Peter James - Dead at First Sight

‘An old romantic like me? Why would I even think about doing something like that, Aiden?’

‘Glad to hear it, boss! I’d hate to be the one to blunt Cupid’s arrow.’

As soon as he ended the call, Grace rang the Gold Commander, Detective Chief Superintendent Jason Tingley, and updated him.

They met a short while later, looking at a Google Earth map of the cottage and surrounding areas, and discussed a strategy for tomorrow evening, if there were no developments in the interim. Tingley asked Grace whether he’d considered speaking to Lynda Merrill, telling her the situation and replacing her with a police decoy.

Grace responded that he had already considered this, but it seemed from the intercepted emails that Lynda Merrill genuinely believed Richie Griffiths was real. He knew how reluctant victims of romance fraud often were to accept the truth, often going into complete denial. In his view, with the arrest — and now death — of his colleague, Copeland was a definite flight risk. His hypothesis was that Copeland was going to turn up, grab the money, convert it into a cyber currency and disappear. Back to Ghana, most likely, and then probably completely vanish.

Tingley saw his reasoning, but their primary concern was that Lynda Merrill could not be left exposed. Before policies had changed, some years back, they might have been able to consider using her as bait — like a tethered goat — but not now, when safeguarding victims had to be the priority.

The meandering driveway, over half a mile long from the road to the house, looked to be a major asset. If they had that covered, they both agreed, they could arrest Jules de Copeland before he got into the house. The Silver Command room would be set up at HQ, from which the operation would be run. Two CROPS — Covert Rural Surveillance officers — were to be deployed tonight to position themselves, under the cover of darkness, in observation posts covering Primrose Farm Cottage. They would report to a dedicated support team located in a concealed position close by, which would in turn liaise with the Silver Tactical Command. To cover all likely contingencies, a vehicle containing two Armed Response officers would also be stationed close by, as well as additional police resources.

CROPS officers were trained in concealment. They wore combat fatigues made from Disruptive Pattern Material — DPM — selected for the terrain they were going into, with real vegetation attached to their garb and helmets. They carried provisions and equipment enabling them to stay in place motionless for hours and, if need be, days. Because once in situ they could not move for risk of being seen.

As further back-up, Silver would also request Home Office approval for a listening device to be placed in the cottage.

They agreed that the moment the CROPS saw Copeland coming down the drive, one ARV would carry out a high-threat enforced stop and arrest him in his car, with the second ARV coming up behind, both as back-up and to seal off the exit route for Copeland’s car.

At 8.30 p.m., Grace decided that if his hypothesis was right and it was Jules de Copeland who Tooth was watching for, then nothing was likely to happen until later tomorrow, when Copeland made his next move. Grace set a rota of a skeleton team of his crew to stay during the night, and told the rest to go home and get some rest.

He left to go home, also, with instructions to the officers staying on to call him, no matter how late, if there were any developments.

He had a feeling that tomorrow was going to be a big and long day. In the meantime he had a serious discussion ahead with Cleo, about his job offer from Alison Vosper. He was flattered to be offered it, but he really didn’t know how he felt about it, nor what Cleo’s views would be.

But when he arrived home, Kaitlynn’s car was outside and Cleo’s was gone. The nanny was dozing on the sofa in the living room in front of the television. There was a note on the kitchen table, confirming an earlier text from Cleo.

Just been called out to recover a body that’s been washed up on the beach near the pier. Kaitlynn came over. Back as soon as I can, maybe with some fresh prawns and a lobster or two! Chicken casserole in the fridge — microwave four mins on full power and there are peas in the freezer. Love you. XXX

He loved her gallows humour. Opening the fridge, he put his food in the microwave and then chatted for a short while to Kaitlynn after she’d woken up apologetically. He was fast asleep long before Cleo came back home.

One lesson Tooth had learned during his many years in his chosen profession was how to remain invisible. In plain sight was often the best way.

Like wearing a yellow high-viz tabard. You were even more invisible if, wearing one, you carried a clipboard, and even more so if you held a surveyor’s scope. You were invisible, too, if you drove a taxi — cabs could be anywhere, at any hour, without arousing suspicion. But you couldn’t park up a taxi any place for too long.

A van was different.

You could park a van for hours and no one would take any notice. Which was why, at 3.02 a.m., Tooth was stationed across the road in a lay-by, two hundred metres east of Marina Heights, in a small white Renault van he had rented from a local company. He had a clear view of the garage entrance.

According to his phone, sunrise would be at 6.51 a.m. It had taken him less than an hour last night to cab it to the company’s depot, rent the vehicle and return. Not enough time, for sure, for Copeland to have had his tyre fixed and depart.

During the long hours of the night, no one came in or out of the building — not through the front door, nor out of the garage.

He nibbled through a series of chocolate bars to give him energy, and they helped to quell the constant rising queasiness inside him. His temperature rose and fell between boiling hot and icy cold.

He needed a doctor. He needed to get back to Munich to see him. But that was not an option. Not right now.

What snake or scorpion or spider venom was still coursing through his system all these months on, he wondered, shaking a Lucky Strike out of the crumpled pack in his pocket and clicking his lighter, shielding the flame with his hand. Sucking in the smoke made him feel a little better.

Rain fell and then stopped. Wind blew for a while, rocking the car. An ambulance screamed past.

Tooth stared through the windscreen, occasionally switching on the wipers to clear his view. He was fine waiting. He’d waited days in way more hostile environments than this. At least no insects were biting him here, there were no landmines to be wary of and no enemies with AK-47s lurking. The cab of this Renault was close to luxury by comparison.

Five floors above, unable to sleep, Jules de Copeland peered through the blinds and down through the window towards the weakly lit parking bays. The Polo was still there. The darkness, rain and coating of salt on the window made it hard to see clearly. Was that the shape of the short man behind the wheel or just a shadow from one of the parking area lights?

Should he make his run for it now under the cover of darkness, he wondered? Hole up somewhere and wait until tomorrow afternoon, before heading towards Primrose Farm Cottage?

Or just stay put?

He checked his watch: 3.30 a.m. Maybe wait an hour or so till 4.30 a.m. That was the witching hour. He’d recently watched a television documentary about the human body clock. It seemed this was the time when people were at their lowest ebb. When sick people were most likely to die. Maybe the man in the Polo would be asleep then.

He made a list of what he needed to take with him, set his alarm and lay down on his bed, closed his eyes and tried to sleep.