Peter James - Dead at First Sight

Grace shook his head. ‘Mrs Driver’s immediate and near neighbours have been questioned. All we have to go on, at the moment, is a statement from one of the witnesses that she saw a man, who in her words looked African, running fast in red trainers shortly before hearing a car drive off at speed.’

‘Anything else that jumps out at you, Roy?’ Haydn Kelly asked. ‘Or any of your team?’

He faced a sea of shaking heads.

‘Professor, you’ve just seen the CCTV footage from Munich,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘What, as Sherlock Holmes might say to Watson, can you deduce from that?’

‘I’m afraid, at this stage, nothing too elementary. But I did deduce that the subject might easily be picked out in a crowd. He has a rather peculiar exaggerated arm swing and very distinctive rolling gait. Prior to this meeting I ran the footprints, taken from the deceased’s garden, through my software. They indicate a very similar gait, which would produce that same kind of arm swing. You have hundreds of CCTV cameras in your county, right? Of which close to one hundred are in this city. If your camera operators could pick out anyone in red trainers, I could analyse their gait from what I have, and very probably get a match that way.’

Roy Grace took on board what Kelly had to say, but he knew the immense size of the task. With just four operators on at any one time, how on earth could they trawl through all that footage effectively? But equally, he knew, this was the best shot they had. At least they had some criteria to narrow it down.

‘That was a famous movie, boss,’ Branson said.

‘Famous movie?’

‘ The Red Shoes , 1948. Starred Moira Shearer.’

‘Is this relevant, Glenn?’

‘Not really, boss. Just saying.’

The blue dot, now only a few car lengths ahead of Tooth, continued threading its way east, in the direction of Brighton’s Clock Tower. Then it turned north up into the maze of residential streets above Queen’s Road, heading in the general direction of Brighton Station. He closed the gap until he could see the Hyundai ahead, separated from him only by a turquoise taxi.

It made a sharp right, losing the taxi. He slowed down, following at a safe distance. Large terraced houses on either side. The Hyundai made a right at a T-junction at the end of the road, in front of a pub, then headed down a steep hill towards a busy one-way system with a queue of traffic. Just before reaching it, the car made another right.

Holding back again for a brief while, he then followed where the Hyundai had gone, turning into a narrow, one-way street. To his right were dinky-looking terraced cottages, Victorian he guessed from the architecture, set back from the road behind trellis-fenced gardens and narrow car ports. To the left were more modern-looking terraced houses and an old, traditional-looking pub. The Hyundai had stopped a short distance ahead, outside a canary-yellow cottage that looked even cuter than all its neighbours, the front garden a riot of flowers despite the autumnal season.

Tooth halted the car, curious. Watching. Waiting. One of those little Suzuki Cappuccinos, in an almost matching canary yellow, was parked in the driveway. He waited, letting the wipers swipe away the rain. Watching.

The Hyundai drove on.

They were casing the place. Why?

He continued waiting until they had rounded the bend at the end of the street and were out of sight, then drove up to the yellow house, passing it slowly, clocking the number. He stopped a few houses on and texted his paymaster, Steve Barrey.

Within seconds, his phone software told him his message had been read.

The blue dot was now heading north-west, the direction of their base, he guessed.

A reply pinged back.

Why do you need to know?

Tooth responded:

Your buddies are interested.

Another text arrived.

So figure it out. That’s what you’re paid for.

Tooth put two wheels on the pavement so as not to block the street, got out of the car and hurried back through the rain. He checked there was no CCTV, then sidled up past the little Suzuki to the porch and rapped the big, brass lion-head knocker.

He had a story prepared, but no one answered.

He tried again, then again. Satisfied no one was in, he retreated to his car, started it and drove around the block until he was back at the entrance to the street. He pulled over, again partially on the pavement, and settled down to do one of the things he had been trained for in the US military, and did best. Waiting and watching.

It wasn’t long before his vigilance was rewarded. A man hurried past in a trenchcoat, his face obscured by a black umbrella. He turned into the driveway, past the Cappuccino, and let himself in through the front door.

Tooth waited for a decent interval, then climbed out, approached the house and rapped the knocker again. The door was opened a few moments later by a casually dressed man in his late forties, wearing a tight-fitting jumper and holding his wet coat. He looked at Tooth inquisitively. ‘Hello?’

‘Have I got the right address? I’m looking for fifty-seven Campden Terrace?’ Tooth asked.

The man said, almost apologetically, ‘No, I’m afraid this is fifty-seven North Gardens.’ He frowned. ‘Campden Terrace? I’m pretty sure that’s a little further up the hill.’

‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ Tooth said.

‘You’re American?’

‘Uh-huh. Just in town for a few days, looking up an old buddy.’

‘Up the hill. It’s no more than five minutes away.’

Tooth hurried back to his car, arriving moments before a traffic warden. He climbed in and drove off. Thinking.

He recognized the voice of this man, and now he was guessing why Jules de Copeland and Dunstan Ogwang were so interested in him.

The distinctive voice.

The man he had been listening to earlier, the motivational speaker whose identity had been used to attempt to scam the late Suzy Driver and numerous other women. Who was now concerned to warn others.

Toby Seward.

There was a sharp ting from his phone. A new text. He waited until he could pull into a lay-by before looking at it. It would be dumb to get stopped — and then identified — by the police for looking at his phone while driving.

It was from Steve Barrey.

My pal Eddie Keys wants to buy you a drink tonight. The Stag pub on Church Road, Hove, 7.30 pm.

Above the wording was a photograph. An unsmiling, shaven-headed man wearing a singlet and a single earring. His heavily tattooed arms were folded in a defensive pose.

Eddie Keys didn’t look the kind of guy who would want to buy anyone a drink.

Ever.

Johnny Fordwater could not have made that trip to New York a year ago, he reflected. Not while Nero, his Labrador, had still been alive. He would never have left the elderly, arthritic creature home alone for almost two days, and he could never bear the thought of incarcerating him in kennels; he loved that damned, loyal creature too much. In addition, Nero had been a kind of a link between him and his late wife, Elaine. She’d adored that dog, too. During those last months when she was bedridden, before she had moved into the hospice, the dog would spend hours at a time by her side.

Some miles after leaving Heathrow Airport, he turned his fourteen-year-old Mercedes E-Class south off the M25. Until just a few weeks ago he’d been planning to replace it with a more recent model, but now he knew, sadly, he never would.

He yawned, the bright, low sun shining straight through the windscreen, hurting his eyes which were raw from lack of sleep on the transatlantic flight. He’d tried a few stiff drinks to knock him out, but all they’d done was make him thirsty and drink a lot of water. As a result he’d had to clamber, several times, over the legs of two increasingly irate passengers between himself and the aisle to make his way to the toilet. He’d tried watching a movie, but couldn’t concentrate. All he could think about was the mission he was now on, and trying to make a budget for his future. Something he dreaded most was the humiliating thought that he might need to turn to the Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen’s charity for help.