Peter James - Dead at First Sight

Jack Alexander remembered the stuffed fish Roy Grace had on the wall of his office in their previous building, Sussex House. When he’d asked the Detective Superintendent about it, Grace had told him it was to remind him always of one of the essential qualities you needed to be an effective detective. Patience. Good anglers had endless patience and detectives needed that, too. Jack was understanding that only too well, now. For the past hour and ten minutes, his lean, beanstalk frame had been perched on an uncomfortable chair as the four operators cycled, randomly, through live images from various of the plethora of CCTV cameras covering the central area of Brighton and Hove.

It was a long-shot, he knew. All they had to go on was the blurry footage from Munich Police, and the description from Suzy Driver’s neighbour. They were looking for a tall black man with a distinctive swagger, wearing red shoes. Since the surveillance had started there had been over a dozen sightings of males in red shoes, but none of the images had remotely matched their target. They had no knowledge who the suspect actually was, nor if he was indeed still in the area. Even less so whether he would be brazenly out and about on the streets.

After another thirty minutes, badly in need of a drink, Jack was about to get up and stretch his legs when Haydn Kelly suddenly called out, urgently, ‘Camera Five! Can you stop it!’

Pumfrey froze the image. ‘Want me to rewind a bit?’ he asked.

‘Yes, until they first appear, please,’ Kelly said.

Pumfrey wound back, then played it again. The camera showed a pedestrianized street of what looked like fashion boutiques on both sides. Two black men suddenly came into view. One was tall, in a shiny suit and bright-red shoes, striding along like he owned the pavement. His companion was a much smaller, morose-looking man, in a bomber jacket and jeans. They stopped outside a men’s boutique, peering at the window display. The tall African pointed at something and the other nodded.

‘That’s his gait — and his shoes!’ Kelly said, excitedly.

‘Dukes Lane, right, Jon?’ Jack Alexander said.

‘Yes,’ Pumfrey replied. ‘The shop is called OnTrend. Very expensive, high-end.’

The two men walked forward to the edge of the frame, then entered the shop.

The door closed behind them.

Alexander called the Operation Lisbon Incident Room. Emma-Jane Boutwood answered. ‘Is the guv there, EJ?’ he asked.

‘He’s just stepped away to get a sarnie. Glenn’s here.’

‘Put him on!’

Moments later Glenn Branson said, ‘Jack, what’s up?’

‘I’m with Professor Kelly up at CCTV. He’s just identified our suspect going into a boutique in Dukes Lane with another guy — it’s called OnTrend.’

‘ I know that shop. Is he still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nice work, Jack. It’s only a short street, ask Oscar-1 to see if he can get a unit at both ends.’

Oscar-1 was the Duty Inspector in charge of the Force Control Room. The imposing figure of Keith Ellis, in his white uniform shirt with epaulettes, hurried across from his high perch. Jack Alexander quickly brought him up to speed.

Ellis immediately radioed the Duty Inspector at John Street Police Station, Dan Hiles, and requested response crews to cover both ends of Dukes Lane, relaying the description Alexander had given him.

Less than five minutes later the two men emerged. The tall guy was holding a large carrier bag, on which they could see clearly the shop’s logo and name. The pair walked rapidly out of shot. Ellis gave urgent instructions to the camera operators to try to pick them up again. A minute later another camera picked them up leaving the end of the lane and turning into Ship Street. They walked out of shot once more.

After several minutes there were no further sightings.

‘Maybe they got in a taxi?’ Alexander suggested, his eyes still glued to the screens.

‘I’ll call Streamline and Radio Cabs,’ Ellis said. ‘Get someone from the Incident Room to call the shop, see what information they have on them, what credit card details they have from the transaction.’

Ten minutes later, DC Boutwood rang Jack Alexander back.

‘I’ve spoken to the shop, Jack. He paid cash. They have CCTV inside the shop and will have footage of them.’

‘Good!’ Jack Alexander said. ‘OK, call them back and tell them not to touch the bank notes, we can lift prints from them.’

‘Yes, Jack.’

Alexander looked at Haydn Kelly, who was busy typing on his iPad. ‘What do you have, Haydn?’

‘The tall guy, his gait is an exact match to our man in Munich — and to the footprint analysis from Suzy Driver’s house in Brighton — or, technically, Hove.’

‘So what you’re saying is it’s the same man who was at the scene of Lena Welch’s death in Munich and Suzy Driver’s in Brighton — or rather, Hove?’

‘No question.’

‘So, where do we find him?’

‘You and your team, you’re the detectives. I’m just a humble podiatrist, Jack. I file down corns and bunions and cut toenails for a living.’

‘Bullshit!’

Paul said he would be late home tonight, 8 p.m. at the very earliest, and Toby Seward was happy about that. He’d only got back an hour ago from a meeting with a multinational tech company that had offered him a dream ticket. A series of motivational speeches around the globe. They would fly him and Paul — if he could join him — business class and put them up in swanky hotels. What he was required to do was a cake-walk. Give a series of talks he’d done a thousand times before and could do in his sleep.

On the television on the wall beyond the kitchen island unit, a recording of MasterChef was playing. A contestant was explaining his particular recipe for scallops with chorizo and black pudding. Toby had blanched the scallops, the black pudding ready on the side on the warming plate. He was now occupied dicing tomatoes with his cheffing knife on the chopping board, whilst keeping an eye on the shallots softening in the pan on the induction hob. The oven timer tinged. He needed to take the chorizo out.

The doorbell rang.

Toby glanced at his watch: 7.05 p.m. Who was it? Paul, locked out? Too early for him to be back.

The bell rang again.

Oh, for God’s sake!

He debated whether to take the chorizo out or answer the door first. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Probably some dimwit pizza delivery guy with the wrong address. He walked into the hallway and over to the front door. He should have checked the spyhole, he knew. Should have checked it, he rued, in the months and years that followed. If someone had asked him why he hadn’t, he would not have been able to give them a rational answer.

It was a question that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Driving to his house along the rutted car track made Roy Grace happy every time. Moving to the countryside from their home in the centre of Brighton had been a gamble for both of them, but so far the only question he had was why had he not done this sooner?

The house came into view, lights blazing in the windows, and he felt a sudden moment of profound joy. As he climbed out of his car into the strong, chilly wind, he heard Humphrey bark and a clanking from the scaffolding on the far side. The workmen were now halfway through installing the en suite for Bruno. And not a day too soon — he’d never known it was possible for a young boy to take quite so long over his appearance or to have quite so many skin- and hair-care products. Some days he would be in there for the best part of an hour with him and Cleo getting more and more exasperated. It would be better in a couple of weeks, when his son had his own private bathroom. He could spend all day in there, if he wanted.