Peter James - Dead at First Sight

As he walked back to the stairs, along the underground car park, he spotted a Polo, the same colour as his and the same model. Its tyres were soft and it was coated in dust. Clearly it hadn’t been driven anywhere in many weeks, and more likely months. Perhaps its owner was working abroad.

He went back up into the lobby and checked for any other exits. There was just one, at the rear, which went into a side street. He walked back to the front and, using a torn-off corner of a Thai restaurant takeaway leaflet, which he picked up from the floor, he disabled the lock, in case he needed to return.

Two minutes later he was back in his car, wiping grease and oil spots off his face with his handkerchief, before heading towards Brighton. A quick cheeseburger and a coffee would set him up fine. After that, he decided, he’d check out that house in Withdean Road, just to make sure Ogwang wasn’t still there.

Roy Grace drove in through the barrier of the Sussex Police headquarters shortly after midnight, feeling more awake now, having gulped a quick double espresso before leaving home.

Walking along the deserted corridor towards the Major Incident suite, he smelled the unappetizing aromas of microwaved ready-meals that were the all-too-familiar staple gastronomic delights of late-night investigations. He entered the room to see Simon, EJ, Alec, Arnie, Velvet and Vivi, the analyst, at their workstations. Norman was perched on a desktop, holding a foil container, spooning something lurid out of it into his mouth at high speed.

As soon as he saw him Potting jumped up and hurried over to him like an eager puppy, orange stains around his lips. ‘Thanks for coming in, chief. I think we’re making progress. I’ll show you.’

Grace went over to Potting’s workstation. On the screen was a Google Earth aerial map of part of Withdean Road. ‘There seem to be four houses where the call might have been made from,’ Potting said. ‘The analyst has identified, from an internet search, the occupants of three of them. One is owned by a female property developer, who has no previous with us. Another, an elderly widow, whose husband ran a building society. The third is a well-respected Brighton businessman, Ian Steel, a big charity benefactor.’ He stabbed a finger at the screen, at a property between the last two, which appeared to Grace to be isolated in substantial grounds. ‘This is the one that might be of interest to us, chief,’ he said.

Grace peered closely at the part of the screen Potting’s bitten fingernail was tapping. A substantial house, in a very large garden with a tennis court and pool.

‘Apparently it’s owned by a Swiss company, chief. We’re unable tonight to find out more about them. But the managing agents are a Brighton firm called Rand and Co., who have been very helpful. We’ve phoned their office and got an out-of-hours emergency number. A short while ago DC Davies spoke to the proprietor, Graham Rand, who told him that the property was on a twelve-month rental. Mr Rand then rang the sales executive who handled the leasing and said it was a tall gentleman, a Jules de Copeland, he believed of African origin, currently domiciled in Germany. He said Mr Copeland paid twelve months in advance and had impeccable references. Then he added something that might be of real significance.’

‘Yes?’

‘Apparently he wore very shiny red shoes.’

Roy Grace stared back at him. ‘Bingo!’

‘That’s what I thought, too, chief.’ Potting beamed.

Grace immediately dialled the on-call Oscar-1 and requested an unmarked car to go straight to Withdean Road and take a discreet look around the vicinity of a property called Withdean Place.

When he had finished, he made a second call which gave him a great deal of pleasure. It was to Cassian Pewe’s job phone. And hopefully it would wake him up.

It did.

‘Apologies for calling so late, sir,’ Grace said, breezily.

‘This had better be good,’ Pewe said, sounding bleary, as Roy Grace had hoped.

‘I need a surveillance team, urgently,’ Grace replied and quickly explained why. Whether Pewe was in the process of getting laid or trying to get a night’s sleep, Roy Grace didn’t give a monkey’s. He just needed his boss’s approval for the additional expenditure, as he’d been instructed.

He got it.

Tooth remembered a decent all-night café on Brighton seafront, called Buddies. To his irritation, it appeared the crew of a police patrol car, which was parked a short distance along, also liked it. He could see through the window two officers standing inside.

Although he’d changed his appearance from the last time he had been in this city, letting his hair grow back instead of shaving his head, wearing arty glasses and an ear stud, he didn’t want to chance it. He was aware too many police here would have his description, which was circulated not that many months ago. It had also appeared in the local Argus newspaper in a photo parade of faces of the most wanted in the county.

He parked a couple of cars back and waited. The two officers seemed to be chatting with a man behind the counter. All jovial. Chatting. Chatting. Laughing, making small talk.

He continued watching. Waiting. The nodding heads. More laughter. He was anxious about being away from the apartment block in case Copeland slipped off. He checked his phone. The blue dot was still at the address, the car hadn’t moved. Not that he was expecting it to.

Finally the officers came out into the street, holding their dinner — or early breakfast — packages. Hopefully they wouldn’t sit and eat them in their car, just here.

He was in luck. Within seconds of climbing in, they must have received a call.

They shot off at speed on blue lights.

Five minutes later, relieved that no more police had come in, he hurried out with his cheeseburger, fries and coffee, back to his car. He sat there in darkness to eat his meal and prised the plastic lid off his coffee cup. As soon as he had finished, he left and headed towards Withdean Road. On the way he pulled into a filling station in Dyke Road, went into the shop and loaded up with sandwiches, chocolate bars and bottles of water. Five minutes later he was out and heading on up the road in his car.

After half a mile he made a right turn, then a left into Withdean Road. The affluent area, lined with tall trees, felt more rural than urban, and it was, despite the street lighting, fairly dark. That had suited him well earlier, and it would suit his purposes even better now.

Most of the large, detached houses were partially or completely secluded behind tall hedges and walls, and those he could see were in darkness at this hour. He cruised along slowly until he reached the one, on his left, somewhere behind the high brick wall and wrought-iron gates. Withdean Place.

He carried on past, looking for somewhere to park. This end of the road was narrow and twisty. But it was late and no one was around. He put two wheels onto the pavement, secured the car, then walked back towards the house, looking up at the wall as he approached for any possible access point. He switched on his phone torch and ran the beam up the wall. Saw the glints of glass shards along the top.

He reached the gates and debated whether to scale them. No question they’d be covered by infra-red cameras on motion sensor. He switched the phone torch off and studied the Google Earth map on his screen. There was no rear access to the property because to the south was another house. That one fronted onto Dyke Road Avenue.

Maybe he could access this house from there?

He checked Maps on his phone. A short distance ahead was a side road that would take him to Dyke Road Avenue, and then another right turn would put him behind Withdean Place.