Peter James - Dead at First Sight

God, life had been hard in these years since he had died. She still missed him so much, thought about him constantly. Dreamed often that he was still alive. She remembered on their honeymoon in Capri, all those years ago, he’d leaned across the table with a glass of some very classy wine and clinked hers. ‘My angel, if you live to be ninety-nine, I’d like to live to ninety-nine minus one day, so I never have to live without you.’

Her eyes moistened at the memory. Larry was staring at her now from a framed photograph on her desk. The archetypal gentleman, who had reminded her of Sean Connery when they had first met. He was always so perfectly dressed, as he was in this photograph, in which he was wearing a crisp white shirt, golf club cravat, dark hair immaculately groomed. Was it her imagination or was he looking at her disapprovingly?

Over her new romance?

The photograph was, suddenly, unnerving her. She moved it out of sight behind her computer screen.

Guilt?

She didn’t need to feel guilt, she knew. Larry had told her repeatedly before he’d died that she was still a young woman and she shouldn’t spend the rest of her life mourning him. That one day she would find someone else, that she should marry again and be happy again.

Maybe. She typed a reply, but the booze was playing havoc with the coordination of her arthritic fingers. It took several goes before the message was ready.

My beautiful Richie, you asked if I could get one hundred thou of the four hundred and fifty thou in cash. I’ll have that together in a couple of days. Now, my naughty big boy, I have a real treat in store for you — and of course me! A very dear friend has gone away for a few days and she’s asked me to keep an eye on her beautiful little cottage in a forest about twenty miles from here. I think it would be a very special place for us to spend a whole, uninterrupted weekend together. We could meet there in our own, very private love nest where we wouldn’t be disturbed. And I could give you the cash! I desire you crazily! XXXXXXXX

She read it through, having to concentrate hard to focus, realizing she was very definitely more than just a little tipsy.

She peered at the empty bottle again. ‘Oh dear. Naughty me!’ She looked down at the grey-and-white dog. ‘Mummy’s drunk a little bit too much tonight, hasn’t she?’

The dog looked back at her, pricking her ears up. ‘Shall we go for a little walkies?’

At the sound, Wooky went bonkers, tearing several times around the room, and then tried to jump on her lap.

‘Down! Down!’

She stared at the screen, waiting for a reply. But nothing came.

She stood up and wobbled. ‘Oh dear, Wooky, Mummy is blotto !’ Somehow, holding the banister rail tightly, she made it down the stairs without stumbling or tripping over the animal, then went out into the back garden with her. She waited, patiently. When the dog had finished she headed back into the house, sobered a fraction by the breezy, salty night air, closed the door and locked it. Then, with the sound of Wooky lapping at her water bowl in the kitchen, she climbed the stairs and went back into her den. She sat down and hit the return key to bring the computer screen back to life.

No reply from Richie. Hmmm.

You don’t know what you’re missing, do you? You don’t know what’s in store, my hunky one!

Logging off, she crossed the landing into her bedroom and walked through into the en suite to prepare for bed. She stared into the mirror as she removed her make-up. The face of her thirty-seven-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, stared back for an instant before her own replaced it.

Not too many wrinkles.

Why did Elizabeth think it was disgusting that at just fifty-nine she was still interested in men? That, God forbid, her mother might have sex with a man. What was that about? Hadn’t the actress, Helen Mirren, revealed rather a lot of her body in a recent photoshoot? And mine is as fabulous!

Girl, you are still a looker! You truly ain’t bad!

And in truth she wasn’t. Thanks to good genes from both her parents, a little help from a local plastic surgeon and regular botox treatments since she had ‘met’ Richie, plus workouts with her trainer at the gym, four days a week, she had retained her figure.

Sixty is the new forty!

She checked the laughter lines in her face.

Richie Griffiths, you are in for the surprise of your life!

Roy Grace, feeling exhausted, stood in the bathroom using his electric toothbrush. The toothache he’d had a week or so ago had gone away but was now back, and he needed to go and see his new dentist, Ian Pitman. He would phone for an appointment in the morning. The brush blip-blipped, telling him to move to his lower teeth.

Then Cleo called out to him. ‘Your job phone’s ringing!’

She brought it in. He switched off the toothbrush, hastily rinsed his mouth and answered. ‘Roy Grace?’

It was Norman Potting. ‘Chief, sorry to disturb you, we have a bit of a development.’

‘No problem, Norman. Tell me?’

‘The burner phone that was found on the suspect arrested near Toby Seward’s house was sent for urgent analysis, as I think Notmuch told you?’

‘He did.’

‘Aiden Gilbert from Digital Forensics just contacted me. At 9.33 p.m. tonight he had a number-withheld call from a male. Due to the life-and-death nature of the investigation we are carrying out, he decided it justified answering the call. When he answered, the gentleman asked who was speaking, and as soon as he replied, “Sussex Police”, the person hung up immediately. Gilbert said there was an O2 sim card in the phone. He put in an immediate RIPA request for a trace from the phone company.’

RIPA — the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act of 2000 — gave the police the right to request immediate information about a phone call from the provider when there was a potential threat-to-life situation.

‘What information have they provided, Norman?’

‘We have the phone number — which is another burner — and the approximate location — within 250 square metres. It’s somewhere in Withdean Road, or possibly one of the adjoining properties in Dyke Road Avenue immediately to the south.’

Grace knew Withdean Road well. It was one of the most expensive residential areas in the city. Large houses in substantial grounds. He’d investigated a case in the same street a while back. All mobile phones sent out signals, constantly, whether in active use or simply switched on. All the phone companies had masts at spaced-out intervals. Using simple triangulation, any phone company, such as O2, could tell the approximate area where a phone was — and in a city that would be in the 250-square-metre range.

In a densely populated part of a city, that kind of range could cover hundreds of terraced houses and apartment blocks — making any kind of house-to-house search a logistical nightmare. But in an area of large, secluded properties, such as Withdean Road, it could be maybe a dozen — or even fewer — properties.

His tiredness instantly gone, he felt fully alert and excited. ‘I’m on my way, Norman. I’ll be with you in half an hour. See what you can find out about the Withdean Road properties within the area O2 have given you.’

‘It’s getting towards midnight, chief.’

‘So?’

‘I’ll get straight on it.’

‘Google Earth runs 24/7, Norman. Just like the villains we’re always trying to lock up. OK? And just like us, too. Put the kettle on, it’s going to be a long night’

‘Yes, chief.’

As Grace walked out of the bathroom, ready to explain to Cleo, she was standing in the bedroom holding up a fresh pair of underpants in one hand and a crisp white shirt in the other. With a resigned look on her face.