Dead at First Sight, page 29
Copeland switched off the radio. Thinking. The First Night Centre.
Kofi would have been there.
It could, of course, be another prisoner. But he had a bad feeling about this.
Real bad.
He walked over to the window and looked down at the parking bays below. No sign of the man or the Polo. The alert of an incoming email distracted him and he hurried over to his computer.
My beautiful Richie, I have such good news! I’ve managed to put together £300,000 in cash. I’d completely forgotten my late husband traded a lot of high-end jewellery for cash. He hid a stash here in the house, because he was always worried about banks going under, and another in a deposit box, which I will collect tomorrow on my way to you! God, I can’t wait to feel your hands all over my body. And to find out what it is you plan to do to me first??????? I’m tantalized beyond – anything. How will I sleep tonight? Your picture will be under my pillow, as it is every night. Love you. XXXXXX
He replied, distractedly.
My dream is for both our heads to be on one pillow, together. My angel. Tomorrow at 6.30 pm that dream will come true! Love you even more than you love me! XXXXXXXXXX
Kofi? Was he the man whose name had not been released? Stabbed? Dead? His crazy bro? His heart heaved as he thought fleetingly about all that Kofi Okonjo had meant to him throughout their entwined lives. More than any friend. His bro. The closest he’d ever been with any human before his wife and son.
Shit, bro, are you OK?
But he wasn’t OK. He knew it. Stabbed.
Was he taking too much of a risk staying here another day? Cut and run now? Forget Lynda Merrill and her £300k? Kofi had screwed up everything. Plus he had no idea what he might have said to the police when he was arrested. The police weren’t stupid, either, they’d be piecing together connections. England. Germany. Ghana.
Someone had already pieced together connections ahead of the police. And he had a pretty shrewd idea who, too.
Someone angry enough to want Kofi dead. And himself. Someone powerful and connected enough to make it happen. There was only one person. When they’d split from him, he’d sworn to track them down and kill them both. Told them no one screwed him and lived.
Now it seemed his ugly threat was real. Steve Barrey.
If it was Kofi, he’d never get to see his girl, Julia, again. Nor his cars. The thought alarmed him. His own wife, Ama, and son, Bobo, living in their farmhouse near Munich. Waiting for his return. If Barrey had someone inside the prison, he could not risk being arrested.
Ama. Sweet Ama. He looked at her photograph now and kissed her pretty face. Then he kissed Bobo’s too. There were tears in his eyes. Maybe he’d been stupid. Driven by greed. Maybe Barrey was right and they weren’t smart enough to survive on their own. Kofi was too much of a wild card. And now he was dead?
He had to get back to Germany. Where she was waiting, patiently, trustingly, and lonely. She knew no one. Had no friends. He’d warned her against talking to people. Just her and Bobo isolated in the house in a foreign land, with a language she did not speak or understand. Waiting for him to take her back home to Ghana to all her family and friends. And not to have to go through another damp, cold, bitter winter, where she constantly felt like she was freezing to death. He’d made her that promise. Now it was October and winter was coming.
What if he got caught here? It would be years in jail – if he could even survive. What should he do? Cut and run now while he could? While he still, at least, had a chance?
From the back of the desk’s bottom drawer he removed a thick brown envelope and shook out the contents: a Dutch passport and driving licence. Both carried his photograph. His name on the documents was Kees Vandegraff. He swapped them over with the British ones he currently carried in his pocket, put them in the envelope and pushed it to the back of the drawer. Closing it, he walked back over to the window. No sign of the man watching him.
That worried him. Where was he?
He heard the alert from another incoming email and went back over to his computer. It was from Lynda. The address and directions for tomorrow. Punctuated with exclamation marks and kisses.
He scrawled it down on a Post-it pad on his desk, then dutifully sent her a bunch of kisses back. Wondering how much of a fight she might put up. The cottage sounded really remote, no neighbours. The owners not returning until Monday. He needed enough time to get to Germany, and it would be too risky to take the cash on an airplane, with the sniffer dogs they had at airports. Which meant driving. A late Eurostar crossing tomorrow and he’d be in Munich by early Saturday morning. Visit the dealer who traded his cash for Bitcoins, then scoop up his family and get a flight to Accra.
Ama wouldn’t be pleased she was going to have to pack in a rush and leave most of her stuff behind. But she would be happy that she was going home. That would outweigh everything. The look on her sweet face when he told her. He could barely wait to see her, to hold her. And Bobo.
He did some mental calculations. They should be safely back in Ghana by Sunday evening. Lynda Merrill’s friends were not due back until Monday. It gave him a margin, but not a huge one in case of a delayed or cancelled flight. He didn’t want to kill her, but he realized it might be the better option. If he tied her up, when her friends released her she would be able to give the police – Interpol or Europol or whatever they were – his description. Killing her would buy him more time.
He played out the scenario in his mind. Arms around her neck.
Snap.
90
Thursday 11 October
The journey back down to Brighton was not doing anything for Roy’s sour mood. The rush-hour commuter train out of London’s Victoria Station was packed, with every seat already taken way before he boarded it, and he had to stand for the hour-long journey, wedged like a sardine, breathing in fumes of garlic, alcohol and rancid halitosis from the three men he was crushed between, as if he had suddenly found himself the hapless judge of a bad-breath competition.
At one point his phone rang. Extricating it from his pocket with difficulty, he saw from the display it was Glenn Branson.
‘Got a development, boss.’
‘Can’t talk,’ he murmured. ‘Bell you back in half an hour.’
But he was talking into a dead phone, cut off as they roared through a tunnel.
When they were out the other side he sent Branson a brief text.
Finally, shortly before half past six, he jumped down onto the platform and into the relatively fresh evening air, jostling along with the crowds, most of whom, unlike himself, were probably heading home.
He called Cleo to warn her he would be back late. Then he dialled Glenn Branson as he approached the barrier.
‘How was London, boss?’
‘Don’t ask,’ he said, sticking his ticket into the machine and walking through into the concourse. ‘What’s the development?’ He carried on, striding purposefully towards the car park.
‘There’s a resident in a block of flats in Kemp Town, Marina Heights, who’s just returned from working abroad, and called in to report the number plates on his car have been stolen.’
‘How is that a development for us?’
‘A smart call-handler put two and two together when she took the call about the plates – she was aware of the marker on the car. Firstly, his car is a Volkswagen Polo, colour grey. The same model and year as the one we suspect Tooth is driving – which he had at Withdean Road last night, and which he swapped plates with His Honour Anthony Northcliffe’s sometime after he left.’
‘Interesting.’
‘It gets better. DS Alexander obtained the CCTV footage from Budget at Gatwick of the man who rented the Polo. Haydn Kelly’s viewed it and confirmed the man is Tooth. For sure.’
‘Nice work,’ Grace said. ‘So what’s his involvement with all of this? If he’s involved?’
‘Unlikely he’s in Brighton for his holiday, boss.’
‘Be nice to find him, have a friendly man-to-man chat with him – kind of thing.’
‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that, he strikes me as that kind of a guy.’
‘I’m on my way in, just leaving Brighton Station, be with you in half an hour or less.’ Grace was thinking hard about the local geography. ‘So what we know from the ANPR cameras is that Tooth’s Polo was last seen early this morning heading east along Marine Parade and never pinged the next camera along at Rottingdean. You’ve put a marker on the new number plate and checked for any ANPR sightings?’
‘Nothing’s come up.’
Grace reached his car. ‘So he’s likely to still be in the area.’
‘Unless he’s dumped the car. But he wouldn’t go to the trouble of switching plates if he was dumping it. This is a classic Tooth MO.’
‘OK, speak to Silver and ensure Comms put out an all-ports description of the car and Tooth, and that all plain cars available do an area search.’
‘I’ve already done it, boss.’
‘Trying to make me redundant or something?’
‘Just trying to take the pressure off an old man’s shoulders.’
91
Thursday 11 October
Ever since his confrontation with the irate caretaker of Marina Heights last night, Tooth had kept his distance, parked up behind another block of flats a few hundred metres to the east of the building, watching through night-vision binoculars.
Throughout the long hours of darkness and the whole of today, during which he’d fought his tiredness and nausea, he was certain that Copeland’s Kia had not emerged from the building. Nor had anyone remotely resembling Copeland left the building on foot or in a taxi. It was almost dark again now. Good cover.
He wasn’t comfortable that he’d remained in the same spot for almost twenty-four hours. Plenty of people had walked by him during this time, some with dogs, some just going or coming. A few he recognized for the second or third time. There was always the risk of someone like a Neighbourhood Watch coordinator, perhaps, phoning the police to report a suspicious person in a car. It was time to move.
He started the car and drove along, through the entrance marked with a large IN sign, past the warning notice, PRIVATE PROPERTY, that threatened dire consequence for any unauthorized parking, and found a bay close to the one he had occupied before, with a clear view of the front door to the block. He reversed into it.
Needing some energy, he forced himself to eat a dried-up vegetable wrap, knowing it was food that wouldn’t go off as quickly as meat, fish or cheese, drank some water, then relieved his bladder by peeing into an empty litre water bottle. When he’d finished he opened the door, emptied the contents onto the ground and replaced the cap.
On the 6 p.m. news he’d heard an item about an inmate who had been found stabbed to death in the local prison, Lewes. The work of Steve Barrey, he immediately wondered? His mind went back to their phone conversation yesterday.
He won’t get as far as that hearing, Mr Tooth. As I’ve told you, don’t worry about him. Just do your job and eliminate Copeland before he gets arrested, too, and starts squealing to save his bacon. Understand me?
Tooth swallowed a couple of uppers from the pill box in his pocket. They would see him through the night and well into tomorrow morning.
Nausea swelled up inside him again. He took deep breaths. Lowered his window and breathed in the cold, damp air. Felt better. Just a little.
A taxi pulled up at the door. An elderly couple got in and the car drove off.
Jules de Copeland could not stay in his flat forever. At some point he had to emerge. In his rental car, most likely. Angry about the flat tyre. Distracted by his anger.
Then even more angry and distracted when it stopped a short distance away. Tooth glanced at the glovebox. At the gun it contained. A double-tap to Copeland’s head. Then away.
But one thought nagged him. He’d been driving this Polo for too long. Much too long – it was dumb. Shit, what’s the matter with me?
He’d lost it, he knew. I used to be the best. The very best. I was a legend. Pull yourself together.
Even with the change of number plates yet again, he wasn’t safe. The police in this county, he knew from past experience, were smart. They might just start looking for dark-coloured VW Polos and checking them out regardless of their licence plates.
He had an idea, which had been simmering for some hours now. He had time. Copeland would not be able to fix the flat tyre, he’d have to call for assistance. At the very least he had an hour and, in all reality, longer than that.
Pulling out his phone, he did a Google search, trawled through a number of names, then picked one, a small local company, that offered a twenty-four-hour service.
92
Thursday 11 October
Grace arrived back at the Incident Room shortly before 7 p.m. It was a hive of activity and concentration, with several of his team busy on phone calls that were still coming in following the press briefing yesterday, or on their keyboards. He looked around, the buzz of adrenaline coursing through his veins momentarily eclipsing his anger at the legal team this afternoon. This was what he had signed up for and this was what he loved. The early days of a murder enquiry were a time of excitement and awesome responsibility in equal measures.
Glenn Branson strode over to him as he entered. ‘So, what happened with the brief in London, boss?’
‘One word, four letters. Begins with an S for Sierra, ends with a T for Tango. Or if you’d like the longer version, we’ve been one word, six letters, begins with F for Foxtrot, ends with D for Delta.’
‘What? I mean – that bitch, Jodie Bentley – what happened?’
Grace shook his head. ‘Why do we sodding bother? We do everything we can, risking our lives too often, only to get screwed by the system, time and time again. Long story, mate, I’ll tell you the details later. So what’s the latest here?’
‘DI Henderson’s on his way over from Lewes Prison to give us an update on the murder. So far nothing on Tooth’s car – we’re—’
He was interrupted by DC Hall who was holding a phone in the air. ‘Guv, Marcel Kullen for you.’
Grace went over to his workstation and picked up the receiver. Hall put him through.
‘Marcel?’
‘Ja, Roy. All is good?’
‘Could be better.’
‘So we have raided the house of the man, Kofi Okonjo – known also as Dunstan Ogwang – in Reutlingen. We have interviewed his girlfriend, Julia Schade, and our digital team has found on one of his computers – it is only an early examination – a link to an Englishman called Steve Barrey. He appears, from what they have found so far, to be living in the island of Jersey in the Channel Islands.’
‘One of Germany’s former colonies, Marcel.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘This is really helpful information. You obviously haven’t been informed yet, but Okonjo is dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘He was murdered in prison this afternoon.’
‘Scheisse! You’re kidding?’
‘Nope, I’m afraid not. You’d better tell his sweetheart he won’t be coming home.’
Kullen was silent for an instant. ‘Well, I have more for you from this lady. We have the address here in Germany of his suspected colleague, the man you are after, Jules de Copeland, also known as Tunde Oganjimi.’
‘Brilliant, Marcel.’
‘His Ghanaian wife and baby son are living there – they are in a village a short distance from Munich. Julia Schade told us Copeland is in England, with Okonjo.’
‘We’re doing all we can to find him, Marcel. We had positive sightings of him on Tuesday night, following the machete attack on Toby Seward, and we’re on it.’
‘OK, Roy, we are continuing with the investigation – I’ll come back to you as soon as we know more.’
‘Anything you have, Marcel, and as soon as you have it, please.’ As he ended the call he glanced at his watch, then turned to Camping. ‘John, get on to Jersey States Police and see if their Financial Crimes Unit have a Steve Barrey on their radar.’
‘Interestingly, sir, his name is on a list my new contact there gave me,’ the DS replied, flipping back a couple of pages of his notebook. ‘Detective Inspector Nick Paddenberg of the Force Intelligence Bureau.’
‘How many names of possibles did DI Paddenberg give you?’
‘They’re currently keeping four under surveillance. All of them potentially behind internet fraud schemes. I’ve also been liaising with the Jersey Financial Services Commission, because he’s popped up on their radar, too.’
The tall, bearded figure of DI Henderson, who had been appointed SIO for the murder of Kofi Okonjo, came into the room and made a beeline for Grace.
‘Just back from Lewes Prison, guv. Not exactly my favourite job of the year.’
Grace nodded, sympathetically. No cop liked entering a prison. In general there was a deep cultural dislike of all police officers by the inmates. And every officer entering a prison, for whatever business purposes, was always aware that if a riot kicked off while they were there, they could be both an instant hostage and a prime target for violence.
‘What news, Phil?’
‘Not a lot so far. The prison officers have done a good job of sealing and protecting the crime scene for us. Looks like Okonjo was stabbed to death whilst showering, after he’d been for a run around the prison exercise yard. The suspected weapon was discarded in another part of the prison, a typical ingenious prison switchblade, made out of a filed-down plastic chair leg, I would guess. Wiped of prints, of course. I’ve interviewed both men remanded at the same time as him, and the officers. Neither of them admit to seeing anything.’
‘Any indication that either of the prisoners remanded with him had had himself arrested deliberately, Phil?’
‘No, guv. One in for GBH, the other arrested for repeated disqualified driving. The problem is that any of the other five hundred and eighty prisoners could have slipped into that area unnoticed and done it. And there’s the other possibility of course – it could have been a bent officer.’
