Питер Джеймс - Left You Dead

Moments later, just as the heavens opened again, headlights appeared, and then a small car turned in. Watching through his night-vision binoculars, Grace saw it was a Nissan Micra, with the licence plate Smudger had just given. He watched it drive around the car park, before coming to a halt some distance from any of the other vehicles. He immediately called the Control Room. ‘I need a PNC check on a Nissan Micra, index Bravo Delta Five One Sierra Mike Romeo, please.’

The Control Room operator came back in seconds. ‘No trace lost or stolen. Registered owner is Ginevra Mary Stoneley of Woodbury Cottage, Chiddingly, East Sussex. Postcode—’

He cut her short. ‘Thanks, that’s good enough.’

Turning to Branson, he said, ‘Ginevra Mary Stoneley, that name mean anything?’

He flipped his phone face down, not wanting the light to show, and signalled to Branson to do the same. Then he picked up his binoculars. He could just make out the silhouette of the driver, through the rain, but it was hard to see the face clearly. They were wearing a baseball or golfing cap pulled down low, and sunglasses, despite the darkness.

‘Ginevra Mary Stoneley? Unusual name, Ginevra. No, doesn’t mean anything.’ He also trained his binoculars on the Micra. They both watched through the rain that was coming down even harder now. The occupant of the car was just sitting. Biding her — or his — time — for what?

Meeting someone? Or just for the rain to stop and go for a walk? Or to jump?

Lowering the binoculars, Grace turned his phone over and glanced at the red dot of Niall Paternoster’s rental Fiesta. It was very definitely moving in this direction, the app estimating a time of less than ten minutes away.

Mark Taylor confirmed over the radio that a surveillance car had it in sight.

It was 11.42 p.m.

The shower was slowly dying down. Passing through.

‘Occupant’s getting out!’ Branson said.

Grace raised his binoculars again. The driver’s door of the Micra was ajar, the interior light on, but their view of the driver’s face was blocked by an umbrella. Then the figure alighted, the face still completely hidden from view by the umbrella. The door was pushed shut, then the indicators flashed — the car had been locked by remote.

‘Shit, who is it? Male or female?’ Grace whispered.

The person’s back was to them now, walking across the car park to the road. A calf-length dark raincoat with a hood raised over the cap and jeans tucked into walking boots.

‘Female, I reckon,’ Branson said. ‘From the way she’s walking.’

Grace nodded as the subject’s stride quickened across the car park towards the road. The figure, umbrella still raised, crossed over and walked a short distance up a grassy incline on the far side, towards the edge, before turning right and striding off into the night.

Both continued watching until the subject was out of sight, then they lowered their glasses and frowned at each other in the faint glow from their phones. ‘What’s going on there?’ Branson said. ‘A late constitutional along the top of the cliffs?’

Grace shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it definitely does not feel right.’ He turned his binoculars back on the Range Rover. The figure was still in the driving seat — Rebecca, he was sure, but he couldn’t see her face clearly.

‘A lovers’ rendezvous — perhaps just being ultra-cautious — the partner parked up somewhere, concealed? I mean, they’re hardly going to be able to do it in a Micra, are they? Not unless they’re extremely small.’

‘Yep, good luck with that one,’ Grace murmured.

The rain suddenly became heavier again, worsening into a torrent. Grace looked at his phone. At the red dot. Six minutes away now.

A minute later the rain stopped, almost as suddenly as it had started, and there was a break in the clouds. Branson kept his binoculars glued to the Range Rover. Then he exclaimed, ‘She’s on the move!’

Grace raised his glasses. He saw a female figure in a knee-length belted coat and jeans, umbrella low over her head, walking across the car park towards the road. She then crossed, striding determinedly over the grass in the direction of the clifftop.

‘What the hell?’ Branson asked.

Both detectives kept their binoculars trained on her as she walked up the grassy slope towards the cliff edge.

‘What’s she doing?’ Glenn said. ‘Why’s she going there?’

Grace looked down at the red dot, which was moving ever closer. ‘I don’t know, mate,’ he replied.

She stopped some distance short of the edge, then stood, as if she was looking out to sea admiring the view. Except, Grace was well aware, in this darkness there was no view, other than the possibility of a few silent lights far away on the horizon, of supertankers and container vessels out in the English Channel’s shipping lanes.

Suddenly they heard Smudger’s voice. ‘Vehicle containing subject one approaching from west.’

Grace felt a rush of excitement as bright lights appeared from their right and a Fiesta came into sight, driving slowly. A red glow inside might have been the driver, presumably Paternoster, smoking a cigarette.

A second later the car began indicating and turned into the car park. As it did so a trail of small sparks of red flared fleetingly behind it.

Niall Paternoster was in a sunny mood, despite the darkness and the crappy weather. And his mood improved even further as he put the window back up, barely noticing the sparks of the remains of his fag in the rear-view mirrors as he drove into the car park.

Rebecca was already here!

He glanced happily at the Range Rover and thought about what lay ahead with his lover — his very adventurous lover. He liked that about her. A lot.

Sex with Eden, more recently, had become so bloody boring. So bloody unsexy . But with Rebecca — wow. It was the real deal!

He was pleased to see she’d parked in a discreet spot, shielded from most of the rest of the large car park by a temporary industrial unit. Only a few other vehicles in here, he clocked, looking around, making sure her husband’s car wasn’t one of them, spying on her. But there was only a Nissan Micra, a camper van and an empty dark-coloured saloon parked alongside it.

Pulling up close to the Range Rover, he reached into the door pocket and pulled out a pack of mints, popping one into his mouth. He felt the tingle of arousal deep in the pit of his stomach. In daylight he’d have had to wait to get out of the car until his swelling had subsided. But hey, in the darkness it was fine. Who could see it?

His phone pinged with a text.

u have to see this, incredible! XX

Frowning, he texted back.

u need to see what I have for you! XX

A reply came back seconds later.

I mean it! Reflection of the moon on the sea — like, something magical! XXX

Where are u?

Walk straight across the road and keep going, you’ll see me! I’m crazy for u! XXXX

Coming! XXXXX

The rain had stopped now and the moon was shining through a break in the clouds. The woman at the cliff edge, with her back to them, lowered her umbrella, still facing out to sea, her stance showing she was braced against the wind. Grace and Branson could clearly see, through their binoculars, her razored blonde hair rippling. It was Rebecca Watkins.

But wouldn’t she have heard the Fiesta arriving? Caught the headlights out of the corner of her eye? Why didn’t she turn to see if it was her lover, instead of continuing to stare ahead without even a glance? Staring as if she was looking for something far out to sea. A signal from a boat? No, that made no sense.