Peter James - Dead at First Sight

And, job done, out again. And then?

Perhaps Mr Barrey would know, when he met him for the first time tomorrow. Mr Barrey, who had threatened him.

Consequences .

Already, he didn’t like Mr Barrey. He didn’t like anyone who threatened him. Mr Barrey wanted to see him at midday. Mr Barrey’s goon had told him his boss did not like people being late. Well, tomorrow was Mr Barrey’s lucky day, Tooth thought.

He didn’t do late .

Intrigued by the woman at the other end of the phone, but anxious not to ruin his dish, Toby Seward said, ‘I’m sorry — Suzy, right? Did you say you thought you knew me? What do you mean, exactly?’

‘Well, Toby — if you don’t mind my calling you that — we’ve been chatting each other up for the past eight months — or I thought we had. Until you asked me to lend you £20,000 for your sick grandmother’s hospital bills.’

‘I’m sorry — a sick grandmother ? I don’t have a sick grandmother, touch wood. Are you calling the right person?’

‘Oh good, is she better?’

‘She’s just celebrated her one hundred and fifth birthday last week, I was at the party. A wonderful lady, smokes ten fags a day, drinks a large whisky and is still flirting!’

‘I want to be her!’

‘So now you know the recipe for a grand old age. What exactly do you mean, that you thought you knew me — and what’s your last name again?’

‘Driver. Suzy Driver. I think you might be interested in what I’m going to tell you.’

‘I’m already interested.’ With the phone still jammed to his ear, holding a small knife, he began removing the meat from the body of the pre-cracked lobster and putting it into a bowl. Was he talking to a nutter?

‘Did you know, Toby, you are in love with me?’

Definitely a nutter, he decided. ‘I’m sorry, I really think you’ve dialled a wrong number.’

‘You are Toby Seward, of 57 North Gardens, Brighton? Successful motivational speaker?’

‘I’m in a real rush — what are you trying to sell me?’

‘Please listen to me, I’m a fifty-five-year-old widow and I’m not selling you anything. I’m telling you because you’re a victim of identity theft. Please believe what I’m saying. There are eleven women — here in England and in other countries around the world — who are in love with you.’

‘In love with me? I’ve no idea what you are talking about.’

‘I’m talking about eleven women who think you are God’s gift to them! I’m guessing you don’t know that?’

‘No, but I’m flattered,’ he replied, applying his knife to a large, cracked-open claw.

‘I would imagine that depends on how you define flattering ,’ she said, sounding amused.

‘Eleven women, I’d consider that’s pretty flattering! Wait until I tell my husband!’

‘They all think you are fifty-eight years old!’

‘What? I’m not telling my husband that bit!’ He nearly gouged a chunk of skin from his finger. ‘Fifty-eight? I’m just coming up to forty -eight!’ He put the knife down.

‘Not on the internet, you’re not. Fifty-eight, rather dishy, and soon-to-be a multimillionaire — from the sale of your company that operates a fleet of seismic oil exploration ships around the globe!’

‘A soon-to-be multimillionaire in my dreams.’

‘And their dreams, too.’

Something in her voice gave him a reality check. ‘What are you saying exactly, Suzy? Suzy Driver, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, Suzy.’ He glanced at the frozen television screen, then down at the lobster. ‘Fifty-eight years old, you said?’

‘I’m aware you are only forty-eight!’

‘I think I’m falling in love with you!’ he said, jokily.

‘You’ve been in love with me for months.’

‘I have?’

‘And you’ve been sending me flowers — mostly orchids — every week.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Very beautiful they are, too. They must have cost you a fortune.’

‘Maybe we should wind back, Suzy, start from the beginning?’

‘Good idea. I think you’ll find what I have to say a little uncomfortable. Just to warn you.’

‘Well, my darling, if we’ve been lovers for the past few months, bring it on!’

‘I’d hate to make your husband jealous.’

‘He’ll get over it!’

She laughed. He liked her laugh. In another life, hey, who knew what might have been?

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s wind back.’

‘I really am in a rush,’ he interrupted politely. ‘Can you give me the short version?’

‘Of course. My darling husband, Raymond, died four years ago, from a heart attack. Coming up to fifty-five, I decided I still had some living — and romance — left in me, so I enrolled in a couple of online dating agencies — ones for the more mature person.’

‘Very sensible of you,’ Toby Seward said. ‘Fifty is the new forty, it’s all about attitude.’

‘Totally. So, online I kissed a lot of frogs, and then I met you. ’

‘Me?’

‘Uh-huh. Or so I thought. Except your name wasn’t Toby Seward. It was Norbert Petersen. Or Richie Griffiths. Or one of several others.’

‘It was?’

‘Yes! You and I really hit it off, Norbert!’

‘We did?’

‘Trust me! Online, we were going at it hammer and tongs. I was sure I’d met the man of my dreams. We were planning the rest of our lives together. And then you asked me for a loan. That’s when I had a major reality check — and decided to do some investigating. Hence this call.’

‘I’m so sorry to be a disappointment.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re nothing compared to the Niagara Falls,’ she said.

‘Niagara Falls? What do you mean?’

‘You never heard what Oscar Wilde said about them?’

‘Clearly I’ve led a sheltered existence.’

‘He said that, sooner or later, every American groom takes his bride to see the Niagara Falls. And that they must surely be the second greatest disappointment in American married life.’

Toby laughed. ‘Do you mind if I call you back, I’m in the middle of cooking?’

‘Of course,’ she said and gave him her number.

Ending the call, he sat in silence. Thinking. He’d built up his reputation as a motivational speaker over many years. What impact was this going to have on his life?

Glenn Branson, Norman Potting, Velvet Wilde and DC Kevin Hall crowded around Roy Grace in his office, looking at sets of photographs printed from the email sent by Detective Kullen of the Munich LKA.

The first photograph was of two women in evening gowns and looking very glamorous, one in a white outfit, with fair hair, the other in red, with dark hair.

‘Marcel said the woman in the white dress is the victim,’ Grace told them.

The next photographs were grim. Each was professionally taken from a different angle by a Crime Scene Photographer. The first group were taken in the street showing the victim in situ. One was a wide-angle shot showing the whole scene, the others were all close-ups. The subject, a blonde-haired woman in her forties, dressed only in shorts and a blood-stained T-shirt, was impaled on railings. Blood, the colour of oil, pooled all around her. Congealed blood masked her chin, like a beard.

The second set was taken in the mortuary. One was a close-up inside the dead woman’s mouth, showing the blackened stump of her severed tongue.

Grace glanced at their blanched faces and was reminded of the comment of a senior officer some years back: Wearing a uniform does not protect you from trauma.