Peter James - Dead at First Sight

As he hung up, his phone rang again. It was Johnny Fordwater. ‘Hey, pal, how you doing?’ Sorokin said.

‘Not great, but thanks for asking, Matt. I have some information you may be able to use. I’ve found a private investigator over here who has been specializing in so-called romance fraud. I just had a call from him, giving the possible name of the mastermind behind the scams that caught us both.’

Sorokin sat up straight. ‘OK?’

‘He thinks he’s a British criminal, known to the police here, who is involved in a wide number of internet scam operations and works with a Sakawa group from Ghana. His contacts within the police — don’t ask — have told him that Barrey may have relocated to Jersey, in the Channel Islands. I wondered if your FBI connections might be able to take a look at this character?’

‘Screw the Feds! If this is our man, I want to be the first in the line to bust his nose.’

‘So long as I can be the second.’

‘I like your style, pal. Leave it with me.’

Tooth was drenched in perspiration. His head seemed as if it was filled with water slopping around. He kept having to move the car, because of a son-of-a-bitch traffic warden on the prowl. He’d lost sight of the entrance/exit to the apartment block for several minutes on two occasions, but the blue dot on his phone remained reassuringly stationary.

There was very little activity — few cars driving in and out of the building and even fewer people coming out of the front door. A couple of food delivery drivers, an Amazon delivery from a white van and an Ocado delivery van some while ago. Now, with the overcast day, the light was beginning to fail. A bleached-haired man in a fur-collared overcoat, with a dog the size of a rat, appeared and headed off. They only got a few yards before the dog pooped. Wrinkling his face, and looking mostly the other way, he scooped it up with a plastic bag and knotted it deftly before setting off again, holding it daintily some distance from him.

A short while later a taxi pulled up, and Tooth watched with interest in case his mark was trying another route. But an elderly lady emerged with a wheeled shopping trolley, which the cabbie put in the trunk before holding the rear door for her.

A text pinged in on his encrypted phone.

Update?

He thought for some moments before he replied.

Nothing to report.

Another text followed.

Call me.

The traffic warden was approaching again. Tooth drove off, turned across the traffic and entered the drive of the apartment. He reversed into the visitor’s parking bay he’d used a couple of times before during the past hours. It gave him a clear view of the garage door. Then he dialled the next number in the sequence of burner phones his employer was using.

Without the formalities of any greeting, Barrey said, ‘While you’re sitting with your thumb up your backside, there’s been a development. Copeland’s dickhead sidekick has been charged and remanded in custody by the magistrates’ court to appear at Lewes Crown Court next Monday.’

‘You sure?’

‘I have contacts, I told you. I have them everywhere. This one’s a bent prison officer. Ogwang has just arrived there on remand until Monday.’

‘Will he get bail?’ Tooth asked.

‘He won’t get as far as that hearing, Mr Tooth. As I’ve told you, don’t worry about him. Just do your job and eliminate Copeland before he gets arrested, too, and starts squealing to save his bacon. Understand me?’

‘I’m outside the building where he is. I’ve been here since last night.’

‘Why the hell are you outside? Why aren’t you inside? Get in there. Eliminate him. Text me when you’ve done it. That’s what I’ve paid you for. Or are you going to screw up again? If so, tell me now and pay me back my money.’

Barrey ended the call.

Tooth was sodden with sweat and could hardly keep his eyes open. He needed medication, he knew. Maybe he should be in hospital?

Not an option.

Somehow he had to get his act together and finish the job he had come to do. He sat back in his seat, hit the recline button and leaned further back, closing his eyes, gratefully.

He slept. Dreamed.

He was back in the calm blue waters of the Turks and Caicos, on his forty-two-foot boat, Long Shot , with its twin Mercedes engines that took him out hunting for his food, with his fishing rods, most days. Yossarian sitting on the prow, long tongue out, the wind riffling his fur, idiotic grin on his face.

He woke with a start.

Rain pattered down on the roof of the car. He was freezing cold.

Still sodden with perspiration.

The conversation with Steve Barrey vivid in his mind.

Barrey was right. He wasn’t thinking straight. The goddam snake venom was messing with his brain.

Why was he outside when he should be in that building, hunting down his quarry? Finding him.

Then eliminating him.

This was going to be his last contract and he was as sure as hell not going to fail.

He didn’t do failure.

Glenn Branson burst into Roy Grace’s office, looking exhilarated. ‘Wow!’ he said.

‘Ever heard of knocking on a door?’

‘Dunno that film — was it on Netflix?’

‘No, it was on Sky!’

Branson frowned then gave him a dubious, sideways look. ‘I have an update for you from our raid on Withdean Place.’

Grace instantly switched his focus from the trial documents. ‘Tell me?’

‘You are going to like this, boss, seriously. Eight in custody. Enough IT hardware seized to keep Digital Forensics in business for the next decade. Looks like we’ve closed down Brighton’s very own internet scamming call centre. Every single one of them of African origin — Ghana, from what one told me — and they are all on what looks like dodgy documentation — illegal immigrants. And we’ve found the phone that made the call last night that Aiden Gilbert answered — might get some prints off it. But what I think will interest you most is an online conversation Aiden’s Digital Forensics Team found on a computer with a woman in Brighton. You said in the briefing we needed to look for the next victim — or victims — and I think we’ve found a big one.’

‘How big?’

‘Three hundred grand. Cash. She’s due to hand it over to her lover boy on Friday night.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know yet, boss. I’m waiting to hear. But Aiden thinks this is the overall mastermind of the outfit and that he scarpered some time before the raid. He’s confident through what he has on the computer he can monitor any future communications between him and the victim. He’s going through the RIPA formalities of an application to the Home Office. And, now, here’s the golden nugget: Lover Boy is none other than Tunde Oganjimi, AKA Jules de Copeland.’

‘Buddy of our suspect in custody, machete man Kofi Okonjo, and currently our Most Wanted?’

Grace was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘This means we have the potential victim’s email address and the ability to monitor her continued contact with Copeland. This might give us our best opportunity to catch him, so I don’t want any contact with her at this stage.’

‘Understood, boss,’ Branson replied.

‘Brilliant, Glenn, very nice work indeed.’

‘I’ll update you soonest. You’re in London tomorrow, right?’

‘Yes, pre-trial meeting with counsel on the Jodie Bentley case.’

‘You missed out on the action today and you might miss out on further action tomorrow, boss.’

‘Let me tell you something, matey: arresting suspects is just the beginning, the start of a very long journey. My old mentor, Nick Sloan, who’s just retired, told me something that I’ve never forgotten. He said, “You can tell a good detective — a good one likes being in court.”’