Dead at First Sight, page 32
100
Friday 12 October
Jules de Copeland, standing in the car park in the glare of the breakdown truck’s headlights, directed the driver. He stood, watching, as the man in overalls got out and examined the Kia’s front right tyre. After just a few seconds he shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be clever to repair that, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s a bad tear.’
‘What can you do?’ Copeland asked. ‘I’ll pay whatever’s necessary.’
‘No need, not a problem, it’s down to the hire company. I’ll just replace it. I brought a spare, just in case.’
Copeland gave him a high-five. He watched him drop a ramp at the rear of his truck and, expertly, roll down a heavy-duty jack. He cranked up the front of the car and set to work. Fifteen minutes later there was a brand-new tyre on the wheel. He dropped the car back down, produced a form for Copeland to sign, rejected the fifty-pound note he was offered as a tip and jumped back into his cab.
Copeland pressed the clicker to open the garage door and the truck drove up the steep exit and out into the grey, early-morning light.
As soon as the door clattered back down, Copeland hurried back up to the fifth floor, switching off his phone and dropping it down the rubbish chute on the way. He went into his flat and peered down through the window.
101
Friday 12 October
The radio in Kevin Hall’s phone crackled briefly. ‘Charlie Romeo Six Four Zero?’
‘Charlie Romeo Six Four Zero,’ he answered. It was Oscar-1.
‘Charlie Romeo Six Four Zero, I have information on the car that the truck from Sussex Tyre and Breakdown Services was called to attend. It is an Avis rental vehicle, a Kia, index Mike Victor, One Nine, Bravo November Zulu, rented to a Samuel Jackson on October 9th. There is a marker on this car. Samuel Jackson is believed to be one of the aliases of a wanted suspect, Jules de Copeland, who also goes under the name of Tunde Oganjimi. He is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous.’
As Oscar-1 spoke, Hall and Wilde watched the truck make a left turn, east, away from Brighton. Hall noted there was just one man in the cab, but was it the same man who had been there when it arrived?
‘Sir,’ Hall said, ‘it’s possible Copeland could be riding, hidden, in this truck – that he might have hijacked it? Permission to leave station and interrogate the breakdown vehicle? We’ve just been relieved by another team to continue the surveillance.’
‘Charlie Romeo Six Four Zero, leave station and follow discreetly at a safe distance but do not attempt to stop it. I’ll get an Armed Response Vehicle to you – there is one ten minutes away. Repeat, do not attempt to stop it. Understood?’
‘Do not attempt to stop,’ Hall repeated. ‘Yes yes.’
‘Go for it,’ came the reply. ‘But maintain a safe distance.’
Hall started the car, drove out of the parking area and stopped at the main road. The morning rush hour had started and a line of cars went past. Obeying the instruction to be discreet, he pulled out into a gap, heading east, without switching on the blue lights, and accelerated hard. He rapidly overtook several vehicles that were sticking to the 50 mph limit. Within moments, through the misty rain, he could just make out faint red tail lights and the silhouette of the truck directly ahead in the distance.
Hall quickly narrowed the gap to the vehicle along the clifftop dual carriageway, passing the renowned girl’s school Roedean and then the home for blind veterans. He slowed as they went downhill towards the village of Rottingdean, where the breakdown truck had stopped at traffic lights. Hall braked to a halt and both he and Velvet Wilde looked hard at the vehicle. There was no sign of anyone through the rear window of the cab except for the driver. He told Velvet Wilde to radio Oscar-1.
‘Charlie Romeo Six Four Zero, sir,’ she said to Mark Evans. ‘We are behind the breakdown truck, continuing east.’
‘The ARV is heading west towards you from Newhaven. ETA two minutes. Maintain your position. They will do the stop.’
‘Yes yes.’
As they drove down into a sweeping dip and up the other side, they saw strobing blue lights approaching from the opposite direction at speed. Seconds later a dark, unmarked Audi, with lights still flashing, made a sharp U-turn in front of them and accelerated towards the truck, gaining on it rapidly.
It tucked in behind the vehicle, flashing its headlights and whup-whupping the siren. The truck immediately braked and pulled into the roadside.
Hall pulled up a short distance behind them. He and Wilde watched two uniformed officers in body armour climb out of the Audi, crouching low, each holding an automatic rifle. They advanced slowly and purposefully.
The two detectives got out, staying back as instructed.
One armed officer checked out the rear of the truck with his torch, while the other walked up to the cab, keeping his gun low but visible.
Hall and Wilde moved to within earshot.
The driver lowered his window. ‘Good morning, officer,’ the driver said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Can you tell me where you’ve just been?’
‘Delivering and fitting a new tyre to an Avis rental vehicle at Marina Heights – a Kia. We work under contract for them.’
‘What was the problem with the tyre?’ the Armed Response Unit officer asked.
‘A flat – unrepairable. Been slashed. Might have been a pothole – or vandals.’
‘Who was it rented to?’
The driver looked at his call sheet, attached to a clipboard on his dash. ‘The customer’s name was Samuel Jackson.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was a tall black guy. Not as good-looking as the actor!’ Then he added, as an afterthought, ‘And he smelled nice.’
‘Do you remember what colour his shoes were?’
‘Oh, yes – they were red.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘A little – he seemed agitated but very polite. He tried to give me a fifty-pound tip, but I told him we’re not allowed to accept tips.’
Deciding it was safe now to step forward, Kevin Hall held up his warrant card and asked the driver, ‘Do you have his flat number?’
The driver shook his head. ‘Just the address of the building and his mobile phone.’
‘Can you give me the number?’ Hall wrote it down on his pad.
‘Is there a problem, officers?’ the driver asked, looking bewildered and overwhelmed.
After a brief discussion with the Armed Response officers, Hall said to him, ‘No, thanks for your help. You are free to go on your way.’
Hurrying back to his car, Hall phoned the Incident Room and gave the phone number to Arnie Crown, who answered, telling him to check it out urgently.
102
Friday 12 October
Jules de Copeland stood by the window of his apartment, up on the fifth floor, watching the progress of the breakdown truck as it headed east along Marine Parade. He saw the small saloon suddenly appear from seemingly nowhere and accelerate hard in the same direction.
Cops?
Moments later he lost sight of it in the mist.
Cops who had been waiting somewhere outside, out of his view? Watching the building? Watching him? What would the breakdown truck driver tell them? The man had turned down his attempt to bribe him. Would he give them his phone number?
Of course he would. The phone which he had dropped down the chute. It was a burner, but he did not know how much information they could pull from it. His address?
He looked at his watch: 7.25 a.m.
How accurately could GPS triangulation on his phone call pinpoint him? To the building? The floor? The apartment?
Even more urgent to make a run for it.
103
Friday 12 October
In his van across the road from Marina Heights, Tooth watched the breakdown truck emerge from the car park and turn east. Moments later he was startled by the sight of a small, silver Ford, with two people in the front, moving fast in the same direction as the truck, racing past other vehicles and vanishing into the mist.
Where had it sprung from?
Had Copeland escaped in the rear of the truck? Should he chase after it, too, and see? But what if he was wrong? What if he did that and Copeland left the building in his car, with the tyre replaced, and he lost him?
It was a gamble either way. Stay put, he decided.
A few minutes later he would see he had made the right decision.
104
Friday 12 October
Jules de Copeland did a frantic last-minute check of his flat. Was there anything he had missed that could give the police any leads to him if they raided it?
He ran through into the bedroom, the spare room, the bathroom, then back into the large, open-plan living area.
His laptop!
Duh! How could he have missed it? Jesus, calm down. How shot were his nerves?
Cool it, man! Take a chill pill, wasn’t that what they said these days? Chill! Calm it all down. Hold your nerve, hang tight. Tonight you are going to scoop up £300,000 in cash from that dumb bitch. Tomorrow morning you’ll be in Germany. And by Sunday you’ll be back with Ama and Bobo. And rolling in cash!
Buoyed by the thought, he reached the front door, opened it, gave the room one final sweep with his jumpy eyes, turned the master switch off and closed the door behind him. Then, to be safe, he took the fire-escape stairs down to the basement.
All four tyres of the Kia looked nicely inflated. He put the laptop in one of the cases in the boot then jumped in, holding the key, and for a moment couldn’t find where to insert it. Was it to the right or the left of the steering wheel?
His hand was shaking like a jackhammer. Calm down, dude!
His vision was blurry. Nerves. He took several deep breaths. They didn’t calm him the way they usually did.
It took him three stabs to insert the damned key into the ignition slot. He twisted it. A whole bunch of dash lights and dials came to life. But nothing more.
No!
No, no, no!
He switched it off and tried again, twisting it so hard he was worried the key would snap.
NO! Don’t do this to me!
He tried again. Again. Then, to his relief, the car finally started.
Thank you, God!
He released the handbrake, reversed out of the bay, then accelerated forward and up the steep exit ramp. Shaking. In a total state, his eyes not even seeming to focus properly.
Get a grip!
The car-park door rose steadily upwards. As soon as it was well clear of his roof, he drove out and turned left through the visitors’ parking area, passing the Polo with its windscreen all misted and wondering if there was anyone inside it, but no longer caring. He was focused on just one thing, now. Getting away from here.
He drove past the EXIT sign and stopped at the main road. A steady stream of traffic was passing, at speed. Anxiously he peered in his mirrors. Any sign of the Polo moving? Nothing.
Good.
The traffic was relentless. Car. Car. Car. Taxi. Van. Bus. Truck. Car. Car. Car. Truck.
Come on, give us a break!
A short gap opened up. A large van, headlights on, was bearing down, but he had time if he floored it.
He pulled out sharply into the road. Halfway, the engine stalled.
Died.
No, not now!
Frantically he pumped the accelerator. Heard the scream of brakes and tyres and—
Suddenly he was inside a cocktail shaker. Or a tumble dryer. Spinning.
In slow motion and fast motion simultaneously.
105
Friday 12 October
Tooth, fingers closed around the handgrip of his gun, was scarcely able to believe what he was seeing. He was watching a scene from a horror movie playing in front of his eyes in slow motion.
The Kia pulling out into the busy road, then stopping dead. His doing, he realized.
An instant later, the Kia being T-boned, just behind the passenger compartment, the van sending it spinning around and into the oncoming traffic, where it was hit again by a Mini. The Kia rolled onto its roof and then, somehow, righted itself, landing on its wheels, stationary, in the middle of the road.
All the traffic, in both directions, halted.
People were jumping out of their vehicles and running towards the scene. The driver of the Mini, a woman, wasn’t moving.
Tooth maintained his grip on his gun. Watching through the windscreen of his van.
He saw, to his dismay, the tall black guy, looking dazed, climb out of the car.
Copeland stared around, lost, like an astronaut who’d landed on the wrong planet.
Tooth rapidly considered his options. Rush to the gathering crowd, half of whom were filming the scene on their phones, and in the chaos put two quick shots into Copeland and sprint away before anyone figured what was happening?
Then he heard a siren. Louder.
Saw blue lights in the distance approaching along the seafront, from the west.
He cursed, put the safety catch back on and pocketed the gun, watching the unfolding scene. Maybe they’d take Copeland to hospital. He knew that place, knew it extremely well. He’d have no problem hitting Copeland there.
His head swam again, another bout of nausea engulfing him. He needed to be in hospital himself, he knew. One for tropical diseases. He needed urgently to see a specialist in venomous bites again, like the one in Munich, to get all this crap happening inside him sorted out. He’d find one in Ecuador, for sure.
Then he stiffened as he watched a new development. Something was up.
He tried to focus.
106
Friday 12 October
Jules de Copeland, trying desperately to focus, to gather his wits, saw a bearded man in paint-spattered overalls striding angrily towards him. A phone camera flashed.
‘You stupid twat!’ the man yelled. ‘You pulled right out in front of me. Jesus, are you all right? You stupid moron! I thought I’d killed you!’
Another camera flashed.
The man pushed through the crowd, fists clenched, and reached him. ‘You pulled right out in front of me!’ He grabbed Copeland’s coat lapels. ‘Look what you’ve done to my van – that’s my whole livelihood!’
Instinctively, without even thinking about it, Copeland took a swing at him, striking him under the jaw and decking him.
As the van driver staggered backwards and fell to the ground, Copeland ran to the rear of his car, barely clocking the shocked faces all around, wrenched open the boot lid, pulled out his two cases and ran, pushing through them, ignoring the shouts.
As he ran, he looked in desperation in both directions. Which way? Left? Right? They were his only options.
Tooth saw his chance. Copeland making a break for it. The roundabouts were coming on again inside his head. He opened the driver’s door and, as he climbed out, his foot caught in the seat belt and he fell flat on the hard, wet tarmac. He lay there, stunned, for some seconds, then vomited.
Copeland reached the far pavement and stopped for an instant, his brain feeling like it had been through a blender. The siren was getting closer. His right leg was hurting badly and his chest felt as if a sword was sticking into it. Busted rib? No time to think about it. To his right, the main road stretched endlessly away into the distance along the clifftop. He’d be completely exposed. His only option was left. A couple of hundred yards to his left another main road joined it. If he could reach that he could head up it, north and away.
He ran, limping, swinging the cases, every step agony, then turned right and carried on up the main road. Over to the left was an underpass and, beyond that, a gasometer. After a short distance he stopped and turned. No one was following him. A marked police car, lights flashing, shot past the junction.
How long before someone told the police which direction he’d run off in?
He had to hide. Where? There was a housing estate over to the right with a large car park in front. Could he hide behind one of the vehicles? He was about to make a dash for it when, unbelievably, he saw a turquoise-and-white taxi coming down the hill with the FOR HIRE sign lit up.
He dropped the cases and jumped out in front of it, holding up a hand, and to his relief the taxi stopped. The Asian driver lowered the nearside window and Copeland leaned in. ‘Oh man, you’ve saved my life! I’ve got to catch a flight from Gatwick and my bloody car won’t start!’
The driver climbed out, all happy. ‘No problem!’ Then he peered closely at Copeland’s face. ‘You’ve got a nasty gash.’
Copeland put his hand to his cheek and felt something sticky. He pulled it away and saw blood on his fingers. ‘Yeah, the bonnet caught me in the face when I lifted it to see if I could fix the problem.’
‘You ought to get that attended to, it might need stitching – do you want to go via the hospital?’
‘No, no time. And it’s nothing like the injury I’m going to be getting from my wife if I don’t catch that plane. It’s our wedding anniversary!’
‘All right, jump in, please. I’ll take care of the bags. I’ll give you some tissues – don’t let any blood get on the upholstery, please, it’s not my cab and the guy who owns it is well fussy.’
Copeland got into the rear and pulled the door shut while the driver put the cases in the boot. Moments later they were under way. He sat back, dabbing his face with a tissue and putting on his seat belt. They went over a pothole and he stifled a scream as the rib dug painfully into his chest.
Seconds later the taxi halted at the junction with the main seafront road. ‘Nasty-looking accident over there,’ the driver said.
Peering through his window, Copeland saw the police car stopped a short distance from the smashed Kia, van and Mini, and the crowd of people who had left their vehicles, from both directions. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s what the noise was. I heard a loud bang.’
