Peter James - Dead at First Sight

‘Can you tell us more about Suzy Driver?’ Grace asked.

‘Suzy came to see me because she was in love with this Norbert Petersen, but had been smart enough to want someone to check him out before sending him any money.’

‘You checked him out?’ Grace asked.

‘That’s one of the things my agency specializes in,’ he responded. ‘The Norbert Petersen that Mrs Driver is... was... in love with, I’m afraid, is an invention. Our investigations led to two dead ends — one in Jersey in the Channel Islands, the other, Munich. They led us to the true identity of the photograph this Norbert Petersen was using. He is quite a high-profile Brighton resident, a motivational speaker called Toby Seward. He’s gay and happily married.’

Grace frowned. ‘What do you know about Suzy Driver’s sister, Lena?’

‘Very little, but they both appeared to be on to something.’

‘Are you aware that she’s dead?’

‘Her sister? Lena?’ Roberts exclaimed, looking shocked.

‘She was killed in Munich last week,’ Grace continued.

Roberts shook his head in disbelief. ‘Whatever it was they were on to must have something to do with why they’re both dead now.’ He was silent again for a moment. ‘This changes everything. Our IT guys have been digging as hard as they can, but they’ve hit firewalls in both places they haven’t been able to penetrate, yet. I’ll gladly share any information we do get to help your investigation, as their client confidentiality is no longer an issue here. You might be interested to know that we’ve had two other clients who seem to have been targeted by this same group.’

‘Can you give us any of their details?’ Grace asked.

‘I’m afraid with the new privacy regulations I can’t disclose much about them. What I can tell you is that one paid out over £300,000 and the other close to two million.’

‘Two million?’ Glenn Branson exclaimed.

‘I’ve had one client who paid out just over five million.’

Grace stared at him. ‘How could—’

‘I know,’ Roberts interrupted him. ‘Incredible, right. We’re in the grip of an epidemic. These scammers are smart professionals.’

‘Five million pounds?’ Glenn Branson said, incredulous.

‘A charming old boy, a retired investment fund manager with a beautiful mansion and fifty acres. Had a nice, comfortable retirement all mapped out. Now he’s living in a bedsit on his state pension, while some kiddo in Ghana or Nigeria is wearing a Rolex and riding around in a top-of-the-range Porsche or Ferrari or Range Rover Sport my client’s money has bought him, as well as probably his grandpa, his cousins and all his mates. Meanwhile, what are you guys doing about it?’

‘All we can,’ Grace said.

Roberts looked at him the way he might study a wounded animal. ‘Really? Thanks to our former Home Secretary, you don’t have enough officers to chase the moped and knife gangs who’ve turned London into a war zone. Right?’ he added, pointedly.

‘I think you’d have to look pretty far and wide to find a copper with a good thing to say about her,’ Grace admitted.

Roberts shrugged. ‘I love her! I raise a glass to her every night. “Thanks, darling Theresa,” I say, “for all the business you’ve handed to me.”’ Then he shook his head. ‘But I tell you something. I built much of this business out of exposing rogues. It hurts me deeply to have to tell nice, decent people the truth about the person they’ve met online. The love of their life , who doesn’t actually exist.’ He looked at them both. ‘Is that why Suzy Driver is dead? Killed herself in desperation?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t comment,’ Grace said.

Jack Roberts nodded. ‘I respect that.’ He looked at each detective in turn. ‘I’ll say one thing. Unless you get on top of this situation, there’s going to be an epidemic of suicides in the months and years to come.’

‘You said your agency is specializing in so-called internet romance fraud,’ Grace said. ‘Is there any intelligence you can share with us?’

‘Well, there is something you may be able to follow up on. A possible mastermind operating out of Jersey.’

‘Do you have his name?’

‘I will have soon, with luck.’

The man was lying, Grace could tell. He already knew the name and wasn’t going to give it to them.

‘Anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?’

‘No, not for now,’ Grace said. ‘You’ve been very helpful. We’ll need to take a formal statement in due course.’

‘You know, the best thing you guys can do is get the word out to the public. Make them aware. Maybe use Crimestoppers — get them running a national campaign.’

‘We’re working with the local Sussex branch on this,’ Branson said.

Roberts nodded. ‘It needs to be nationwide.’ He shrugged. ‘Suzy Driver. I don’t know how she died and I understand you gentlemen aren’t able to tell me at this moment. But I tell you this, you should be treating anyone who dies after being scammed online as murder victims, whether they take their own lives or not. Scamming an elderly person out of their life savings is tantamount to killing them. I’ve had three clients who got wiped out, who eventually took their own lives. What’s left for people in their seventies or eighties, who’ve always been used to having a little money, who are suddenly facing losing their home? They’re not going to be able to go out and start earning — at least nothing other than pin money, you know?’

The two detectives shot an uncomfortable glance at each other. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Mr Roberts,’ Grace said.

‘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.’

‘Really?’

Roberts gave him a strange look he could not read.

Grace and Branson stood up to leave. As Roberts shook their hands, he said, ‘Guys, I know a lot of police officers are currently pretty disenchanted with their lot — several have joined my team. If you ever decide to quit the police, my door will always be open. And I pay a lot better.’

‘We’ll bear that in mind,’ Grace said.

‘You do that, gentlemen. The pleasure will be all mine.’

After the two detectives had left, Jack Roberts opened a file on his computer.

It was titled: LYNDA MERRILL — DAUGHTER, ELIZABETH FOSTER. SCAM. He had an idea that was steadily taking shape.

Johnny Fordwater dialled the number Gerry had given him.

It was answered almost immediately, in a brusque, businesslike, American voice. ‘Sheriff’s office.’

‘Is it possible to speak to Matthew Sorokin?’

‘Completely possible, you got him now.’

‘Ah, right, hello. My name is John Fordwater. I was given your number by our mutual friend, Gerald — Gerry — Ronson.’

‘That son of a bitch?’

It wasn’t the response Johnny had been expecting. He wasn’t sure if it was humour or anger in Sorokin’s voice.

‘You know what I would do to Gerry if I had him in range?’ Sorokin said, ending Johnny’s uncertainty. ‘I’d squeeze his scrotum so tight his testicles flew out hard and fast enough to win me a coconut. OK?’

‘OK,’ Johnny echoed, uncertainly. ‘Should we talk?’

‘We sure should. How much you been suckered for?’

‘Close to 500,000 dollars, in your currency. You, er... Matt?’

‘A lot less, but all my savings.’ He hesitated then he said, ‘Ninety thousand give or take. I’ve been a goddam fool.’

‘I think you and I are members of a very big club.’

‘Tell me about it. So what’s your story? Apart from having the same misfortune as me to know Gerry.’