Dead at First Sight, page 21
A man who had his car radio tuned in to Radio Sussex and was listening to it.
Who had just heard a newsflash about a suspected homophobic attack.
Who was waiting to kill him.
62
Tuesday 9 October
Wooky, lying on the floor, looked balefully up at her mistress. Then the miniature Schnauzer gave a little whine.
When that didn’t work, she pawed at her jeans.
Fixated on her computer screen, Lynda Merrill reached down and scratched her fingers absently along her head. ‘In a few minutes, darling, OK? We’ll go for walkies. But Mummy’s busy, OK?’
The internet was running dementingly slow tonight. A reply had come in from Richie but the text was taking an age to upload.
Finally it was there on her screen!
Go off you, my gorgeous? How could I ever, you’re in my mind every second, driving me crazy for you. I’ve had one hell of a day. Laters, babe, yeah? I’m bursting for you. So can’t wait to meet. XXXXXX
Excitedly, Lynda Merrill picked up the bottle of Sainsbury’s Riesling from the floor beside her and up-ended it into her empty wine glass on her desk, next to her keyboard.
Only a few drops trickled out.
‘Oooh dear, naughty girl, you’ve drunk the whole bottle!’ she chided herself, aware she was feeling decidedly tipsy. Blotto.
Yes, that was the word dear Larry used to use whenever he – or both of them – were a bit smashed. ‘Darling, I think I’m a tad blotto.’
Or, often as not, ‘Darling, I think we’re both a bit blotto.’ They had fun getting blotto together on the fine wines he loved. She felt guilty about drinking this supermarket bargain. Larry would never have approved. He had such class, such good taste in wine. ‘Some people live above their income – me, I just drink above it!’ he used to say.
God, life had been hard in these years since he had died. She still missed him so much, thought about him constantly. Dreamed often that he was still alive. She remembered on their honeymoon in Capri, all those years ago, he’d leaned across the table with a glass of some very classy wine and clinked hers. ‘My angel, if you live to be ninety-nine, I’d like to live to ninety-nine minus one day, so I never have to live without you.’
Her eyes moistened at the memory. Larry was staring at her now from a framed photograph on her desk. The archetypal gentleman, who had reminded her of Sean Connery when they had first met. He was always so perfectly dressed, as he was in this photograph, in which he was wearing a crisp white shirt, golf club cravat, dark hair immaculately groomed. Was it her imagination or was he looking at her disapprovingly?
Over her new romance?
The photograph was, suddenly, unnerving her. She moved it out of sight behind her computer screen.
Guilt?
She didn’t need to feel guilt, she knew. Larry had told her repeatedly before he’d died that she was still a young woman and she shouldn’t spend the rest of her life mourning him. That one day she would find someone else, that she should marry again and be happy again.
Maybe. She typed a reply, but the booze was playing havoc with the coordination of her arthritic fingers. It took several goes before the message was ready.
My beautiful Richie, you asked if I could get one hundred thou of the four hundred and fifty thou in cash. I’ll have that together in a couple of days. Now, my naughty big boy, I have a real treat in store for you – and of course me! A very dear friend has gone away for a few days and she’s asked me to keep an eye on her beautiful little cottage in a forest about twenty miles from here. I think it would be a very special place for us to spend a whole, uninterrupted weekend together. We could meet there in our own, very private love nest where we wouldn’t be disturbed. And I could give you the cash! I desire you crazily! XXXXXXXX
She read it through, having to concentrate hard to focus, realizing she was very definitely more than just a little tipsy.
She peered at the empty bottle again. ‘Oh dear. Naughty me!’ She looked down at the grey-and-white dog. ‘Mummy’s drunk a little bit too much tonight, hasn’t she?’
The dog looked back at her, pricking her ears up. ‘Shall we go for a little walkies?’
At the sound, Wooky went bonkers, tearing several times around the room, and then tried to jump on her lap.
‘Down! Down!’
She stared at the screen, waiting for a reply. But nothing came.
She stood up and wobbled. ‘Oh dear, Wooky, Mummy is blotto!’ Somehow, holding the banister rail tightly, she made it down the stairs without stumbling or tripping over the animal, then went out into the back garden with her. She waited, patiently. When the dog had finished she headed back into the house, sobered a fraction by the breezy, salty night air, closed the door and locked it. Then, with the sound of Wooky lapping at her water bowl in the kitchen, she climbed the stairs and went back into her den. She sat down and hit the return key to bring the computer screen back to life.
No reply from Richie. Hmmm.
You don’t know what you’re missing, do you? You don’t know what’s in store, my hunky one!
Logging off, she crossed the landing into her bedroom and walked through into the en suite to prepare for bed. She stared into the mirror as she removed her make-up. The face of her thirty-seven-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, stared back for an instant before her own replaced it.
Not too many wrinkles.
Why did Elizabeth think it was disgusting that at just fifty-nine she was still interested in men? That, God forbid, her mother might have sex with a man. What was that about? Hadn’t the actress, Helen Mirren, revealed rather a lot of her body in a recent photoshoot? And mine is as fabulous!
Girl, you are still a looker! You truly ain’t bad!
And in truth she wasn’t. Thanks to good genes from both her parents, a little help from a local plastic surgeon and regular botox treatments since she had ‘met’ Richie, plus workouts with her trainer at the gym, four days a week, she had retained her figure.
Sixty is the new forty!
She checked the laughter lines in her face.
Richie Griffiths, you are in for the surprise of your life!
63
Tuesday 9 October
Roy Grace, feeling exhausted, stood in the bathroom using his electric toothbrush. The toothache he’d had a week or so ago had gone away but was now back, and he needed to go and see his new dentist, Ian Pitman. He would phone for an appointment in the morning. The brush blip-blipped, telling him to move to his lower teeth.
Then Cleo called out to him. ‘Your job phone’s ringing!’
She brought it in. He switched off the toothbrush, hastily rinsed his mouth and answered. ‘Roy Grace?’
It was Norman Potting. ‘Chief, sorry to disturb you, we have a bit of a development.’
‘No problem, Norman. Tell me?’
‘The burner phone that was found on the suspect arrested near Toby Seward’s house was sent for urgent analysis, as I think Notmuch told you?’
‘He did.’
‘Aiden Gilbert from Digital Forensics just contacted me. At 9.33 p.m. tonight he had a number-withheld call from a male. Due to the life-and-death nature of the investigation we are carrying out, he decided it justified answering the call. When he answered, the gentleman asked who was speaking, and as soon as he replied, “Sussex Police”, the person hung up immediately. Gilbert said there was an O2 sim card in the phone. He put in an immediate RIPA request for a trace from the phone company.’
RIPA – the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act of 2000 – gave the police the right to request immediate information about a phone call from the provider when there was a potential threat-to-life situation.
‘What information have they provided, Norman?’
‘We have the phone number – which is another burner – and the approximate location – within 250 square metres. It’s somewhere in Withdean Road, or possibly one of the adjoining properties in Dyke Road Avenue immediately to the south.’
Grace knew Withdean Road well. It was one of the most expensive residential areas in the city. Large houses in substantial grounds. He’d investigated a case in the same street a while back. All mobile phones sent out signals, constantly, whether in active use or simply switched on. All the phone companies had masts at spaced-out intervals. Using simple triangulation, any phone company, such as O2, could tell the approximate area where a phone was – and in a city that would be in the 250-square-metre range.
In a densely populated part of a city, that kind of range could cover hundreds of terraced houses and apartment blocks – making any kind of house-to-house search a logistical nightmare. But in an area of large, secluded properties, such as Withdean Road, it could be maybe a dozen – or even fewer – properties.
His tiredness instantly gone, he felt fully alert and excited. ‘I’m on my way, Norman. I’ll be with you in half an hour. See what you can find out about the Withdean Road properties within the area O2 have given you.’
‘It’s getting towards midnight, chief.’
‘So?’
‘I’ll get straight on it.’
‘Google Earth runs 24/7, Norman. Just like the villains we’re always trying to lock up. OK? And just like us, too. Put the kettle on, it’s going to be a long night’
‘Yes, chief.’
As Grace walked out of the bathroom, ready to explain to Cleo, she was standing in the bedroom holding up a fresh pair of underpants in one hand and a crisp white shirt in the other. With a resigned look on her face.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘I know.’ She gave him a strange look. ‘I know.’ She shrugged.
He stood for a moment, looking back at her. ‘What?’
‘Go clean up those mean streets,’ she replied. ‘As you always do.’
He kissed her. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m OK.’
‘You’re not, are you?’
‘Maybe I could be more OK. Like, if you were coming to bed at midnight instead of going back out to work again. But that’s not what I married into, and I’m never going to complain.’ She shrugged again. ‘It’s just hard sometimes, you know, being the understanding wife, with a small baby and a South American dictator in the attic. That’s all.’
64
Tuesday 9 October
Bright lights. Headlights. Lighting up the gates from the far side. A car was approaching from the house. It would take several seconds for the electric gates to open.
Ample time to cross the road and pump a double-tap into the driver’s head.
Tooth weighed his options. He’d not been expecting any further movement until sometime tomorrow. Rush across now – or follow?
He decided on follow. Hopefully, Jules de Copeland would lead him to his colleague and he could despatch them both together. Job done. Then high-tail it out of here.
The Kia squeezed through the gates before they had finished opening. It turned right.
With his lights off, Tooth shadowed the car as it zigzagged through a network of residential streets, stopping twice – to check directions, perhaps? Then it joined a busy main road, Dyke Road Avenue. Tooth let a couple of cars pass then switched on his lights and pulled out behind them. They were crawling along and he was straining to keep an eye on the tail lights of the car he was following, which was pulling away.
It went over a green light. It was turning to amber.
Neither of the two idiots in front were going to make the light.
Recklessly, and gambling on no police cars being around, he accelerated hard past them.
The lights turned red a good two seconds before he reached them, approaching at over 60 mph. Holding his nerve, he shot across the junction, with headlights flashing at him and a horn blaring.
He glanced in his mirror. Nothing had followed him. The car was just a couple of hundred yards in front. It negotiated a roundabout, taking the third exit. Tooth followed, keeping well back, along a residential road and then down a sweeping hill beside Brighton railway station. It stopped at a red light and he pulled up well short.
When the light turned green, Tooth allowed the Kia to go on ahead for some seconds. Then he cursed as the lights changed again, much sooner than he had anticipated. Again he had to jump a red to keep up.
Where was Copeland going?
He followed the car down through the city centre towards the seafront, where it turned left. It passed the Palace Pier then carried on along Marine Parade, the upper seafront road, observing the 30 mph speed limit. Was he heading towards the channel port of Newhaven? A ferry to France? Or further, towards Folkestone and Eurotunnel, perhaps?
A mile on, still seemingly unaware of him, Copeland made a sharp left, without indicating, and drove into the entrance of a huge, old-fashioned apartment block overlooking Brighton Marina, called Marina Heights.
A rendezvous? With whom? Most likely, he figured, with Ogwang.
Tooth halted. He saw the Kia approach the underground car-park ramp. The gate opened upwards and the car went in, then halted just inside the entrance, brake lights on, engine running.
He knew what Copeland was doing. He was going to wait for the gate to close again behind him, to ensure no one followed him in.
So, he thought, Copeland had not rung any bell. No one had let him in, he must have used a remote that he had with him. Which meant he must be a regular visitor here. For what purposes?
The gate began lowering. The car waited until it was right down to the ground before continuing down the ramp.
Tooth drove around for a few minutes, until he spotted a good place to park on the street, behind a skip. He turned the car round, to give him a view of the car-park entrance and exit. Leaving the car, he sauntered towards the block, then when he was too close for anyone looking out of a window to be able to see him, he stood in the shadow of a tall shrub and waited. Hopefully another resident would drive in soon, and would be less vigilant with the garage door.
But half an hour passed and no vehicle arrived.
It was starting to rain. Deciding on Plan B, he strolled up to the main entrance and looked at the entry-phone panel, running his eye down the list of names and apartment numbers. Half just had a number and no name. There was no clue as to which one Jules de Copeland had gone to.
He pressed one bell at random. Nothing happened.
He tried another. Again, nothing.
Then a third. No. 23. After a short wait he heard a sleepy female voice.
‘Yes?’
Putting on his best effort at a drunk English man trying to sound sober, he said, ‘I’m sho shorry, John Michaels, one of your neighbours, Flat 39, keep putting in the code, not working. Could you let me in?’
There was a sharp click. Followed by an even sharper, ‘Thanks for waking me, I’m trying to have an early night, OK?’
He pushed the door tentatively, opening it a short distance, then wider, and stepped into the hallway. It was surprisingly small for the size of the block and smelled sterile, institutional. A row of metal mailboxes lined the wall almost up to the single lift. The indicator on the panel above showed ‘5’.
Assuming no one else had used it since Jules de Copeland, he was on the fifth floor.
Returning to the front door, he held it open, studying the names and numbers on the entry-phone panel even more carefully than before. But they revealed no clue as to which fifth-floor flat Copeland had gone to, and there appeared to be twelve, if not more.
He closed the door behind him, walked past the lifts to a fire door and entered the stairwell. As he had expected, there were concrete steps up and down.
He went down and at the bottom pushed through another doorway into the underground car park. He smelled tyres and engine oil. Looking carefully around in the total silence, he could see no sign of any CCTV cameras. Good.
Striding along past the bays, he located the Kia quickly. He’d already memorized the number plate, but just to be sure he placed a hand on top of the engine compartment. It was warm.
What was Copeland doing here? Did he have a regular hooker? A girlfriend? Business associate? Was this his and Ogwang’s bolt-hole? Might they leave together later or tomorrow?
Many apartment blocks had numbered parking bays corresponding to the apartment. But he was out of luck, there were no apparent number markings. It took him just a few seconds, kneeling behind the car, to place the magnetic tracker underneath and safely out of sight. Then, to buy himself enough time to go and grab something to eat, he let all the air out of the front right tyre, then put a deep slash into it with the Swiss Army penknife he carried in his pocket. Having done that, he crawled underneath the engine compartment and, using the metal file on his knife, he sawed through the fuel pipe, keeping his face away from the spray of petrol.
Next, he jammed wedges of Blu Tack into each end of the severed pipe and pressed them back together, winding tape around them. There’d be enough gas in the pipe, he figured, to get out of the car park, but to take it no more than a few hundred metres down the street before it ran out of gas, and its occupants ran out of luck.
They’d be sitting in the car, trying to restart it. The clatter of the starter motor would nicely mask the sound of his gunshots. With the engine turning over and over, any passer-by would put the noise down to a backfire. And by the time any police mechanic had figured out the problem, the two Africans would long be history.
As he walked back to the stairs, along the underground car park, he spotted a Polo, the same colour as his and the same model. Its tyres were soft and it was coated in dust. Clearly it hadn’t been driven anywhere in many weeks, and more likely months. Perhaps its owner was working abroad.
He went back up into the lobby and checked for any other exits. There was just one, at the rear, which went into a side street. He walked back to the front and, using a torn-off corner of a Thai restaurant takeaway leaflet, which he picked up from the floor, he disabled the lock, in case he needed to return.
