Питер Джеймс - Left You Dead

Both had their phones in front of them, on the road-mapping app Mark Taylor had instructed them to upload. It currently showed Niall Paternoster’s rental car stationary at his home address.

In order to keep as silent as possible, and avoid any sounds from their radios, both of them wore earpieces plugged into their phones. Each of them also had night-vision binoculars.

Glenn Branson spoke suddenly, quietly, in a caring tone. ‘How are you feeling, mate, you know, about the funeral?’

‘Not great. I’ve spent the last couple of evenings going through the order of service with Cleo, listening to Bruno’s playlists, trying to figure what music he would have approved of — and what would sound appropriate in church. Something I guess to do with all he had to overcome — you know — all the difficulties with his mother, then her death, then moving to a new and strange country, family, school.’

Branson was silent for a while, thinking. ‘One suggestion, although it’s not for me to say and it might not be entirely appropriate... how about Mike Doughty’s “I Keep on Rising Up”. It’s about overcoming adversity, and he has a beautiful voice, soulful — that’s one that could work.’

‘I don’t know it, but I’ll have a listen tomorrow, thanks.’

‘I’ll try and think of some more.’

‘So,’ Grace asked, ‘wedding still OK for next month?’

After a long and acrimonious divorce from his wife, Ari, and a custody fight for their two children, which Ari had mostly won before her untimely death, Glenn Branson had finally moved on and fallen in love again. Siobhan Sheldrake was a very charismatic and fun person, but as the senior crime reporter for the Argus , Grace could foresee some awkward pillow talk between them in the years ahead. On the other hand she had been really good with his kids and loved being a stepmother to them.

‘Yeah,’ Branson said. ‘All set.’ Then as he looked down at his phone, he murmured excitedly, watching the red dot of Niall Paternoster’s car, ‘Subject one is on the move!’

As Grace looked too, both suddenly heard communications in their earpieces.

‘Alpha Five here, subject two, Range Rover Evoque, index Golf November Seven Zero Charlie Papa November has just left hotel.’

Grace felt a beat of excitement. That was Rebecca Watkins’s car. He heard Taylor’s voice.

‘Alpha Five, roger that, keep eyes on it.’

‘Copy that, sir, am following at distance.’

A few minutes later, Grace heard a voice. ‘Subject two’s turning into Beachy Head pub car park. I’m carrying on past.’

Grace looked at the red dot heading up Nevill Road. Even driving fast in light traffic, it would take Paternoster a good half-hour to get here. They could reach the car park in less than ten minutes. He radioed Taylor. ‘Grace to Alpha Seven.’

‘Alpha Seven,’ Taylor replied.

‘We’re going to check out the Beachy Head pub car park.’

‘Roger that, sir, we’ll put units either side but not too close.’

Grace turned to Branson. ‘Fire her up. Get there quickly but quietly.’

As Branson started the engine, Grace looked down at the red dot again. And again hoped to hell this wasn’t going to turn out to be a massive waste of everyone’s time.

Glenn Branson drove fast out of Eastbourne, heading along the steep, twisting, clifftop road, with the darkness of farmland to their right as they left the town and the darkness of the English Channel, beyond the cliffs, to their left.

‘Coming up on the right,’ Roy Grace said.

There was a sign for the Beachy Head Chaplaincy on their right and then one for the pub. Branson slowed right down as they approached the pub’s huge car park. It was almost deserted. Just the Range Rover, on one side, parked close to some kind of mobile industrial unit, and a large camper van with German plates some distance from it, almost at the far end, facing towards the cliffs. The camper van’s roof extension was open, and the interior lights were on. Holidaymakers settled in for the night, Grace guessed, an idea forming.

‘Don’t go in, drive on by.’

As they did so, a figure emerged from the camper van, from a door on the far side to the Range Rover, and sparked up a cigarette.

There is a God , Grace thought. ‘Spin her round, go into the car park, drive normally as if you’re deliberately heading to the camper van, and pull up beside it, on the far side of it to the Rangey.’

Branson threw him a puzzled look and complied. As they approached the camper, they saw a man in shorts, a vest and flip-flops, sheltering beneath a small awning above the door. He looked at them warily. Grace lowered his window, smiled and said, ‘ Guten abend! ’ He smelled the sweet aroma of the smoke.

The man smiled back and replied with something that Grace, with his very limited German, failed to catch. He climbed out of the car, holding up his warrant card but still smiling. Putting a finger to his mouth to indicate they should be quiet, Grace said, ‘ Polizei! Sprechen Sie Englisch? ’

‘ Ja! ’ the German replied. Then he added, ‘I am very good to speak English.’

‘We are just keeping an eye on someone.’ Grace pointed at the binoculars around his neck and the man nodded. ‘Is it possible we can sit in your camper for one hour, to observe?’ He jerked a finger surreptitiously to the far side of the car park, in the direction of the Range Rover. Again quietly, but loud enough for the German to hear, he said, ‘Criminals.’

The man’s eyes lit up with excitement. He crushed out his cigarette, opened the door, and they entered. It smelled of damp clothes and grilled meat. A middle-aged woman was sitting watching a movie in German on the video screen, a bottle of wine open beside her, two glasses on the table. The man spoke to her in German briefly. She froze the film, turned and waved at the two detectives, then said something to her husband and held up the bottle.

‘My wife asked if you would like a drink? A glass of wine?’

‘ Nein, danke! You are very kind. Can we go to the front seats?’

‘Please, be free. You want lights in the cabin off or on?’

‘Off, as they are, danke .’

Grace and Branson settled into the front seats, Grace with the left-hand-drive vehicle’s steering wheel in front of him. They now had an unobstructed view, through the rain-blurred windscreen and side window, both of the Range Rover and of the road and clifftop ahead.

As he lowered himself in his seat to be as inconspicuous as possible, Branson murmured, ‘Looks like she’s still in the car.’

Grace raised his binoculars. ‘She is,’ he confirmed.

As soon as he was settled, Grace looked out of his side window.

Then they both stiffened as they heard the roar of a car approaching at high speed. Headlights appeared. A boy racer shot past in what looked and sounded, in the darkness, like a clapped-out Subaru with a boombox exhaust.

Then silence again.

The rain had lessened, but a strong wind buffeted the vehicle. Grace watched the red dot on his screen, all his sadness over Bruno momentarily put to one side, into a compartment, his focus now completely on the job he was here to do. And he realized that being here, right now, in the moment — the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation, feeling the buzz — this was one of the things he loved most about his work.

A call came in from another surveillance car, further along Beachy Head Road, the detective nicknamed Smudger. ‘Nissan Micra, Bravo Delta Five One Sierra Mike Romeo, driving slowly, seems to be looking for something.’

‘Copy that,’ came Taylor’s voice.