Peter James - Dead at First Sight

They weren’t identical but they looked so similar they had to be sisters. Suzy and Lena, Roy thought. Both dead.

He looked at Branson, who had joined him and was staring intently at a yellow Post-it note stuck to a work surface. Something was handwritten on it, in blue ink. ‘Jack Roberts,’ the DI said, pensively. ‘Why do I know that name?’

‘Is he a movie star?’ Grace said, mischievously.

‘Ha ha. If he is, he’s from back in the silent movie era — you’re more likely to remember that, old-timer.’

Grace gave him two fingers and opened a drawer in the dresser. He could see without touching anything that it contained a roll of sellotape, scissors, a couple of ballpoint pens, a stapler and a photograph of three young children playing on a beach that he recognized, from a trip to Australia with Sandy many years ago, as Bondi. He slid the drawer shut, then opened the next and glanced in, but saw nothing of interest, nor in any of the other kitchen drawers.

Then he looked at a cork noticeboard fixed to a wall. There were a couple of taxi firm business cards pinned to it; a Thai takeaway menu; a cartoon drawn by a child of a beach, sea, a sailing boat and a big, low sun.

Then he saw another business card. ‘Bingo!’ Branson said.

‘Perhaps?’ Grace added with a note of caution. The card read:

‘Pay him a visit?’ Branson suggested.

Grace glanced at his watch. Kingston was a good hour away, longer probably as they would be heading into rush hour. ‘Better see if he’s there, and willing to wait for us.’

He dialled the number on the business card.

‘Hello?’ Johnny Fordwater answered cautiously, his hands reeking of oil.

‘Hey, buddy, how you doing?’

It was Gerry. Sounding irrepressibly cheerful.

‘Not that great, actually, but thanks for asking.’ Johnny glanced at his watch and did a quick calculation. Gerry was in the Midwest. Six or was it seven hours behind the UK? Mid-morning for him. He looked down at his gun. It lay there, taunting him.

Try again, Major Failure!

‘Look, buddy, I’m feeling pretty gutted myself, for suggesting online dating.’

‘Well, you were only trying to be helpful, Gerry — and you had a great experience — you found a beautiful lady in Katrina.’

‘Karen,’ Gerry corrected him.

‘Karen, yes, sorry. You’re a lucky guy.’

He fell silent, fixated on his gun. Tempted. So tempted to pick it up and end it all whilst still talking to Gerry.

Interrupting his chain of thought, Gerry said, ‘Thought you might want to know the same’s happened to another buddy of mine, a former NYPD detective who went through one shitstorm of a divorce and then thought he’d met his soulmate. Instead, she rinsed him. I feel terrible, buddy — like, I’m the idiot who made all this happen.’

‘Gerry, I don’t blame you in any way. I know you meant well, and it’s not your fault, I was just incredibly stupid. I just... I... I should have seen it. Blinded by love, I guess.’

‘These internet scammers are smart. They know how to yank someone’s chain every which way.’

‘Very neatly put.’

‘OK, here’s the thing. My ex-NYPD buddy, Matthew Sorokin, isn’t gonna take this lying down. I hope you don’t mind, but I told him about your situation and he’d like to talk to you — can I hook you guys up?’

Well, I’d like to but I’m just about to blow my brains out, as soon as you get off the line, if that’s all right with you, Gerry? Johnny was tempted to say. Instead he found himself saying, ‘Sure, Gerry, I’d be really interested to talk to him.’

‘So, how can I help you, gentlemen?’

Jack Roberts, getting up from behind his desk to greet Grace and Branson, still exuded energy and charm, despite it being the back-end of his working day. The PI’s dark tie was slack, the top button of his creased purple shirt unbuttoned, his grey suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair. As he beamed, he revealed a youthful set of gleaming white teeth.

Showing their warrant cards, Roy Grace said, ‘We are investigating the death of Mrs Susan Driver. We found your business card at her home, and possibly your name on a note in her kitchen.’

Roberts looked visibly shaken. ‘Dead? Suzy Driver?’

‘You knew her, sir?’ Glenn Branson asked.

Roberts ushered them to a leather sofa, and then sank into an armchair beside it. ‘Suzy’s dead ?’ He clenched his knuckles.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Grace said.

A woman brought in a tray with tea, coffee, bottled water and a plate of digestive biscuits, which she set down in front of them, then left.

‘How... when... when did this happen... what happened?’ Roberts asked. ‘How did she die?’

‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you at this moment, sir. May I ask how you knew this lady?’ Grace asked.

The private investigator said nothing for some moments. ‘Well, she first contacted this agency about three weeks ago — hold on a sec and I’ll tell you exactly.’

He jumped up, went over to his desk, stood over it and tapped the keys on his computer. ‘Yes, September 7th she came to see me. She was quite agitated. She told me she’d been widowed four years previously and had joined an online dating agency.’ He shrugged, walked back over and sat down again.

‘I’m afraid, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it’s a familiar kind of story that we deal with here constantly. She’d met a man purportedly from Norway, giving his name as Norbert Petersen. And using a photograph of a gentleman lifted from the internet. But she was unaware of this at the time.

‘She was attracted to him and they chatted online for several months — just steadily getting to know each other. He told her he was a geologist in the petrochemical industry, working on oil exploration in Bahrain. They got on so well, she said she was starting to fall in love with him.’

‘Despite not having met him?’ Grace asked.

‘Correct.’ Roberts paused and dropped a sweetener in his tea. ‘Then one day he gave her the usual kind of cock-and-bull sob story, some bullshit about his grandmother having cancer and needing treatment in a special clinic in the USA, and asked her if she could give him a short-term loan of £20,000 to pay her costs. He explained he was going through an acrimonious divorce and his wife had had his bank accounts frozen. Could she lend him the money to tide him over and he would pay her back as soon as the divorce was settled and he was able to sell his home. Luckily, Mrs Driver was sceptical and did a reverse Google search on his image — something her sister had explained to her. You just put in an image and do a Google search on it and it will come up with any matches. Mrs Driver found his same profile on a number of different online dating sites. When she challenged the so-called “Norbert Petersen”, he assured her that he was genuine and that some bastard had stolen his identity and was using it to scam lonely women around the world.’

‘She was clearly a smart lady,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘How did she get suckered in — or, at least, nearly suckered in?’

Roberts shrugged. ‘I can’t explain what it is, but there is something strangely powerful — almost magnetic — about internet romances. A connection that is far stronger than a traditional meeting of two people. Maybe because on the internet you can lie all the time, each person gives the other only their good side. It’s intoxicating. That’s one of the things which makes it so dangerous — and such easy pickings for fraudsters.’