Peter James - Dead at First Sight

Hall stopped the recording.

‘Nice work, Kevin. Have Munich police said anything about getting this analysed?’

‘Only that they’re working on it, guv.’

‘OK,’ Grace said. ‘Last Tuesday, DI Branson and myself met with a PI, Jack Roberts, of Global Investigations, whose company has carved a niche in the romance fraud area. He told us that the biggest current player in this field is an outfit with links to Ghana, Nigeria, Munich and the Channel Isles. He believes there is a possible mastermind currently based in Jersey. I’ve made contact with a Detective Inspector Nick Paddenberg of the Jersey States Police Financial Crimes Unit. I understand from him that with a large number of elderly, wealthy residents, they’re experiencing, proportionately, just as big a problem in the field of romance fraud as we are. I’m tasking you with making contact with them to see what you can find out.’

‘I’ll get straight on it, sir,’ Camping replied.

Grace thanked him, then saw DS Alexander had raised a hand. ‘Yes, Jack?’

‘I have something that may be very relevant, sir. A neighbour of Mrs Driver told one of my Outside Enquiry Team officers this afternoon, DC Patel, that she too had noticed an unfamiliar car drive up and down the street several times over the Friday and Saturday of the previous week. The Saturday was the last time Suzy’s daughter in Australia spoke to her. There has been no phone or internet activity from Suzy since early Saturday afternoon, and no transactions on her credit or debit cards since then either.

‘At around 9 p.m. on the Saturday evening, this same neighbour was putting a lead on her puppy in the front garden of her house to take it across the road into the park, St Ann’s Well Gardens, when she heard someone running down the road — a jogger, she assumed. She was distracted by her puppy, which was playing up and not letting her get the lead on, but she glanced up and noticed the man was African-looking. A minute or so later she heard a vehicle start up and drive off at speed. She didn’t immediately connect this jogger to the two men she’d seen in the car during the previous two days, because she was focused on her dog at the time. It was only when DC Patel spoke to her that she started making the connection.’ Alexander glanced at his notes, then up again. ‘And she said something which I think now might be highly significant. She noticed that this jogger — runner — passing under a street lamp had bright-red trainers.’

‘Fatso!’ Ray Packham called out. ‘HUDSON! FATSO!’ he shouted, even louder, the wind instantly whipping his voice away as he dutifully traipsed across the hilly fields behind his Woodingdean home, on his evening constitutional walk with the dog.

The disobedient, overweight beagle had lumbered off, in one of his eternally futile chases after a rabbit. The thing was so plump it would struggle to catch a tortoise, Packham thought. Although he was only too well aware that until recently he would have struggled to catch a tortoise, too.

In his late forties, mild-mannered and polite, Packham always dressed more corporately than the more-casual average tech guru. He was on the mend from a debilitating spinal condition that had caused him to take early retirement from the Sussex Police Digital Forensics Team. After years of crippling pain, he’d now been given a new, almost miraculous treatment, and on his doctor’s orders was walking five miles a day, recording them on his Fitbit.

He was revelling in his second career as an independent IT consultant, working with police forces and banking security advisors around the world, although tonight he was feeling a bit gloomy at the prospect of going back to an empty house. His wife, Jen, was on a Mediterranean cruise with her sister. It was one they should have been on together, but two days before departure an urgent job had come up from the City of London Economic Crimes Unit, currently his biggest paymaster, which he and Jen agreed he should not turn down.

‘FATSO!’

The blooming dog was nowhere to be seen in the rapidly deepening darkness. A few miles to the south he could see, intermittently, two pinpricks of light: a fishing boat or a container ship far out on the choppy water of the English Channel.

‘FATSO! HUDSON!’

He was wishing he’d worn a heavier coat tonight, the bitter wind freezing his nuts off. Suddenly the display of his phone lit up. An incoming call.

International was all the display revealed.

‘Ray Packham,’ he answered, tenting his head with his anorak to try to keep out the noise of the wind so he could hear.

There was a brief delay then he heard a very correct-sounding English voice. ‘Mr Packham? My name is Johnny Fordwater. I’ve been given your name by Detective Investigator Lanigan of the New York Police Department. An associate of his in the FBI — Bradley Warren — suggested you might be able to help me.’

‘Bradley Warren? I met him a few years ago at Quantico. He’s a good chap, how is he?’

‘I’ve not actually met him himself — he passed on the recommendation.’

‘Very good of him, I’d be happy to try. What can I do for you?’

Fordwater filled him in on his and Sorokin’s situation.

‘I’m sorry to hear this, Mr Fordwater.’

‘It’s Major , actually. Retired.’

‘Apologies, Major. Did I hear you say £400,000, Mr — Major — Fordwater?’

‘Correct — and change.’

Hudson came lumbering out of the gloom towards him.

‘Good boy!’ he praised.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry, I was talking to my dog!’

‘Ah. I’m getting a lot of roaring sounds, can hardly hear you — don’t think this is a very good line.’

‘I’m halfway up a hill and it’s blowing a hooley,’ Packham said. ‘Might be best if you call me in half an hour when I’m back home.’

‘Good plan.’

When he did call back, Johnny Fordwater related the whole story in detail. As he finished, from the sound of it Ray Packham was now scraping food into a dog bowl. There were several loud, deep barks. ‘Hudson, quiet!’ More clattering, then he said, ‘I’m afraid, Major Fordwater, yours is not a unique story. I have a whole caseload of similar tales. If you’re hoping I might be able to recover your money I’d like to save you any further time and costs right away. I’m sorry to tell you this bluntly, but there isn’t a hope in hell.’

‘I know that,’ the Englishman said, bleakly. ‘But myself and my chum, Matt Sorokin here, from the Hernando County Sheriff’s office in Florida, would like to use our experiences to at least warn others not to end up in the same situation as ourselves. And I... we...’ His voice tailed off.

‘Yes?’ Packham prompted.

‘We have a proposal we’d like to discuss with you. I’m flying back to London tonight. Can we meet — as soon as possible? Tomorrow morning, I could come straight to you from the airport.’

‘Are you sure you want to spend the money?’

‘Oh yes, very.’

The Elvis Presley track was coming to an end.

Radio Sussex presenter Danny Pike said, over the music, ‘From the King! The one and only Elvis Presley! “Can’t Help Falling in Love”. Great song, eh? But it comes today with a health warning. My next guest will be familiar to regular listeners of BBC Sussex, and we’ve all learned something positive from him — Brighton’s very own motivational speaker, Toby Seward. Me, I learned from him how to be motivated enough to wake up early in the morning. Then my son, Josh, was born and my wife and I didn’t need an alarm clock any more! But today Toby Seward is here to talk about something quite different. Thanks for coming along, Toby.’