Dead at First Sight, page 35
A waiter appeared with menus. ‘Will you be having wine, gentlemen?’ he asked.
Sorokin gestured to his guest. ‘A glass of wine?’
‘I think we should have a bottle of champagne to celebrate – on me,’ Barrey said expansively. ‘Bottle of Bolly,’ he instructed the waiter, but signalled him not to go away. He turned back to Sorokin. ‘You like oysters?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Bring us a dozen each, grilled,’ he said to the waiter. ‘Then we’ll look at the menu.’
As the waiter went off, Barrey said, ‘Their grilled oysters are to die for.’
‘OK.’
Barrey glanced around, as if desperately seeking another table, out of the sun, more out of earshot, but the place was full. He checked out the diners on either side. On the left was a table for two, with a couple of lovers canoodling over lobster thermidors. On the right were four businessmen having a lunch meeting. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘So, OK, you have a proposition for me, I’m all ears. What’s left of them anyway,’ he added with a strange little laugh.
‘I kind of left it a little late in life to go into business but I thought, you know, hey, too late is when you’re dead! Maybe I still have time to cash in on my experiences – and in particular the contacts that I’ve made over my years in law enforcement.’
‘As you told me over the phone. And you know, don’t you, that Colonel Sanders didn’t start his fried chicken business until he was in his seventies. You look like you’ve got a few years on him, yet.’
‘Know that old gardening joke?’ Sorokin replied. ‘A guy asks a landscaping expert when’s the best time to plant a tree. The expert replies, “Twenty years ago.”’
Barrey gave him a meagre apology for a smile, shelling it out like he was dropping a coin into a homeless person’s cap. They were distracted as the champagne arrived and they waited until it was poured before resuming. This time Sorokin’s voice was quieter.
‘A former golfing buddy in the US got badly rinsed by a lady he met on an internet dating agency. Six hundred and fifty thousand bucks.’ He watched Barrey’s face but it was impossible, with his eyes behind the dark lenses, to read it. ‘He asked me to use my police connections to look into the world of internet romance scammers and I found they’re mostly out of Ghana and Eastern Europe. To my surprise, I found there are few real players in the US. That’s when the idea first popped for me. I realized with all the organized crime connections I’d made over the years that there was a real business opportunity, both to set up a scamming business myself and, hand in hand with it, a money-laundering channel.’
He could still read nothing in Barrey’s face.
‘Then your name came up on an FBI list of persons of interest in the cybercrime fraud world.’
Barrey still gave no visible reaction at all.
‘So, I’m here to offer you the opportunity to expand your empire into the United States, if that’s of interest?’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘I guess I should ask you the same question, Mr Barrey.’
‘The future in internet romance is vast, Mr Sorokin. There’s a limitless supply of mostly older people desperate for love. We’re talking a market worth billions. If you opened up the US for me, we could be making more money than either of us could ever spend.’
‘And how do we stay out of jail?’
‘By being untraceable of course – as I am.’
‘Really? If you are so untraceable, how come I found you so easily?’
‘You might have found me, Mr Sorokin, but have you found any evidence that I’ve committed any crime?’ Barrey looked at him intently and triumphantly. ‘Well?’
‘Clearly you’ve hidden your activities very cleverly.’
Two large dishes with hot oysters grilled in their shells in a cream sauce arrived. Barrey tucked his napkin into the top of his shirt, all focus, momentarily, on his food. ‘You like turbot?’ he asked Sorokin.
‘Sure.’
He told the waiter to bring them both turbot and a bowl of Jersey Royal potatoes. As the waiter moved away, he addressed Sorokin again.
‘As you know, I operate through a network of nominee companies around the world, all springing from my bases in Ghana and Nigeria. The internet fraud and the money laundering run in parallel. I’ve a string of legitimate financial services companies that everything’s fronted through.’
‘So is PerfectPartners.net one of your targets?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Barrey said, ‘One of. Why do you ask about that one in particular – is that the one that your buddy got caught on? Maybe if we do business, I can find a way to get your buddy paid back – how much was it?’
‘Six hundred and fifty thousand bucks, give or take.’
‘No big deal.’
‘It is to him. It’s everything he has – or had – in the world.’
Barrey’s phone made a soft, staccato noise. Raising an apologetic hand, he answered the call. ‘Yeah? What? That’s – that’s – is he just having a laugh on me?’ His voice was becoming increasingly loud. ‘Jesus H – Christ, I don’t believe this. Sort it!’ He killed the call, shoving his phone back in his pocket, looking furious.
‘Bad news?’ Sorokin asked.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘Quite a lot, actually.’
Barrey stared at him. ‘Huh?’
‘You see, Mr Barrey, it wasn’t just my pal who got screwed out of money on your website scam, it was me, also.’ Sorokin looked at him levelly. ‘Ninety-seven thousand and sixty-three bucks and forty-two cents, to be precise. Are you going to give that back to me, too?’
Barrey’s whole demeanour suddenly changed, his lips forming an ugly snarl. His body shifted and Sorokin saw his arm, with his hand concealed by his napkin, drop below the table. ‘Just what is your game, Mr Sorokin?’
‘I’ve come here to get even with you, you fat bastard. To level the score.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yep, that’s about the size of it.’
For an instant, Barrey’s confidence evaporated and he looked wracked with uncertainty. ‘You’ve not invited me here to discuss a business deal at all, have you?’
‘You’re catching on, fatso. I’ve come here to nail you and see you brought to justice.’
‘And how exactly do you intend doing that?’
‘Quite simply. Down in the street below, this place is surrounded by Jersey States Police officers.’ Sorokin pulled open his suit jacket to reveal his wiretap.
Barrey stared at him in disbelief and rising anger. ‘You’ve fucking tricked me, you sack of shit.’
‘That’s pretty rich, coming from you, Barrey. How many hundreds of people have you tricked out of their savings?’
‘I’ll tell you something you don’t know, Mr Smartass former New York cop. There’s no law in Jersey preventing ownership of handguns – just like in your country. I have one under the table now, pointed at your crotch. Call off the cops this second or I’ll blow your nuts off.’ Looking panic-stricken, he turned and signalled to a table where two large men were seated.
They rose and began walking over.
Sorokin seized the opportunity and upended the table into Barrey’s lap, at the same time lunging forward, putting his arm round the back of Barrey’s head and pulling his face into a bowl of scalding oysters, hearing the crunch of breaking glasses and shells.
Barrey twisted away, more agilely than Sorokin had anticipated, and rolled into the table of the two lovers, sending their lobsters and wine glasses flying.
As Sorokin lunged after him he saw the two henchmen closing on him. He spun, headbutting one and kicking the other, hard, shattering his knee. Barrey clambered to his feet, stumbled and crashed into a table, sending a seafood tower flying. As the former detective reached him, oblivious to the shocked faces of diners and waiters, Barrey grabbed a bottle from an ice bucket and swung it at him. Sorokin ducked. Barrey swung it again, this time catching him a glancing blow in the face with it, dazing him and propelling him reeling into yet another table, sending more glasses and dishes to the floor.
As he crawled back onto his hands and knees, half blinded with pain, he saw Barrey, minus his Stetson, wig askew, lumbering towards the exit. He reached it several seconds after Barrey had vanished through it, determined, totally determined, the bastard wasn’t getting away. As he ran down the first flight of stairs he heard a voice below him yell, ‘Stop, police! Put your gun down. Put your gun down or we shoot! Drop your gun and put your hands in the air where we can see them.’
Turning a corner in the stairwell he saw Barrey below him drop his gun, and it clattered down the steps.
Directly below were four police officers in body armour, helmets and vizors, two aiming automatic rifles, two pointing handguns.
Barrey raised his arms in the air.
Sorokin stood still for a moment. Then, he couldn’t resist it, he carried on down until he was right behind Barrey, leaned forward and spoke quietly into his ear. ‘Guess I’m never going to see my money back now. But I tell you what – this moment, it’s worth every damned cent just to see this. And if you want the really bad news, I’m told they don’t serve grilled oysters in British jails, so eat the one that’s still stuck to your forehead and savour the taste – you’re gonna have to make that last a while.’
114
Friday 12 October
The drizzle finally let up and, to the relief of PC Doug Riley who was drenched to the skin, the sun came out. He pulled a flapjack from his rucksack and took a bite. Then he froze as he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.
Hastily swallowing and replacing the rest, he zipped the bag up and waited. A taxi bumped along the cart track past him, headed around the driveway and pulled up outside the front door. With the smell of exhaust fumes in his nostrils, Riley watched through his binoculars as the rear door opened and the passenger climbed out.
Not the tall black man he’d been briefed to expect.
The man paying the driver looked to be in his late fifties. He was dressed in a tweedy jacket, checked shirt and blue cords, with well-groomed grey hair. As the taxi drove off the man looked around, seemingly getting his bearings, then walked to the front door. He had no luggage, just a coat over his arm.
Riley lowered the binoculars, raised his camera, zoomed in and took a series of photographs as the man let himself in with a key.
As soon as the front door closed, Riley spoke into his radio. ‘Mike Whisky One to Mike Whisky Two.’
‘Mike Whisky Two,’ the response came almost instantly from his colleague, from his hideout somewhere beyond the rear of the house.
‘An IC1 – white male – late fifties, has just arrived in a taxi and entered the house, using a key,’ Riley informed him.
‘Workman?’
‘No, he looks posh.’
‘Port out, starboard home,’ Hastings said.
‘What?’
‘Just being facetious.’
‘Save it,’ Riley said. ‘This man’s not on our brief or radar. We’re waiting for an IC1 female, late fifties, a tall IC3 in his thirties and the possibility of another IC1, a short, thin guy, might be walking with a limp. So any idea who this visitor might be?’
‘A burglar?’
‘With his own front-door key?’
‘Good point!’
Riley radioed the support team, asking if there was intel on anyone else expected at the house.
Moments later a request was radioed back, asking him to ping the photographs, urgently, to the Silver command team.
115
Friday 12 October
Roy Grace, at his desk, looked at his watch. Under four hours to the rendezvous. The Armed Response and the Local Support Team officers would be in situ by 4.30 p.m., with all vehicles removed from the immediate area.
His adrenaline was surging. He was excited, but nervous. Troubled by one constant thought: where did the wild card, Tooth, fit into all of this?
The Outside Enquiry Team had reported that Tooth’s rental Polo, which had been found in the car park of the apartment block along the street from Marina Heights, appeared to have been abandoned. Further, a small van, illegally parked in a bus stop lay-by across the street from Marina Heights, also appeared to have been abandoned. An alert traffic officer had connected the dots, tracing the van to a local rental company. The name it had been rented under meant nothing, but the description of the hirer fitted Tooth, although they had no CCTV to verify this.
So, Grace speculated, had wily Tooth left the car as a false trail, then rented the van? Then, realizing he was unable to move the van, because of the road being sealed off after the accident, abandoned that vehicle, too?
Had he rented another? He leaned back, closing his eyes, thinking. Why had Tooth been watching the building? For Copeland? It was the obvious link to why Tooth had been in Withdean Road in the early hours of Wednesday morning, outside the property where Copeland had been operating from.
Someone coughed in front of him as if to get his attention. He opened his eyes and saw Glenn Branson peering at him. ‘Having an old person’s nap, are you?’
‘Yeah, yeah. You know what? I’m doing something you’ve never done in your entire life. I’m thinking.’
‘It’s worn you out, obviously.’
‘So have you just woken me up to piss me off?’
‘No, as your mate I was getting pretty worried about your score on the Glasgow Coma Scale. I was about to put you down for a One.’
‘A One?’
‘Yeah. Does not open eyes. Makes no sounds. Makes no movements. I was wondering whether to call an undertaker.’
‘Do you have anything useful to say – or can I go back to my old person’s nap?’
‘Actually, I do. No one’s been able to get hold of the Marina Heights caretaker all day, but EJ contacted the managing agents for the building and got a list of all tenants – none so far match Copeland.’
‘How many flats are there in the building?’
‘Eighty-six.’
‘Send as many Outside Enquiry officers in to start door-to-door as you can muster. Copeland’s a distinctive-looking fellow – if he’s been staying there someone will have seen him. We need to find which flat and have it searched.’
As Branson returned to his desk, Grace’s phone rang. It was the new duty Silver Commander, Helene Scott.
‘Roy,’ she said. ‘CROPS officer Mike Whisky One has just called in a man arriving by taxi at Primrose Farm Cottage. He appears to be a key holder.’
‘What’s his description?’
‘IC1, about six foot tall, grey hair, well dressed, age approximately late fifties.’ Grace frowned. The description fitted neither Jules de Copeland nor Tooth.
‘Any idea who he is or what he’s doing at the property?’
‘No, just that he entered and closed the front door. The taxi left. The CROPS wonders if we can ID him. He’s emailing photographs but he’s in a rubbish reception area, with a poor signal. Hopefully they’ll come through in a few minutes.’
‘Can you send them to me as soon as you get them, please,’ Grace said.
Ending the call, he again lapsed into thought. Who was this man who’d gone into the cottage? Something felt seriously off-kilter here.
Recapping on his intel, Lynda Merrill had set up what she believed would be a romantic weekend in an isolated cottage she had been loaned with the man she had been conned into believing was her soulmate. And she was about to be in for a rude shock.
His phone rang. It was Silver, telling him she’d just sent him a few photographs.
Grace immediately looked at the email which came through. Opening the files, he saw a series of images of the man he was pretty sure he recognized from his photographs as Johnny Fordwater, approaching the house and looking around as if surveying the surroundings.
‘Norman!’ he called out. ‘Can you come here a sec.’
Potting ambled over and stopped beside him. He looked at the screen, then peered closer. ‘That’s Johnny Fordwater,’ he said.
‘I thought it was. You’re sure that’s him?’
Potting peered closer. ‘Absolutely. No question.’
‘Remind me what we know about him.’
‘He’s a widower. Some months ago he joined the German internet dating agency, ZweitesMal.de, and met a woman – or so he thought – who gave her name as Ingrid – um – Ingrid Ostermann. They had an online romance for several months, during which time he became deeply infatuated with her – whoever she really was. He paid out over four hundred grand, most of which was for what turned out to be a bogus property purchase. Where are these pictures from?’
‘Taken just now by a CROPS officer outside the house where a woman’s about to meet this guy who’s been romancing her on PerfectPartners.net, and hand over three hundred grand in folding to him.’
Potting frowned. ‘So what is Major Fordwater doing there?’
‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me.’
Potting shook his head. ‘I’m baffled, chief.’
Roy Grace’s phone rang. Signalling an apology to the DS, he answered it. ‘Detective Superintendent Roy Grace.’
He instantly recognized the Brooklyn accent of his old friend New York Detective Investigator Pat Lanigan.
‘Hey, pal, it’s been a while!’ Lanigan said. ‘How you doing?’
‘Busy, Pat. Thanks to the ceaseless ingenuity of villains and human gullibility. You? How’s Francene?’
‘She’s great. Cleo good?’
‘She is, thanks.’
‘Meant to call you a few days back, but likewise, it’s been a crazy time here. This may not be your bag, but I thought you ought to know, as the guy involved is on your patch. And he’s pretty angry, know what I mean – dangerously angry?’
