Dead at First Sight, page 33
‘Looks a big one!’ The driver pulled out, turning right, to Copeland’s relief, and away from the scene.
‘Where you from?’ he asked.
‘Scotland,’ Copeland replied, randomly.
‘Always raining there?’
‘Always.’
‘North or South Terminal?’
‘North,’ he said.
‘Are you sure? What airline?’
‘British Airways.’
‘They go from the South Terminal to Scotland.’
‘Ah, right, thank you. South, please.’
Copeland closed his eyes. Jesus. What a mess. What a mess.
‘I’ve got a mate who moved to Edinburgh, married a girl from there. Said it’s flipping cold.’
‘Yeah,’ Copeland said distantly, tuning him out. He was thinking. Police had been watching the flat. Someone else had also. Kofi had been murdered in prison. Steve Barrey’s doing? Almost certainly, that was his style, his reach – Barrey had long tentacles. And if he’d ordered Kofi dead, he would have ordered him dead, too. If he was sensible he’d forget the cash, just cut and run now. If the police and Barrey were after him, it could only be a matter of time.
But £300,000 was too much to walk away from. There had to be a way to grab the money and go, if need be from right under the nose of anyone watching – police or friends of Mr Steven Barrey.
An idea was forming. The police had raided his Withdean Place business premises, but there were only a few of his staff there. Most of them had gone home to their rented accommodation in the city. He hit the speed dial on his back-up phone of his trusted manager, a fellow Ghanaian, Lucius Orji, hoping and praying this was still his current number. He encouraged all his team to ditch their burners every three days and replace them.
It rang and moments later Orji answered.
‘Man, am I glad to hear your voice,’ Copeland said.
‘You too, boss. You OK? I mean I heard about Kofi.’
‘Meet me at Gatwick Airport, get there as quickly as you can. Bring your driving licence. South Terminal arrivals hall, there’s a Costa. I’ll see you there.’
For the next twenty minutes Copeland sat in silence, planning. He made a list of what he required.
107
Friday 12 October
There was a tradition within the Sussex Police Major Crime Unit of a member of an operation team anonymously sticking a cartoon, relevant to the enquiry, on the inside of the Incident Room door. Despite their collaboration some while back now with Surrey Police Major Crime Team, the tradition still held good.
Roy Grace, hunched over his workstation, stared with amusement at the one that had appeared overnight. It had been clipped from a newspaper. The headline above said,
INTERNET FRAUD AT RECORD LEVELS
and below was an image of a cash register spewing out money like a fruit machine.
Serious again, he focused back on his task of trying to piece together everything he currently had on Operation Lisbon. He read through his notes, carefully, on the pad in front of him, beside his Policy Book.
Lena Welch. Suzy Driver. Marina Heights. Lynda Merrill. Jules de Copeland/Tunde Oganjimi bringing £300,000 to Primrose Farm Cottage, Forest Row? Tooth. Ghana – Sakawa. Dunstan Ogwang/Kofi Okonjo (deceased – murdered?). Two CROPS in situ at Forest Row. To the list he added the latest development of the breakdown truck attending the vehicle and subsequently being stopped and searched. And the driver’s description of the man who had rented the Kia car he had attended, the tyre of which he had replaced.
A call came through from an officer at the Silver command office. ‘Sir, the CROPS officers have sent through images of the front- and rear-door locks. Two covert surveillance officers are on their way to the house to install listening devices.’
Grace thanked her, asking her to inform him as soon as the listening devices were in place and live. As he ended the call, Arnie Crown came over. ‘Sir, intel back from Daniel Salter at Digital Forensics on the phone number used to call the Avis breakdown service. They’ve traced it to Marina Heights, Kemp Town. But they’re not able to pinpoint the address any closer.’
‘Good work, Arnie.’
The information didn’t take Roy Grace any further.
Moments later, Norman Potting hurried over. ‘Chief, just in from Oscar-1. There’s been a three-vehicle crash outside Marina Heights. One of them is a Kia car, rented from Avis at Gatwick on Tuesday, October 9th. Witnesses reported that a tall black man, who they say was driving the Kia, fled the scene carrying two suitcases after assaulting the driver of the van that hit his car. One witness reported he was wearing red shoes.’
‘Sounds like Fancy Boy,’ Grace said. ‘That’s a top-end building, expensive flats, a good chance they’ll have outward-facing CCTV. Have someone check and also the city’s TV.’
‘I will, but there’s more, chief,’ Potting said, looking pleased as Punch. ‘I just ran the Kia’s licence plate against ANPR records. It pinged the same ones, just a few seconds ahead of the ones that clocked Tooth’s suspected car shortly after 11.30 p.m. on Tuesday. The last one that clocked it was on Marine Parade, when both vehicles headed east and were not picked up on ANPR.’
Grace processed this. ‘Which means . . .?’
‘That either Tooth and Copeland are working together. Or—’
‘That Tooth is following him,’ Grace said. ‘With the intention of killing him. I think that’s the more likely scenario.’
‘Yes, chief, I agree.’
‘Good work, Norman. What we know so far is that Copeland is due to rendezvous at Primrose Farm Cottage, Forest Row, early this evening. Now his plans will be in disarray after the accident. He’s done a runner – where? And where is Tooth in all this? Still in his car close to Marina Heights?’
Yet again he privately cursed Cassian Pewe for lifting the guard on Tooth all those months back, allowing him to escape. Which Tooth had done very neatly and was now back to haunt them.
‘I don’t know, chief,’ Potting replied.
‘OK. Copeland’s gone AWOL. Have the ARV go to Tooth’s car, and if he’s in it, nick him. He’s no further use to us – we know where Copeland’s going to show up later today, let’s focus on that now. And if Copeland’s been staying in that building, we need to find out which flat and get it searched. Hopefully the caretaker will know, if he’s back in his flat.’
As Potting went back to his workstation, Grace again studied his notepad. To make a conviction stick, they needed to catch Copeland red-handed. Which meant letting him meet with Lynda Merrill for their planned love-in.
But that was dangerous.
Under current guidelines, some of which were overcautious in Roy Grace’s view, there needed to be a risk assessment prior to any action. These guidelines were created by civil servants with little comprehension of what frontline policing was about, and who were primarily concerned with protecting the police from expensive lawsuits.
He’d always tended to take the view that it was easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission.
But he did need to be pragmatic, however much that went against the grain. He had to weigh up Copeland’s known and suspected history of violence against the risk of him harming the woman. And it didn’t look good on the scales.
Pewe would have a field day if it went wrong. The ACC would have his guts for garters for allowing a member of the public to put her life on the line. He knew what the ACC would say. Pewe was only interested in protecting his backside, keeping his nose clean for the next step up, God forbid, his career ambition to be a Chief Constable – and beyond.
And it would be putting his own career on the line, too.
But, equally, Copeland and his team needed to be stopped in their tracks before they ruined even more people’s lives. And he had a golden opportunity to catch this nasty criminal red-handed.
Could he take the risk that Lynda Merrill might be harmed?
One option was to pull her out and replace her with a decoy. But that could create all kinds of problems down the line. He could imagine a smart brief, like that arrogant twat, Carrington, claiming entrapment.
It was a massive risk. But he did have Alison Vosper’s offer from yesterday, however unattractive it might be – and uncertain – as a potential backstop, if it all went tits up.
Throughout his career he’d taken risks. Always in the interests of what he believed to be justice. One time it had nearly got his best friend, Glenn Branson, killed – he had been shot and wounded in a raid. But wasn’t that part of being a police officer? The risk of injury or death was one all officers knew they were taking on when they signed up. In the words of a former Chief of the Metropolitan Police, ‘When everyone else is running away from danger, we – and the other emergency services – are the ones running towards it.’
Could he live with himself if Lynda Merrill got harmed? On the other hand, could he live with the knowledge he’d failed to arrest an internet fraud mastermind, who had destroyed countless lives, because he’d been too scared of the possible consequences?
He stood up and walked over to Potting. ‘Know what this whole thing is, Norman?’ he said. ‘It’s a ball of shit dipped in wasps.’
108
Friday 12 October
Two ambulances were now on the scene, as well as several police cars. Vultures were holding cameras up with outstretched arms, recording whatever they could, to post on whatever social media trash they followed.
Tooth climbed to his feet, feeling better after throwing up. Thinking more clearly. He’d missed his opportunity and now he had no idea where Jules de Copeland was headed. Or when – or even if – he would return here.
A thought struck him. One that should have occurred many hours earlier, if the insides of his head weren’t so messed up.
A crowd had gathered behind the blue-and-white tape sealing off the three wrecked vehicles. Leaving the van and striding around them, he crossed over to Marina Heights, walked up the driveway and rang the intercom button for the caretaker.
After a pause, the man answered through the crackly speaker in a grumpy Irish accent.
‘I’ve a Fed-Ex delivery for Mr Jules Copeland that requires his signature. Can you tell me where I can find him?’
‘Flat 507,’ came the curt reply.
Flat 507, Tooth thought. That was the one where the woman’s voice had come from, when he’d rung the front doorbell last night. Now he rang the intercom bell. Silence. He tried again. Still silence.
Good.
He punched in the door code and entered. The intercom panel said the caretaker was in Flat 2. He’d just answered so Tooth presumed he was in residence. Very good. He could get two bits of business done in one visit.
Following the numbers along the corridor, past the lift, he saw the door to Flat 2 facing him at the end. There was a smell of burnt toast. He stopped in front of it and glanced behind him, checking there was no one, then pressed the buzzer. There was a sharp rasping sound. After a few seconds Tooth heard the man call out.
‘Hold on a sec, I got fecking toast on fire here!’
It was another minute or so before the door opened and the stench was much stronger now. Wisps of smoke drifted out. The shaven-headed caretaker, barefoot in a T-shirt and jeans, peered at him, bolshily. The flat looked typical of the poky little ratholes they gave caretakers – he’d been one himself for a couple of years after he left the military. He could see a kitchen just beyond with smoke wafting in it.
‘My hours are eight thirty to five, it says so outside, come back in half an hour.’ He was about to shut the door in Tooth’s face, when he peered at him more closely, with recognition. ‘I know you, don’t I – we met before?’
‘Wednesday night, seven thirty. Out of your office hours. You must have been putting in overtime – saving up for some dental work?’ Tooth replied, rapidly trying to assess whether anyone was here with him. From the slovenly look of the place he doubted it. ‘You’re going to have to save a bit harder.’
‘Huh?’
Tooth headbutted him, straight in the mouth, relieving him of the teeth either side of the missing one, sending the man staggering back across his small hall and crashing against the wall.
As the caretaker groaned, covering his bleeding mouth with a tattooed hand, Tooth shoved the door shut behind him, simultaneously launching himself forward and aiming a disabling kick at the man’s groin, instantly shooting all the wind out of him. The man doubled-up in agony, gasping. As he did so, Tooth seized his forearm and threw him over his shoulder, still gripping the arm, which snapped clean in two.
The caretaker lay on his back on the carpeted floor, staring at him fearfully, blood over his chin and neck, half his radius bone sticking out through the skin of his forearm. Gasping in agony, he cried, ‘What is this, what do you want?’
‘I don’t like you.’
‘Huh?’
‘You’re a very rude man.’
‘Rude – ah – ah – you’re the fekker that was parked outside.’
Tooth saw what he needed, hanging on the wall by the door. No need for the caretaker any more. He knelt and put a hand under the base of the man’s chin, staring him in the eyes. ‘If I was a politer guy than you, I’d apologize for what I’m about to do. But I’m not and I don’t like you, so I won’t.’ He jerked the janitor’s chin up sharply with his left hand, simultaneously smashing a karate chop with his right into his neck, shattering his windpipe. As the man’s head slumped forward, his throat rattling in his struggle for oxygen, Tooth cracked the side of his hand into the rear of his neck, severing the spinal cord.
The caretaker spasmed, then lay still.
Tooth stood back up, went over to the board by the door, which looked like it had keys to every flat in the building hanging on numbered hooks, and found No. 507. As he removed the key and pocketed it, the doorbell rasped.
He froze, thinking. Waiting.
It rasped again.
A resident – or police? There was no damned spyhole to look through and see.
Shit.
He knelt, grabbed the dead man under the armpits and dragged him through into the little kitchen. Then he went back out into the hall and closed the kitchen door, softly. He stood waiting. One minute. Two. Three.
Was someone still out there? He pulled out his gun, removed the safety catch and put it back in his pocket. He waited a short while longer, then, braced to take down anyone standing there, he pulled the door wide open.
The corridor was empty.
But as he stepped out and closed the door, a man in a business suit, holding a smart laptop bag, appeared at the end of the corridor and strode up to Tooth, smiling.
‘Hi, are you the caretaker?’ he asked politely in a South African accent. Tooth nodded. Ready to tackle him if he needed to.
‘I’m Dave Allen – my partner, Nicky, and I have just moved into No. 402. The hot water’s not coming on – could you see if you could fix it or let me know the name of a plumber?’
‘Sure,’ Tooth said, disarmingly pleasant. ‘I’m just dealing with a problem in another flat. Can you give me half an hour?’
‘We’re both just off to work – I think you have a key?’
‘I do. Flat 402. I’ll go and investigate, Mr Allen, and if I can’t find the problem I’ll call the plumber in right away.’
‘You’re American?’
‘Uh-huh, but I’ve been here a long while.’
Dave Allen thanked him, then went through the door to the underground car park.
Tooth took the fire-escape staircase up to the fifth floor.
109
Friday 12 October
Closing the door of Flat 507 behind him, Tooth stood in a wide, luxuriously appointed hallway. As a precaution, he called out, ‘Hello! Caretaker!’
There was no response.
He called out again louder, to make sure, then walked along the hallway and into a large, open-plan living-dining area. Picture windows gave panoramic views to the east and south, all with full-length blinds, fully lowered and opened at an angle that would allow the occupant to look out but not be seen.
It was some pad. Clearly Jules de Copeland didn’t stint himself, lavishing some of the money he conned from his internet dating scam business on a nice lifestyle. Smart, modern furnishings, with a fancy Bang and Olufsen hi-fi and a vast flat-screen television.
He walked across thick, white broadloom to the south-facing windows and peered down at the road. The fire brigade were in attendance now, applying heavy cutting gear to the Mini, the driver still inside. There were three ambulances. Police everywhere. His van was still parked across the road in the bus stop, no one seemingly paying it any attention.
He turned away and looked around. Somewhere in here, he hoped he’d find a clue as to where Copeland might be heading.
And if he didn’t?
Tough shit, Steven Barrey. This was his last contract. For the first time since he had started his business he decided to throw his principles to the wind. Take his chances on the burnt-face bastard ever tracking him down in South America.
Over against the far wall, where there was no window, was a fancy walnut desk and white leather chair. He went over to it. There was a Mac charging cable, a phone charger and a mouse. He looked around more carefully. In the waste-paper basket he saw a screwed-up yellow Post-it note that had some scribble on it. Curious, he retrieved it and opened out the small yellow square of paper. The words were barely legible.
Lynda. Primrose Farm Cottage. Forest Row. 6.30 pm. 300K
He pocketed it, then left the apartment, making his way back down the stairwell. There was a non-alarmed fire-escape door out onto the street at the back of the building. He took it. Too risky to return to his van, he decided. No doubt it would be clamped or towed sometime later this morning. But with all the chaos happening in the street in front of it, he doubted anyone would be paying it too much attention for some while. With luck it would be removed to a car pound and, long before anyone started looking for the man who had rented it, he would be out of the country.
