Peter James - Dead at First Sight

‘You’re sailing very close to the wind, Roy,’ Pewe said.

All of it coming from your backside, with a very nasty smell , Grace would dearly love to have said.

As he left the ACC’s office a few minutes later, closing the grand door behind him, he was thinking about the words an embittered colleague had said to him recently, over a pint: ‘It’s not the down-and-outs and the criminals on the outside that you have to worry about, Roy, it’s the ones on the inside who’ll cut your throat and hang you out to bleed dry.’

His phone rang.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered, standing in the corridor; Pewe’s assistant sat typing in her booth, opposite him.

It was DC Kevin Hall, a member of the small Major Enquiry Team he had assembled to investigate Susan Driver’s death.

‘Boss, we’ve just heard back from the Landeskriminalamt in Munich. Could be quite significant.’

‘Tell me?’

‘Lena Welch, the woman who went over her balcony in Munich, and Suzy Driver, are definitely confirmed as sisters. It took them a while to make the connection because both of them have married names. And there’s more, boss. Velvet’s just spoken to a close friend of Mrs Driver. She’d been telling her, very excitedly, about the dating agency she’d joined about a year ago. The friend told Velvet that recently the sisters had been concerned that a man Suzy had been talking with, who she found very attractive, had asked her for money and she was becoming suspicious about him.

‘And now both sisters are dead,’ Grace said.

‘It gets better. Munich police recovered from Lena’s flat a digital recording device, which shows images of her killer. There might be more to this than meets the eye, boss — in my humble opinion.’

Roy Grace was feeling a sudden burst of elation. ‘Humble is good, Kevin!’ Ending the call, he spun round and knocked on ACC Pewe’s door, a rat-a-tat-tat riff on the classic policeman’s knock, and loud enough to annoy him. He was more than a little pleased that he was about to ruin his boss’s morning — and, with a bit of luck, his entire day.

Johnny Fordwater, nursing a stinger of a hangover, was feeling tired and fractious. It was 9 a.m. in New York but his metabolism was elsewhere, in another time zone. It was 2 p.m. UK time, he calculated, which would be fine if he’d managed to sleep last night, which he hadn’t. He’d dozed for a while on the flight over from London, but it had been hard in the cramped economy seat. Then he and Sorokin met and hit it off like old mates. They’d sat drinking far too much whisky in his hotel bar late into the evening.

Now, in the open-plan offices of the Conviction Review Team, on the second floor of the handsome building of the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office, Johnny sat perched alongside his new comrade-in-arms on a wobbly swivel chair. Facing them, arms outstretched on top of his cluttered desk, was the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Detective Investigator Pat Lanigan. In his mid-fifties, the Irish-American had begun his working life in the US Navy, before becoming a stevedore in the docks and then joining the NYPD. He had a pockmarked face with greying brush-cut hair and a light beard. He exuded charm and seemed genuinely concerned for their predicament.

The Conviction Review Team shared the floor with the Mafia-busting Team. A short distance behind Fordwater and Sorokin was a large whiteboard on which was charted the family tree of one of the most notorious New York crime families.

‘So, Johnny,’ Pat Lanigan said in a strong Brooklyn accent, ‘I wanna tell you something about how I feel about all vets, OK? The American flag that you see on our roof and every other place does not fly because the wind moves past it. Our beautiful flag flies from the last breath of each military member who has died serving it. And that goes for the flag you served under, too, Johnny. I don’t like to see anyone screwed over, but most of all someone who’s put their life on the line serving all that we believe in and stand for.’

‘Thank you,’ Johnny said. He had liked Lanigan instantly, the moment he met him, just fifteen minutes or so ago. Matt Sorokin, dressed in jeans, a leather jacket over a turquoise polo shirt and cowboy boots, looked like a guy who had been born angry and had just got even angrier with each passing year.

‘Good old Lanigan horseshit!’ Sorokin retorted.

‘You’ll have to excuse my pal,’ Lanigan said. ‘He never took too kindly to life creeping up and biting him on the ass.’

‘I only protected your ass for thirty-two years in this city, buddy! But I appreciate your sentiments.’

Looking serious now, Lanigan said, ‘So, I wanna do everything I can to help you guys. Where do we begin, how do you wanna play this?’

‘Pat,’ Sorokin said, ‘Johnny Fordwater here is a decorated war hero. He served his country, rank of major in the military, and put his life on the line, then lost his beloved wife. He deserves happiness in his twilight years. Having dedicated forty years of my life to serving my country, mostly through the NYPD, I kind of feel the same. Instead, both of us have been hit pretty hard. How do we wanna play it? Hardball, is what I say.’ He looked at the Englishman for confirmation.

‘Detective Investigator Lanigan,’ Johnny Fordwater said, ‘the thing is—’

‘ Pat , please,’ Lanigan interjected.

‘OK, Pat. Thank you. Matt and I know there is little — if any — hope of ever recovering what we’ve lost. We’ve both been damned fools, in our own ways. But if there’s to be any good out of all this mess it will be to — somehow — use our experience to help prevent others from becoming victims. And just maybe, in the process, find a way to recover some of our losses.’

Sorokin was looking studiously at his phone. ‘What we’d like, Pat, is for you to use whatever contacts you have in the NYPD, currently, to track down the shitbags behind this. I’ll do whatever it takes.’

Johnny stared at the family tree behind him. ‘Are the New York Mafia involved in this area, Pat?’

‘I’m sure it’s a business they’d love to be in,’ Lanigan said. ‘These guys hate to miss out on any opportunity. But mostly they carry on their business the way they always have done — with one foot in the past, and they’re being overtaken. They’ve not moved into technology. They’re still doing mostly their same protection racketeering shit but with smaller traders now, because none of the big ones have cash these days, it’s all credit cards and online. So now it’s the corner stores, the little guys who are struggling who are their prey, as well as the same old smuggling cigarettes and alcohol, fake designer goods and prostitution. The Mob are behind the eight-ball when it comes to internet crime — for now, anyhows.’

‘Probably not for long,’ Sorokin commented.

Lanigan nodded. ‘So, I talked to a couple of Secret Service guys who are housed right here in this building, just one floor up, and they say internet financial fraud comes mostly under Homeland Security or the FBI depending on jurisdiction.’ He looked at them. ‘So, here’s the thing. I’ve spoken to internet fraud guys in both these outfits here in New York and they tell me the ringleaders are almost all based either out of Africa or Eastern Europe. The major player in tackling internet fraud is the City of London Police Economic Crimes Unit, but they’re creaking under the strain. We’re talking about an epidemic here. Over one billion dollars in this country in the last year alone.’

‘One billion?’ Johnny said.

‘One billion that they know about. The true figure could be way above that. A lot of people are too embarrassed to admit to anyone they’ve been scammed. And large corporations, too. It’s party time for the con artists. Banking, credit card fraud, romance fraud, mortgage fraud, and still, after thirty years, every day of every week someone falls for an email telling them their uncle in Nigeria has died leaving a fortune of a hundred million bucks they can’t get out of the country, and all they have to do is send four blank sheets of signed letterhead notepaper to get a share of it. Every damn day of the week some poor damned sucker is standing in a hotel lobby, somewhere in the world, waiting for a guy to turn up with ten million bucks in a suitcase who is never going to appear. And they’re gonna find out they’ve just been cleaned out of every cent they have in the world. I hate to have to tell you, but you guys are small beer in this shitstorm.’