Dead at First Sight, page 36
Covering the mouthpiece, Grace told Potting he’d catch up with him in a few minutes. As the DS returned to his workstation, Grace said, ‘Dangerously angry?’
‘Well, here’s the thing, pal. One of my old work buddies, Matthew Sorokin – remember Matt?’
‘Of course, very well. How is he?’
‘He took retirement and now lives in Florida – went back to work again because he got bored – he’s now with a county sheriff’s office down there. Here’s the thing, pal. Matt has a bit of a train wreck of a love life. He recently joined an online dating agency, on the recommendation of an old buddy, name of Gerald – or Gerry – Ronson, and ended up getting conned out of a shedload of money.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, seems like Gerry and Matt met soon after Gerry had left the military and joined the New York Fire Brigade – on the morning of 9/11. They kind of bonded in the aftermath of the hell that it was and kept in touch. Gerry moved to Minnesota and met – and married – a lady through an internet dating agency.’
‘And recommended the agency to Matt?’ Grace checked.
‘Uh-huh. Gerry raved about it to him. At the time, Matt was lonely and morose. So he joined. This where you come in. Gerry has another buddy, a Brit he met out in Iraq, called Johnny Fordwater – who got promoted to major. The way I understand it is that Johnny’s wife died and he spent several lonely years. Until Gerry talked him into online dating.’
‘And he joined ZweitesMal.de, right?’
‘Yep,’ Lanigan said. ‘You should be a detective!’
Grace suppressed a grin. Then a cold chill rippled through him. He looked back at his screen. At the image on it. The former major, who had been conned out of over £400,000. Just what was he doing entering Primrose Farm Cottage, and with a key? This was beyond a coincidence.
Who had given him a key?
‘You still there, pal?’ Lanigan said, breaking into his thoughts.
‘I am. Your call is very timely, Pat.’ What was Fordwater up to?
‘Timely?’ Lanigan quizzed.
‘Tell me what you know about this character, Major Johnny Fordwater, Pat?’
‘Sure, that’s why I was calling you. Johnny Fordwater flew over from London to see me this week. I met with him and Matt Sorokin in my office. Fordwater’s a nice guy, I felt kind of sorry for him, you know. He recognized he didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of recovering a cent, but he wanted to find some way of hitting back at the bastards who’d rinsed him. Both guys asked if I could use any of my contacts here in the NYPD or the FBI or the Secret Service Homeland Security teams.’
Grace felt a prickle of anxiety at what he was hearing. ‘Were you able to, Pat?’
‘I told them I’d been doing some digging around and it seemed the ringleaders are almost all based either out of Africa or Eastern Europe. I gave them a name I’d been given, of someone on your patch, Roy. Someone the FBI cybercrime unit has worked with in the past. This is one smart guy – he’s been an advisor to both Apple and Microsoft on cybersecurity. Recently retired from the Sussex Police Digital Forensics Team due to a health issue. Set himself up as an independent consultant investigating internet fraud. I’m told he’s the man.’
‘That’s Ray Packham!’
‘You’re kidding! You know him?’
‘I’ve used him many times – he’s been a huge help in a number of my investigations. We’ll get in contact with him right away. I really appreciate your help, Pat.’
‘No worries, pal. Any plans to be in New York?’
‘Well, actually Cleo did say a while back she’d love to go Christmas shopping there this year, if we had the time – and I have a load of annual leave owing. So maybe.’
‘Just let me know. I’ll pick you guys up from the airport, show you around, give you a great time.’
‘For sure!’
‘You got it.’
The moment he ended the call, Roy Grace opened the address book on his phone and looked for Packham’s number, thinking that the last thing he needed was a vigilante.
116
Friday 12 October
‘Roy!’ Ray Packham answered, sounding genuinely pleased to hear from him.
Grace cut to the chase. ‘I’ve got a fast-time situation, Ray. Can you tell me if a Major Johnny Fordwater has been in touch with you – he was given your details by a detective in the NYPD on Monday.’
‘Hmmm,’ Packham replied. ‘Not sure whether I should be pleading client confidentiality.’
Grace was unsure from the tone of his voice whether he was joking or not. ‘There’s possibly life at stake here, Ray.’
‘Mate, I’ll always give you priority over any client. Yes, he’s been in touch, came to see me on Tuesday. He’s a pretty angry man – and with good reason. He wanted to pay me every penny he has left in the world to track down the scammers who’d targeted him. I told him he’s up against very smart operators, who hide behind a virtually untraceable digital trail, and the best thing he could do was write-off what he had lost, put it down to experience and try to enjoy the rest of his life and what money he had left. But he wasn’t having it. He’s just dead set on revenge.’
‘So how did you leave it with him?’
‘He wanted to hire me to have a go at finding them. But I genuinely felt I couldn’t help him. Frankly, if I’d taken his money I would have been conning him, too, and I wouldn’t do that to anyone. I gave him the name of a contact I’ve had some dealings with, who’s made something of a speciality in the internet romance field, and told him he’d be better off spending his money with him.’
‘Who’s that, Ray?’
‘A PI called Jack Roberts – has a company called Global Investigations.’
‘Interesting.’
‘You know this character?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Roberts has a great reputation – seems to be able to do a lot more for his clients than any of the current police forces around Europe.’
‘By taking the law into his own hands, Ray?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment on his methods.’
Once again, Grace was unsure whether Packham was joking or not. But he was starting to have an idea what Major Johnny Fordwater might be doing at Primrose Farm Cottage.
And it wasn’t to enjoy a few hours of autumnal Sussex countryside.
Thanking Packham, he ended the call, then sat, absorbing what he had just been told. Thinking back to last week when he and Glenn Branson had met Jack Roberts in his company’s Kingston offices. When Roberts had, none too subtly, made clear his views on the ability of the police, with current resources, to effectively tackle internet fraud. And his chilling words.
I’ll give you one piece of advice. You’d better act fast and hard on this. Otherwise you’re going to find vigilantes doing your job for you.
So, he thought, Major Johnny Fordwater had gone to see Jack Roberts. Fordwater was angry, wanting to hit back at the scammers. Was Lynda Merrill also, possibly, a client of Roberts? Had Fordwater gone to Primrose Farm Cottage to protect her – or with the intention of confronting Jules de Copeland?
The bloody idiot was in danger of messing up his whole planned operation. He looked at his watch: 3.40 p.m. There was time. Should he send someone in to tell Fordwater to get the hell out of there?
He weighed up the pros and cons, and realized there was a definite pro to letting Fordwater remain in situ. If the retired major was in cahoots with Lynda Merrill and was planning to confront Jules de Copeland when he entered, he would be giving her protection until the police went in. The con was—
He was interrupted by a call from an officer at the Silver command centre. ‘Sir, Mike Whisky One has just called in a woman, fitting the description of Mrs Lynda Merrill, arriving at the cottage. The front door was opened by our mystery man and he has helped her unload several bunches of flowers and Waitrose carrier bags from her car, into the house.’
Grace began to panic. Could the intelligence he’d received be wrong? Were Lynda Merrill and Johnny Fordwater now lovers, having a romantic weekend together?
He’d put together this entire, huge and costly operation on the information from Aiden Gilbert’s team at Digital Forensics. What if they’d got it wrong and Copeland had slipped the net and left the country?
He didn’t even want to think about what Cassian Pewe would have to say. And yet.
He had to hold his nerve.
Had to remind himself that £300,000, in cash, was a lot of money. An amount worth taking a risk for. And from his past history, Copeland was a risk taker.
‘What else has happened during the day – have the CROPS reported any other activity?’
‘Nothing significant since the covert entry team, only the arrival of the postman around 1 p.m., and another van dropping what looks like an Amazon delivery, who left a package on the doorstep, about 2 p.m., sir.’
‘OK, patch the listening devices in the house through to me. Are the CROPS hearing it, too?’
‘They are, sir.’
Moments later, Grace followed the very clear dialogue between the couple.
It wasn’t the conversation of intimate lovers.
The woman said, ‘We need to find somewhere for you to hide.’
The man, in an upmarket voice, said, ‘What time is this runt meant to be arriving?’
‘Around 6.30.’
‘I’ll be ready. Just keep him sweet-talking. Tell him you’re going to fetch the cash and make him a drink. Whatever he wants.’
‘You’re not going to attack him?’
‘No, I just want to see the bastard face to face. See what he has to say. I’m wearing the wiretap Jack Roberts put on me. My goal is to get him to confess.’
‘Are we sure about what we’re doing? It’s not worth getting hurt for, Johnny.’
‘That, my dear lady,’ Fordwater said, ‘is a matter of opinion.’
117
Friday 12 October
Roy Grace, worried, removed his earpiece, riffled through his notes and found the number he was looking for. He dialled it.
A friendly-sounding woman answered after two rings. ‘Global Investigations. How can I help you?’
‘May I speak to Jack Roberts, please?’
‘I’m sorry, he’s out of the office for the rest of the afternoon.’
‘Can you give me his mobile number?’
‘I’m very sorry, sir, I’m not able to give that out.’
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. I met with Mr Roberts on Tuesday of last week. I need to speak with him very urgently – there is potentially a life at stake.’
‘Are you able to verify who you are, sir?’
‘I can send you through a scan of my warrant card. But you saw me in your office last week.’
Hesitantly, she gave him the number. Grace wrote it down. Immediately he rang the Digital Forensics Team and read out the number to one of its members, Daniel Salter, who answered. He asked Salter to locate the current position of the phone, as a matter of extreme urgency.
Ten minutes later, Salter called Roy Grace back with the GPS coordinates. The detective plotted them on his phone, then to double-check, looked at them on the map on the whiteboard.
Jack Roberts was less than two miles away from Primrose Farm Cottage. What was he doing?
Grace dialled the number.
‘Jack Roberts,’ the private investigator answered, almost instantly.
‘Mr Roberts, it’s Detective Superintendent Grace.’
He sounded hesitant. ‘Detective Superintendent – how can I help you?’
‘Can you tell me where you are and what you are doing?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m on a covert operation for some clients. I think I’m about to have some very good news for you, but I can’t tell you where I am yet.’
‘Two miles west of the village of Forest Row in East Sussex?’
‘Very accurate, Detective Superintendent.’
‘Mr Roberts, I’ve a pretty good idea who your clients are and they are both in very considerable danger.’
‘That’s why I’m here, ready to go to their assistance.’
‘I appreciate your concern, but we have a major armed police operation in progress following several days of surveillance and intelligence gathering. I’d be very grateful for your cooperation. We both want the same thing.’
‘Of course, what do you need me to do?’
‘The best thing you can do for both your clients’ safety and your own would be to go back to your office. This may not be what you want to hear. I know your views on the police from what you told me when we met, but I need you to trust me.’
‘I’m sorry, Detective Superintendent, I promised Mrs Merrill and Major Fordwater I would be close to hand. I want to stay involved – it’s not often I get the chance of a live one, and it would be good for my business. I won’t go any closer and I won’t interfere. Is there any more information you need?’
‘Not at the moment, but stay in contact. I’m not happy about this but it’s too late to change things now,’ Grace replied. ‘We’ll stay in touch.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
Grace ended the call and immediately updated Silver. ‘Can you trust Roberts to stay out of this?’ Helene Scott asked.
‘I hope so,’ he said.
And silently thought, So long as this doesn’t all go tits up.
118
Friday 12 October
Tooth, a baseball cap pulled low over his face, was fighting off another attack of giddiness as he drove his rental van up the high street of Forest Row, observing everything. Ahead was a church with a steeple at which he needed to turn right. Immediately to his right was a delivery truck unloading supplies into a deli. To his left an old red van, then a wide forecourt in front of Java & Jazz café and the Chequers Inn. Several cars were parked tail-out, except for one, a dark Ford saloon, which had reversed in.
He clocked two people inside it. Cops for sure, he could always spot them – he could smell them, the way a wildebeest scents a lion or a jackal. The third lot of cops he’d seen in the past ten minutes – one marked, the others plain, in separate lay-bys on the approach to the village. Watching. Hunting. He was well aware from stuff on the news and in the papers how short of resources the British police were, currently. To have deployed three vehicles – six officers – to a small village meant one distinct and dangerous possibility to him. That they had intel on Copeland.
Waiting for him to arrive?
From what he could see from his maps they’d been cleverly located, as anyone coming from the Brighton area would have a very long detour if they didn’t take one of the three directions these cars were covering.
He’d survived in this game for as long as he had by never taking chances. British police cars were now fitted with number-plate recognition kit, which meant that almost certainly they’d be running the plates of every passing vehicle. Rental vehicles would be of particular interest to them. There was every likelihood the caretaker at Marina Heights had been found.
One phone call to the company where he’d rented this van from two hours ago, from one of these cop cars, and there was a high probability they’d be looking for him, too.
A high probability, also, that the entrance to Primrose Farm Cottage was being watched.
He tried for a moment to put himself in the mind of the police behind whatever was going on. They would know Copeland was extremely violent and dangerous. Would they let him get as far as the cottage itself? He was on a mission to pick up £300,000 – surely they’d want to catch him red-handed? Maybe they already had undercover officers inside the house? As well as a decoy for the woman?
He needed to find out, get himself inside that cottage. How?
He navigated a small roundabout, forking right in the direction he had memorized. Parked on the pavement a short distance along on his right, outside a house, was a white van, bearing the name SOUTHERN WATER and a small blue logo. Its rear doors were open and two men in high-viz jackets and hard hats were standing on the lawn of the house. One was wearing what looked like ear defenders, until he looked more closely as he passed them and saw they were headphones. The workmen had a metal rod inserted into the lawn, with a cable running to the headset. He realized what they were doing, they were listening to a buried water pipe. Looking for a leak, he guessed.
A short distance on, passing a lychgate set in a flint wall, with a cemetery beyond, he saw a small field adjoining two houses under construction, but with no sign of activity. To the left was a large warehouse and beyond the field was wooded countryside. But what drew his attention was a second Southern Water van, parked up a track between the field and the first house. Two more men in yellow jackets and hard hats stood in the middle of the field, occupied with inserting a listening rod into the ground.
Definitely a leak, he decided, slowing down. How many more vans like this were in the area? Was it a major leak they were trying to trace?
He hoped it was. Very major.
He hoped it would be as big as leaks get.
119
Friday 12 October
As soon as he could find a place to turn, Tooth circled back, fast, and was relieved to see the two men were still occupied with the rod in the middle of the field. He pulled the van into the small car park for the cemetery, jumped out and locked it, then stood by the road while several cars passed, before running across.
He was feeling better now. The adrenaline coursing through him had nixed the nausea and hopefully would keep it at bay. He felt alert, back in the army, in the jungle, alone, surviving on his wits. The thrill. It was moments like this when he felt truly alive, as if all the rest of his life was padding.
This was the last time, he reminded himself. Savour it, enjoy the moment.
Could he really retire? Spend his days fishing and walking his dog? The mutt wouldn’t live for ever and he had no idea how old the creature was, anyhow – seven, ten? Whatever, he had a few years in him yet. But retirement meant not having to deal with punks like Steve Barrey, and all the others who’d employed him before. In his line of work, he wasn’t ever going to get hired by anyone decent.
