the nerve centre of Sussex Police. Located in a modern building on the HQ campus it housed, in a vast open-plan area, all the emergency call handlers and radio dispatchers, as well as the CCTV surveillance hub, from where any of the county’s cameras could be monitored.
The CCTV hub was manned 24/7, with each shift comprising a team of four operators. Much of their time was spent scanning randomly through the cameras, watching for anything unusual or suspicious, or any accidents. During major incidents and crimes in action they would provide visual guidance to the police on any activity within camera range. Occasionally, as they were tasked now, they carried out a search.
