Peter James - Dead at First Sight

The journey back down to Brighton was not doing anything for Roy’s sour mood. The rush-hour commuter train out of London’s Victoria Station was packed, with every seat already taken way before he boarded it, and he had to stand for the hour-long journey, wedged like a sardine, breathing in fumes of garlic, alcohol and rancid halitosis from the three men he was crushed between, as if he had suddenly found himself the hapless judge of a bad-breath competition.

At one point his phone rang. Extricating it from his pocket with difficulty, he saw from the display it was Glenn Branson.

‘Got a development, boss.’

‘Can’t talk,’ he murmured. ‘Bell you back in half an hour.’

But he was talking into a dead phone, cut off as they roared through a tunnel.

When they were out the other side he sent Branson a brief text.

Finally, shortly before half past six, he jumped down onto the platform and into the relatively fresh evening air, jostling along with the crowds, most of whom, unlike himself, were probably heading home.

He called Cleo to warn her he would be back late. Then he dialled Glenn Branson as he approached the barrier.

‘How was London, boss?’

‘Don’t ask,’ he said, sticking his ticket into the machine and walking through into the concourse. ‘What’s the development?’ He carried on, striding purposefully towards the car park.

‘There’s a resident in a block of flats in Kemp Town, Marina Heights, who’s just returned from working abroad, and called in to report the number plates on his car have been stolen.’

‘How is that a development for us?’

‘A smart call-handler put two and two together when she took the call about the plates — she was aware of the marker on the car. Firstly, his car is a Volkswagen Polo, colour grey. The same model and year as the one we suspect Tooth is driving — which he had at Withdean Road last night, and which he swapped plates with His Honour Anthony Northcliffe’s sometime after he left.’

‘Interesting.’

‘It gets better. DS Alexander obtained the CCTV footage from Budget at Gatwick of the man who rented the Polo. Haydn Kelly’s viewed it and confirmed the man is Tooth. For sure.’

‘Nice work,’ Grace said. ‘So what’s his involvement with all of this? If he’s involved?’

‘Unlikely he’s in Brighton for his holiday, boss.’

‘Be nice to find him, have a friendly man-to-man chat with him — kind of thing.’

‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that, he strikes me as that kind of a guy.’

‘I’m on my way in, just leaving Brighton Station, be with you in half an hour or less.’ Grace was thinking hard about the local geography. ‘So what we know from the ANPR cameras is that Tooth’s Polo was last seen early this morning heading east along Marine Parade and never pinged the next camera along at Rottingdean. You’ve put a marker on the new number plate and checked for any ANPR sightings?’

‘Nothing’s come up.’

Grace reached his car. ‘So he’s likely to still be in the area.’

‘Unless he’s dumped the car. But he wouldn’t go to the trouble of switching plates if he was dumping it. This is a classic Tooth MO.’

‘OK, speak to Silver and ensure Comms put out an all-ports description of the car and Tooth, and that all plain cars available do an area search.’

‘I’ve already done it, boss.’

‘Trying to make me redundant or something?’

‘Just trying to take the pressure off an old man’s shoulders.’

Ever since his confrontation with the irate caretaker of Marina Heights last night, Tooth had kept his distance, parked up behind another block of flats a few hundred metres to the east of the building, watching through night-vision binoculars.

Throughout the long hours of darkness and the whole of today, during which he’d fought his tiredness and nausea, he was certain that Copeland’s Kia had not emerged from the building. Nor had anyone remotely resembling Copeland left the building on foot or in a taxi. It was almost dark again now. Good cover.

He wasn’t comfortable that he’d remained in the same spot for almost twenty-four hours. Plenty of people had walked by him during this time, some with dogs, some just going or coming. A few he recognized for the second or third time. There was always the risk of someone like a Neighbourhood Watch coordinator, perhaps, phoning the police to report a suspicious person in a car. It was time to move.

He started the car and drove along, through the entrance marked with a large IN sign, past the warning notice, PRIVATE PROPERTY, that threatened dire consequence for any unauthorized parking, and found a bay close to the one he had occupied before, with a clear view of the front door to the block. He reversed into it.

Needing some energy, he forced himself to eat a dried-up vegetable wrap, knowing it was food that wouldn’t go off as quickly as meat, fish or cheese, drank some water, then relieved his bladder by peeing into an empty litre water bottle. When he’d finished he opened the door, emptied the contents onto the ground and replaced the cap.

On the 6 p.m. news he’d heard an item about an inmate who had been found stabbed to death in the local prison, Lewes. The work of Steve Barrey, he immediately wondered? His mind went back to their phone conversation yesterday.

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?

Tooth swallowed a couple of uppers from the pill box in his pocket. They would see him through the night and well into tomorrow morning.

Nausea swelled up inside him again. He took deep breaths. Lowered his window and breathed in the cold, damp air. Felt better. Just a little.

A taxi pulled up at the door. An elderly couple got in and the car drove off.

Jules de Copeland could not stay in his flat forever. At some point he had to emerge. In his rental car, most likely. Angry about the flat tyre. Distracted by his anger.

Then even more angry and distracted when it stopped a short distance away. Tooth glanced at the glovebox. At the gun it contained. A double-tap to Copeland’s head. Then away.

But one thought nagged him. He’d been driving this Polo for too long. Much too long — it was dumb. Shit, what’s the matter with me?

He’d lost it, he knew. I used to be the best. The very best. I was a legend. Pull yourself together.

Even with the change of number plates yet again, he wasn’t safe. The police in this county, he knew from past experience, were smart. They might just start looking for dark-coloured VW Polos and checking them out regardless of their licence plates.

He had an idea, which had been simmering for some hours now. He had time. Copeland would not be able to fix the flat tyre, he’d have to call for assistance. At the very least he had an hour and, in all reality, longer than that.

Pulling out his phone, he did a Google search, trawled through a number of names, then picked one, a small local company, that offered a twenty-four-hour service.

Grace arrived back at the Incident Room shortly before 7 p.m. It was a hive of activity and concentration, with several of his team busy on phone calls that were still coming in following the press briefing yesterday, or on their keyboards. He looked around, the buzz of adrenaline coursing through his veins momentarily eclipsing his anger at the legal team this afternoon. This was what he had signed up for and this was what he loved. The early days of a murder enquiry were a time of excitement and awesome responsibility in equal measures.