Peter James - Dead at First Sight

The day he reinvented himself several years ago as businessman Mr Jules de Copeland, open to do business between Ghana and the gullible Western world, with all its rich pickings to be had, was the day his life had changed. From his humble beginnings he was now a rich man, and getting richer all the time. Or at least he had been until tonight. Kofi had been a good and loyal lieutenant, but now, if he had been arrested — God forbid — he had to find a way to cut loose, fast.

He was a family man now, with his sweet wife, Ama, and a six-month-old son, Bobo, living in their farmhouse a short distance from Munich. He missed them and wanted to be back with them, soon. Please God Kofi wasn’t going to mess all his plans up.

Down the end of a long corridor, in the large phone room, were six of his operatives whom he had brought over from Ghana, via Munich, for cultural training in UK ways. All were busily engaged emailing, FaceTiming or phoning ‘loved ones’. Three males, three females, earning more each month here than they could have done in a lifetime back home.

But no Kofi.

Why had that stupid idiot gone back into the house? They’d already frightened the crap out of Seward — he would have been putty in their hands.

He sat down at his private workstation at the back of the room, elevated on a dais so it gave him a commanding view of his team. A bank of monitors in front of him enabled him to watch or listen in to any conversation any of his employees was having with a ‘loved one’ they’d met online.

He selected No. 5. Sisi Tawney. She was twenty-three, pretty.

He’d invested in a course of online elocution lessons for her, as he had with all his team.

Sisi’s identity was Monique Dupres. Resident of Esher, Surrey. Widowed, tragically, at fifty-four when her late husband, a born-again middle-aged biker, was killed in a motorcycle accident, leaving huge debts. Looking to start her life over. And she had now found Mr Right.

Sisi was doing nicely. She had her hooks into a man called Guy Relph, a sixty-nine-year-old widower, eager to help his beloved in any way he could. He’d already transferred over £50,000 to help her clear her debts and keep her home. She was now playing him for a further £50,000 and it was going well.

The money was piling up!

Jules next hooked into his total star player, Esi Jabbar.

Esi had sucked in a seventy-nine-year-old widow who was besotted with him, or rather, the image she believed was him. A thirty-year-old black hunk he’d lifted from a past World’s Strongest Man competitors’ list.

She’d loaned him £28,000, and was now engaged with her bank, seeing if she could find a way to get an equity release on the last £100,000 of value in her house.

She was totally smitten with him, she told him. He was totally smitten with her, he’d replied.

As Jules logged on to his own workstation, a new email came in, which stood out amongst the dross and made him immediately focus. It was from his best prospect, a woman called Lynda Merrill. She was fifty-nine and attractive, with a sparkle in her eyes. He liked her. They’d been communicating for four months now, under the identity he was using of Richie Griffiths, a handsome silver-haired man, the film producer.

Hello, sexy beast, I’ve not heard from you all day. Have you gone off me? XXX

She’d already paid over several small amounts, and now she was in the process of liquidating £450,000 to send him, to buy out his ex-wife’s share of their home.

Or so she thought.

Go off you, my gorgeous? How could I ever, you’re in my mind every second, driving me crazy for you. I’ve had one hell of a day. Laters, babe, yeah? I’m bursting for you. So can’t wait to meet. XXXXXX

He sent the email then put her momentarily out of his mind. He needed to find Kofi. Pulling an unused burner phone from a carefully labelled selection in his desk drawer, he set it on ‘number withheld’ and dialled his lieutenant’s current phone. It rang. Once, twice, three times. Four times. Just as he thought it was going to voicemail, it picked up.

‘Hello?’ A male voice he did not recognize.

He hesitated in panic, wondering whether to hang up. Instead he asked, ‘Who is this speaking?’

‘Sussex Police. Who are you?’

He terminated the call instantly. His hand was shaking. He switched the phone off, and in his panic, stamped on it several times, crushing it, trying to destroy it.

His brain was racing. Could they trace the call? It was one of a bunch of burners he had bought in different stores around the Brighton area in the past months. And he’d withheld the number.

The bigger worry was why the police were answering Kofi’s phone. Had the idiot dropped it, or — more likely — had he been arrested — and if so, what would he tell them? They’d long rehearsed the scenario of either of them being arrested. They both carried false identification with nothing to link them together. They had their cover story: they were travelling independently, tourists, come to visit England, the same as thousands of other visitors to Brighton.

But the British police were smart. Even if the jackass didn’t squeal, how long would it take the police to make the connections?

One statement from Toby Seward?

He thought about the £450,000. A big prize.

If he could get that quickly, then he could bail out, back to Germany or — even better — take Ama and Bobo home to the safety of Ghana, and screw Kofi. He could stew in his own mess.

Feeling a bit better, he went up to his room and began packing. Fortunately he had an emergency Plan B. A safe house he’d never told Kofi about. For just such a situation as this.

It was going to be fine.

Jules de Copeland was unaware of the car that had followed him back here from Gatwick Airport. The Polo was now parked a short distance along from the gates of this house, on the other side of the street, with an unobstructed view of the entrance.

He was unaware, too, of its occupant. A man trained by the US military in patience. A man who could go without food or water or sleep for days and still function sharply. A man who had learned to sit as motionless as a twig on a tree, for as many days as it took to do the job.

A man who had his car radio tuned in to Radio Sussex and was listening to it.

Who had just heard a newsflash about a suspected homophobic attack.

Who was waiting to kill him.

Wooky, lying on the floor, looked balefully up at her mistress. Then the miniature Schnauzer gave a little whine.

When that didn’t work, she pawed at her jeans.

Fixated on her computer screen, Lynda Merrill reached down and scratched her fingers absently along her head. ‘In a few minutes, darling, OK? We’ll go for walkies. But Mummy’s busy, OK?’

The internet was running dementingly slow tonight. A reply had come in from Richie but the text was taking an age to upload.

Finally it was there on her screen!

Go off you, my gorgeous? How could I ever, you’re in my mind every second, driving me crazy for you. I’ve had one hell of a day. Laters, babe, yeah? I’m bursting for you. So can’t wait to meet. XXXXXX

Excitedly, Lynda Merrill picked up the bottle of Sainsbury’s Riesling from the floor beside her and up-ended it into her empty wine glass on her desk, next to her keyboard.

Only a few drops trickled out.

‘Oooh dear, naughty girl, you’ve drunk the whole bottle!’ she chided herself, aware she was feeling decidedly tipsy. Blotto.

Yes, that was the word dear Larry used to use whenever he — or both of them — were a bit smashed. ‘Darling, I think I’m a tad blotto.’

Or, often as not, ‘Darling, I think we’re both a bit blotto.’ They had fun getting blotto together on the fine wines he loved. She felt guilty about drinking this supermarket bargain. Larry would never have approved. He had such class, such good taste in wine. ‘Some people live above their income — me, I just drink above it!’ he used to say.