Peter James - Dead at First Sight

‘Well, that’s just great to hear, Pat,’ Sorokin said, bitterly.

Lanigan raised his arms placatingly. ‘I have someone who may be of help to you guys.’

‘You do?’ Johnny’s hopes rose.

‘Uh-huh. Someone the FBI Cybercrime Unit has worked with in the past. This is one smart guy — he’s been an advisor to both Apple and Microsoft on cybersecurity.’ Lanigan looked directly at the Englishman. ‘And he must be near where you live, Johnny. Ray Packham. Recently retired from the Sussex Police Digital Forensics Team due to a health issue. Set himself up as an independent consultant investigating internet fraud. The guys here say he’s the top banana, knows how to drill down through pretty much any internet exchange. My advice to you guys is to go talk to him.’

‘I’ve flown all the way to New York for you to tell me this?’ Johnny said, angrily. He looked at Sorokin, who shrugged. ‘We could have done this in a phone call — instead I’ve forked out over £500 I no longer have to fly out here. This expense I really did not need. I’d rather have given the money straight to this Packman fellow.’

‘ Packham ,’ Lanigan corrected. Fordwater snorted.

‘Johnny, we needed you here in person to share the intelligence — that’s something we could only do face to face. We had to meet, this was not going to happen over the phone or via email. OK?’

Fordwater shrugged. ‘OK, so be it. But I’m not exactly happy.’

‘What time’s your flight?’ Sorokin asked.

‘I got the latest one out I could, to give us plenty of time,’ Johnny replied. ‘Nine o’clock this evening, I think it is. I might as well try to get an earlier one.’

‘Tell you what, Johnny,’ Lanigan said. ‘It’s a beautiful city. You’ve not been here before, right?’

‘Right.’

‘How about I take you guys on a ride around, since you’ve come all this way. Would you like to see the Dakota?’

‘The what?’ Johnny asked.

‘The apartment building that was used in the movie Rosemary’s Baby. It’s where John Lennon lived — and was murdered. I’ll show you the place where poor John was shot. Terrible. I’ll take you across to the memorial in Central Park, Strawberry Fields — would you like to see that? Were you a Beatles fan?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘We’re talking the greatest musicians of all time, Johnny.’

‘That’s what you think.’

‘We all got our opinions. That’s what Francene and I think about John, anyhows. What else would you like to see while you’re here, Major? Any place you’d like me to take you?’

‘The airport.’

Success is the ability to go from one failure to another, with no loss of enthusiasm.

Toby Seward, who was sitting at his desk reading through his filed collection of quotes, liked to tell that one from Churchill to salesmen. He was searching for appropriate ones for a motivational speech he had to give on Wednesday, to 400 double-glazing sales people at their company’s annual conference. He cut and pasted it into his speech as a possible, then searched for more.

In the background was BBC Radio Sussex, his regular daytime companion when he was working at home. He knew his local station well, and did an occasional afternoon slot on it, talking about how to motivate oneself. He came to another quote that was particularly appropriate to sales teams.

The most dangerous phrase in the English language is, ‘We’ve always done it this way.’

That always amused him. And when he used it, he would see a large number of his audience amused, too, just for a moment, before they squirmed at the uncomfortable truth.

Then he added another, more because it, too, was an audience pleaser.

Stay away from negative people. They have a problem for every solution.

It was coming up to 3 p.m. He dutifully stood to do his hourly stretches, as his chiropractor had instructed. Then he left his tiny den, which was little more than a cupboard with no door, and went down into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As the kettle came to the boil he heard, through the overhead Sonos speakers, the familiar jingle of the Radio Sussex theme tune heralding the news. He only half listened to yet another dreary item about more overrunning engineering works on Southern Rail. But as he poured water onto the teabag in the mug, he froze as he heard the words:

‘Sussex Police have confirmed they now believe the death of a woman found dead in her house in Hove, last Tuesday, is suspicious. Susan Driver, aged fifty-five, was the widow of the well-known Brighton antiques dealer and charitable benefactor, Raymond Driver, who died four years ago.’

Dead? Murdered?

By who — why?

He felt gripped by a sudden terrible sense of dread. Who would have killed her? Why?

The female newsreader said, ‘We talked to the Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, just a few minutes ago.’

A man came on the radio, talking with a straightforward, blunt voice. ‘We would like to hear from any members of the public who were in the vicinity of St Ann’s Well Gardens or Somerhill Avenue over the weekend of the 29th and 30th of September and saw anything unusual or suspicious — in particular an unfamiliar vehicle. If they would please call the Incident Room on 0800 747 3651 or Crimestoppers, anonymously, on 0800 445 6000.’

The news moved on to sport and an important football fixture this evening for Brighton and Hove Albion.

Ignoring his tea, Toby hurried back up to his den and logged on to the Argus newspaper’s online site to see what up-to-the-minute news they had of Suzy Driver. A photograph of her came up immediately. The one she had sent him only a short while ago. Her pleasant, warm face, with large blue eyes — a hint of sadness in them.

WEALTHY BRIGHTON WIDOW’S DEATH SUSPICIOUS

Dead.

He’d spoken to her less than a fortnight ago.

He read the article. It was an elaboration of what he had just heard on the radio, with further comments from the investigating officer and his request for witnesses to come forward. But the detective gave no clue how she had died, other than to say she was found dead in her own home. The article said, as he remembered Suzy telling him, that her husband had been one of the city’s most prominent antiques dealers.

Did they have some priceless gems in the house that a gang knew about? Or cash, Toby wondered?

Or?

Was it possible there was any connection to the request for money from her determined, fraudulent online ‘lover’? Should he tell the police about that or would they already know? He debated for some minutes, then picked up his phone and dialled the number, at the bottom of the Argus column, for the Incident Room.

As he waited for it to connect, he wondered if he should also call his friend, Danny Pike, presenter of the Radio Sussex morning show. Danny was always interested in issues, and Suzy’s targeting by a fraudster in the months before her death was a story in the public interest, a salutary warning about the perils of internet dating.

Had he known the consequences that were to follow, he would never have picked the damned phone up.

Roy Grace sat with his assembled team in the first-floor conference room of the Major Crime suite. There were seven detectives including a new member of the team, DS John Camping, who had been seconded to them from the City of London Economic Crimes Unit, and three civilian staff — an analyst, an indexer and the Crime Scene Manager.

Grace rested his elbows on the oval table, feeling tired and with two days’ growth of stubble. He’d spent most of the weekend here, apart from a few hours at home each night snatching some sleep. His shirt was crumpled, the sleeves rolled up and the top button undone, his tie slack. He tasted some of the tepid, stewed coffee in a mug stencilled SHERIFF that Glenn Branson had given him for his birthday, wrinkled his nose at it and put it down. A light bulb was buzzing and flickering above his head, annoying him, but he let it ride, trying to keep his focus on the case. Driven as much by a desire to show Cassian Pewe just how wrong he had been, as he was to deliver justice to Suzy Driver and her family.