Peter James - Dead at First Sight

‘Mr Fordwater, my wife and I have a number of friends who’ve found love through internet dating agencies. Unfortunately, there are some extremely cunning scumbags out there — I think you might be surprised to know just how sophisticated their techniques are, thanks to digital technology. Yes, you are a victim, but please don’t ever think you are a fool.’

‘You’re very kind,’ he replied. ‘I wish I could agree with you.’

Roberts knew from experience that all internet scammers had their subtle differences. Their specific MOs — modus operandi. Whether it was running banking scams, phoney retailer scams or romance fraud. The way they talked to their marks, the time spans over which they let everything play out, reeling in the victim little by little. Roberts employed an analyst who had created algorithms to spot any similarities between scams. Not that Jack Roberts needed a computer very often, he was an experienced enough PI to recognize patterns without the help of technology. And he was recognizing one now.

Without even running the case file through the algorithms, he was already certain that Johnny Fordwater and his US pal, Matthew Sorokin, were victims of the same scammers who had targeted his client Elizabeth Foster’s mother, Lynda Merrill.

He was also recognizing something else in the quiet anger of the old soldier — a kindred spirit. He decided to test the water. ‘Major, you told me when we started that you’re aware it would be all but impossible to recover any of the money you’ve lost, and I’m afraid I would have to agree with you. So I’m not quite sure how my agency can help you?’

‘You can help me by finding the scammers. Taking me to them. Then leave the rest to me.’

‘You want to take the law into your own hands?’

‘What law?’ Johnny Fordwater said, defiantly. ‘You know damned well that only the tiniest percentage of these bastards will ever be caught and brought to justice by the police, don’t you?’

Roberts shrugged. ‘I’m afraid so, yes. The majority are operating way out of UK jurisdiction, mostly in countries where the police are institutionally corrupt.’

‘Exactly.’

There was a long pause before Fordwater continued.

‘I’ve spent most of my life fighting enemies of our nation, Mr Roberts. The nature of the beast constantly changes. Eighty years ago, long before my time, it was the Nazis. More recently it’s been the IRA, al-Qaeda, ISIS. You might not put internet scammers on the same footing, but they’ve destroyed my life and, from what I read, the lives of countless others. These people are a scourge.’

‘I can’t disagree with you,’ the PI replied.

‘I still have a little bit of money left, Mr Roberts. We haven’t discussed your fees yet, but so far as I’m concerned, every penny I have left in the world is yours — if you can get me the names of whoever did this to me. And an address where I can find them. I have some contacts at quite a high level in international policing — one is in a similar position to me.’

‘I may be able to give you some leads,’ the PI said. ‘Although I’d be doing myself out of a lucrative part of my business if they were arrested.’

Johnny looked at him, unsure whether he was joking. ‘Really?’

Roberts shook his head. ‘No. I’ve seen too much misery. If I can help you bring even one of the bastards out there to justice, I would be very happy.’

A night alone in police custody was never going to be a happy one for anybody, Grace knew from long experience. The thin blue mattress and tiny, rock-hard pillow. The humiliating toilet facility in plain view. The light that stayed on, giving zero privacy. The deliberate hard slam of the steel door when you first entered the drab, comfortless cell. The frosted glass skylight high up, reminding you of the world beyond, all happening without you. The rubbish tracksuit and even worse shoes to humiliate you. Within hours, most people started to feel institutionalized.

It would make all but the most hardened of recidivists glad to see anyone in the morning. Even, he thought irreverently, the sight of Glenn Branson, all suited and booted in shiny designer gear, accompanied by a shaven-headed Norman Potting, seated across the hard, metal table of the interview room. Both detectives were looking as happy as pigs in the proverbial to be here, as if there wasn’t anywhere on earth they’d rather be than this room.

Watching on a CCTV monitor from a tiny adjoining room, Roy Grace was focused on the thin black man with a tight, mean, scowling face and straggly hair, wearing a shapeless custody tracksuit, seated beside the solicitor. He was leaning forward on his elbows in an insolent, aggressive stance, diluted by a pallor of tiredness.

Glenn Branson addressed the camera, fixed high above them on the wall. ‘The time is 9 a.m., Wednesday, October 10th. Detective Inspector Branson and Detective Sergeant Potting. Interviewing an unknown male using the name Donald Duck, in the presence of his solicitor, Alison Watts.’

Grace couldn’t help grinning, glad no one could see him. ‘If everyone in the room could please say their name for the benefit of the recording,’ Branson continued.

They all did in turn except the suspect, who remained silent. After a brief pause Glenn asked, ‘Would you like to tell us your real name?’

Ogwang looked at his lawyer. She was occupied with her phone. ‘This my real name,’ he replied.

Norman Potting, playing Mr Nice Guy, said, ‘We do have a bit of a problem with that, with all due respect.’

Ogwang gave him a hostile, facing-off stare. ‘Daz my name.’

‘I’m afraid you are going to have to help us out here,’ Potting said politely. ‘You are from Accra, Ghana, right?’

He shrugged.

‘You see, I’ve been in contact with your very helpful embassy. They’ve only been able to find one person named Donald Duck and they don’t think that is his real name. He is ninety-two years old. I mean, let’s face it, even if you’d taken some youth pills, it would be hard to swallow that you are really ninety-two.’

Grace saw the solicitor was struggling to keep a straight face.

‘Yes, I took the pills.’

‘The same ones as Mickey Mouse?’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘I suggest you tell us your real name?’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We’re going to find it out, and we’ve a pretty good idea what it is, so you might as well save us time and tell us.’

Ogwang consulted, in whispers, with his solicitor. He turned back to the two detectives.

‘No comment.’

There was little Roy Grace liked less than a suspect who went ‘no comment’. It was almost always a sure sign of guilt. And it was deeply frustrating.

‘Could you tell us,’ Norman Potting asked, ‘what you are doing in Brighton?’

‘Holiday,’ he replied, immediately.

‘Holiday? October’s not the best month for a holiday in Brighton.’ Potting looked at him dubiously. ‘June, July, August, September perhaps. But you come from sunny Ghana to rainy, windy Brighton in October? I have a problem understanding that. Although good weather for ducks, I suppose.’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘Are you sure there isn’t something else that’s brought you here?’

Looking increasingly panicky, Ogwang again consulted with his solicitor. ‘No comment.’

‘There’s another reason why we don’t believe Donald Duck is your real name,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We’ve checked with Immigration, and they have no record of anyone of this name entering the UK — and this gives us a bit of a problem. Either you are not telling us your real name or you’ve entered this country as an illegal immigrant. Would you like to explain this to us?’