Dead at First Sight, page 19
He tried to brush it off, but Cleo was giving him a strangely penetrating stare and he was aware he was blushing slightly. In truth, although Alison Vosper had been an icebox, there were times, on the days when she was warm towards him, that he felt a connection.
‘Have I touched a nerve?’ she probed.
‘Not my type, and I am certainly not hers. No way. Never.’
‘Would you want to go to the Met? Why – why would you want to do that? With the commute it would probably mean even crazier hours than you work here.’
‘I know. But a lot of Sussex officers have – better pay there. It would really piss off Pewe if I left, he’d have no one to beat-up on.’ He shrugged. ‘But seriously, ever since that asshole’s come to Sussex, I’m not enjoying the job any more – at least not the way I used to.’
She gave him a mischievous look. ‘Why don’t you tell Alison you have the perfect person for whatever role she has in mind – Cassian Pewe. She takes him on, he moves back to London, problem gone. Simples!’
‘Then I’d know there really was a God.’
53
Tuesday 9 October
Through the crack in the door, Toby Seward saw two men with hoodies low over their faces. Gripped with terror, he tried desperately to slam the door shut.
Too late. One had a foot inside. A bright-red shoe.
An instant later the door flew wide open with the force of an express train, cracking him hard in the face and propelling him, stumbling, backwards. He crashed against the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.
Calmly, casually, as if they had all the time in the world, the two men entered and closed the front door. One, the red-shoe man, was tall, wearing a long, expensive coat; the other was short, in a shapeless parka, sporting a large, bling watch. Both wore black leather gloves. The tall one slid the safety chain home in a matter-of-fact way, as if he always did this when he entered a stranger’s house. Then they turned towards him.
All he could see of their faces below the hoodies was the lower half. ‘Who – who – are – who are you?’ His voice came out as a petrified croak.
From inside the front of his parka, the short one suddenly pulled out a large, gleaming machete.
Toby turned and fled up the stairs, heart pounding, throat tight with terror. He ran into the master bedroom, slammed the door behind him and turned the key. Neither he nor Paul had ever locked the door in all the time they’d lived here, but he thanked God for that key now.
Phone. He ran to the landline phone on his side of the bed. As he reached it he heard a blam and a splintering crash behind him. Turning, he heard another loud blam and the thin oak door seemed to balloon inwards. The lock held. Just. He picked up the receiver, but his hand was shaking so much he dropped the handset. It clattered to the floor and bounced under the bed.
Frantically he dropped onto his hands and knees.
Blam. Blam. Blam. The walls felt like they were shaking.
Then he saw something he’d forgotten all about. Low down, just above the skirting board. Some years ago, the police had advised them to install it after they’d been victims of homophobic hate mail, followed by a petrol bomb that had been thrown through their front window, but fortunately hadn’t ignited.
The black panic button.
BLAM. BLAM. BLAM
Behind him he heard the sound of the door bursting open and crashing back against the wall.
He stabbed the button. Nothing happened.
No, please. Please. Oh God.
Then he remembered. The alert was meant to be silent. That way the police had a chance of arresting intruders before they ran off.
But was it still working?
His two assailants dragged him to his feet. There was a reek of cologne and cigarette smoke.
‘What – what – what do you want, please? Do you want money?’
‘Motherfucker shooting your mouth off on the radio this morning. Yeah?’ the shorter man said.
They propelled him back down the stairs and into the kitchen. ‘I don’t understand – what do – what – what do – you mean?’
‘Tell us what that bitch told you! What do you know about us?’
‘Nothing – just the fraud. Nothing else.’
‘Gimme your hand, bro,’ the shorter one said. ‘That one, the right one, yeah.’
On the screen the MasterChef contestant said, ‘Now with a sharp knife, I am separating the coral from the flesh of the scallop, but I don’t throw it away, I’m going to use it for my sauce.’
‘Like cooking, do you, bro?’
‘Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t. She didn’t tell me anything. Please believe me. Please, just tell me what you want from me? Anything! I can give you my cards, pin numbers – please, what is it you want? We don’t have anything in the house, we don’t have jewellery, money. What do you mean, shooting my mouth off? I don’t know anything.’
‘You know what we mean, bro,’ the short one said. He forced Toby Seward’s hand down flat on the chopping board, grabbed the long-bladed knife Seward had been using to dice tomatoes and plunged it hard through the back of his hand, just behind the knuckles, crunching it through bone, pinning his hand to the board.
Seward screamed in shock and agony. ‘Oh my God, you bastards, you bastards! Oh, oh Jesus. Why? Why?’
Deep crimson blood ran down his hand. The pain was excruciating. He was gasping, panting in shock. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘You don’t go mouthing off no more about Suzy Driver, are you hearing me?’ the short one said.
‘Suzy Driver?’
‘Are you hearing me, bro?’
‘Yes, yes, yes, I’m – I’m hearing you. Oh Jesus.’
‘You say one mo word to anyone, any media, any cop, and next time the knife won’t be in yo hand, bro, it’s gonna be across your pretty husband’s throat while you watch. You understanding me?’
He was shaking, in agony, shock kicking in. He nodded vigorously. The two men turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Toby Seward stared at the rivulets of blood pouring down around the blade of the knife and running along the board. He hovered his left hand over the handle of the knife, wondering if he had the courage to pull it out. Shaking too much to think straight.
Got to stop the bleeding. Got to phone. Phone for help.
The phone was on the far side of the kitchen. Should he pull the knife out?
He touched it with his left hand. Gripped it. Closed his eyes.
Footsteps. He opened his eyes.
The shorter man hurried back in, holding his machete. ‘You got a problem there, dude, right?’
Seward shook his head, eyes bulging in pain and fear. There was nothing back. Just blackness. Dead eyes.
‘Can help you out there, bro.’
‘Thank you,’ he gasped, the pain becoming more unbearable by the second.
The man lifted his machete and brought it down hard, severing Toby Seward’s wrist cleanly, a few inches up from his hand.
54
Tuesday 9 October
Tooth strode out of the blustery wind into the Stag pub and a smell of stale beer and old carpet. He was fifteen minutes early. He was always early.
Early gave you advantages. Time to look around, check out the faces and the body language, locate the exits.
The pub wasn’t busy. A handful of men were seated at the bar. A group of three men sat around a table, and one banquette was occupied by a couple, a glum-faced man and a hard-bitten brunette. All of them studied him, some overtly, some surreptitiously. It felt like he’d entered some private members’ club for lowlifes, where no one was welcome, and which only a total loser would ever want to join.
There were plenty of big watches, gold medallions and vulgar rings on display, and just about everyone in here looked like they might be up for a fight with little provocation.
He spotted Eddie Keys in seconds. A tattooed mass of advanced muscle and less advanced brain. Dressed in a leather flying jacket, holding a straight glass of beer in his hand, the pair of slim, dark glasses perched on his head made him look about as stupid as stupid gets. He was talking to a guy beside him who was the wrong side of seventy, with a fake tan and orange hair.
Tooth strode over to the bar, his military posture as ever adding a few inches to his short stature, and eased himself onto a stool next to his date. There was no acknowledgement. He waited a couple of minutes, then ordered a double Jim Beam on the rocks from the barman, an old guy with a seen-it-all face. Without a sideways glance Tooth said, ‘Thought you were meant to be buying me a drink?’
‘I gotta take a piss,’ his date said. ‘Know what I’m saying?’
‘I gotta take one, also.’
‘Wait two minutes.’
Tooth obliged, paid for his drink and drank half of it. Then he walked across and into the stinky Gents toilet. He sidled up to the next urinal to Eddie Keys. Moments later, Keys dug his hand inside his jacket and handed Tooth a carrier bag. A very heavy carrier bag.
Tooth stuffed it into his belt and closed his jacket over it. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing. Sorted. Now fuck off.’
55
Tuesday 9 October
PC Holly Little, accompanied by her partner, John Alldridge, drove the Mondeo north from the Clock Tower, heading slowly up Queen’s Road. The B-Section Response crew was on lates this week, the 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. shift. Thursday, Friday and Saturday were the busiest nights generally in the city of Brighton and Hove. That was when everything tended to kick off, but equally, as the two experienced officers well knew, you could predict nothing. It was the big buzz of the job for all officers working response, that you didn’t know what was going to happen in five minutes’ time.
Or in this case, thirty seconds.
A female voice from the Control Room came over their radios. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five?’
‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five,’ Alldridge acknowledged, calmly.
‘We have a reported panic alarm from a residence that’s had a previous homophobic attack. Five-seven North Gardens. Can you attend, please, Grade One.’
‘Five-seven North Gardens, yes yes,’ Alldridge said. ‘On our way.’ He leaned forward and switched on the blue lights and siren.
‘Just off the top of this road,’ his colleague said, accelerating hard and pulling over onto the wrong side of the road to overtake a bus.
56
Tuesday 9 October
Jules de Copeland stood out in the dark street, his hoodie pulled even lower over his face, waiting for his idiot companion who had dashed back into the house. Suddenly Ogwang appeared, holding his machete, which was now dripping blood.
‘What you done, man?’
‘He’s gotta learn.’
‘What you done, you douchebag? What the fuck you done?’ He could hear the piercing scream from inside the house.
Then a different scream. A police siren.
‘Split! Gimme your blade!’
‘No way.’
The siren was getting closer.
Copeland looked around in panic. His brain was spinning. This was a one-way street.
Right was against the traffic. Left was with it. He sprinted to the left. Ogwang followed.
Moments later, the siren louder, they were lit up by headlights.
57
Tuesday 9 October
As they swung into North Gardens, at speed, the officers saw the two figures sprinting away. Holly Little accelerated hard again, gaining on them.
‘That’s fifty-seven!’ John Alldridge called out.
She stood on the brakes. ‘Check the house, I’ll stay on them.’
‘OK.’ He unbuckled his belt.
She halted for just the fleeting second it took for him to jump out, then accelerated off.
He crossed to the front door. As he reached it a figure staggered towards him wearing an apron over a pullover, holding his right wrist with his left hand, blood spraying everywhere as if his arm was a hosepipe, a catatonic look on his face.
For an instant it was like a scene from a horror movie. Except, Alldridge realized, this was real.
The man’s wrist had been severed.
If he didn’t do something immediately the man risked bleeding to death. All his training kicked in. He put his hand higher up on the man’s arm, pushing his sleeve up, and squeezed hard. Blood spurted into his face.
‘Help me,’ the man was whispering. ‘Help me, oh Jesus, help me.’ He sounded faint.
John pressed his phone button. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five. I urgently need an ambulance and back-up.’
‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five, copy.’
The man’s face was draining of colour as he looked at his wrist. Had to get a tourniquet on him, he knew. And fast.
Tightening his grip on the man’s arm, he steered him back into the house, thinking desperately, What to do, what to do, what to do? There was blood everywhere, on the floor, the walls, the ceiling.
The man led him into the kitchen and to his horror he saw the reason for the severed wrist. A hand, looking like something from a joke shop, was skewered to a chopping board by a knife.
What could he use?
He spotted a tea towel. And a wooden spoon with a long handle. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way,’ he said, trying to reassure him. The man was now looking a deathly pale.
How much blood had he lost?
Somewhere in the distance John Alldridge heard a siren. Getting closer.
Hurry.
‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Toby,’ he said, weakly.
‘Toby, I’m going to sit you down at the table, OK?’ Seward looked at him with barely comprehending eyes.
Alldridge grabbed the tea towel, wound it once round Toby’s wrist, then jammed the handle of the wooden spoon into it and, using it as a lever, began twisting until it was as tight as it would go.
The spurting blood dwindled to a trickle, then almost stopped altogether. The siren was getting louder.
Two Response officers came running into the room.
‘Oh my God,’ one of them said quietly. He was looking at the severed hand, his face going green.
‘Have you called an ambulance?’ his colleague asked.
‘The ambulance could take an hour. Take us to the hospital. NOW!’
58
Tuesday 9 October
One man disappeared up an alley. The other, holding the glinting machete, dodged onto the pavement as Holly Little, frantically radioing for back-up, drew level with him. She was debating whether to keep pursuing in the vehicle or jump out and run after him on foot.
Pepper spray and a baton against a machete. Swing onto the pavement and run him over? What if he was innocent?
An innocent man doesn’t run through a city centre holding a machete. With blood on it.
But the IOPC might take a different view.
All these thoughts running through her head. A black man with a bloody machete versus, potentially, her career.
Screw you.
They reached the main road, just below the old Royal Alexandra Children’s Hospital building. He turned left, down the hill, going like the wind.
She overtook him. Swung the car onto the pavement. Screeched to a halt, blocking his path, and jumped out.
He dodged past her.
‘Stop, police!’ she shouted. Then she sprinted after him. He stopped. Turned towards her.
Holding his blood-stained machete high.
‘One step towards me, lady, and you are dead.’
She took ten steps, pulling out her pepper spray, aware the wind was behind her, and fired off its contents.
In his face.
The machete hit the pavement. His hands hit his eyes.
He was screaming in agony.
Two seconds later she had him face-down on the pavement. Using her fast-cuffs she snapped one wrist, then the next.
Two guys walked past, up the hill. One said, in passing comment, ‘Racist pigs.’
Another time she might have rounded on them and startled them, but not now.
‘What’s your name?’ she said to her prisoner, pressing her emergency location button.
‘Mickey Mouse.’
‘So what’s your alias?’
‘Donald Duck.’
She slipped her hand inside his jacket, found a wallet and phone and pulled them out. Holding him down with her knee, she flipped the wallet open and saw a couple of credit cards.
Both said D. Duck.
‘Work in Disneyland, do you? Or Disneyworld?’ she asked. He said nothing but continued to struggle.
She dug her kneecap into his left kidney to restrain him. He screamed in pain.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t hear your answer. What’s your name?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Duck,’ he gasped, thinking about the false Ghanaian driving licence in his wallet.
‘Duck? As in Donald Duck.’
‘That’s my name. Donald.’
‘Nice to meet you, Donald. My name’s PC Little.’
He grunted.
She told him he was under arrest and cautioned him. Although she knew that, whatever crime this piece of scum had committed with his lethal knife, he would never get an appropriate sentence.
‘Come on, sista, we’re both black, lemme go!’
‘It’s not going to happen.’
He suddenly struggled violently, trying to pull free. She kneed him in the kidney again.
He yelped in pain.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Not nice, is it? I’ll keep doing it until you stop.’
59
Tuesday 9 October
Something Cleo had insisted on from the earliest days of their marriage was that, no matter how busy either of them might be, they would make time to sit down at the table, with no television on, and have their evening meal together. She had also been steadily trying to wean Roy onto a healthier diet than he’d traditionally eaten as a police officer. A lot more fish than meat, vegetarian and sometimes even vegan meals.
