Peter James - Dead at First Sight

Vogel did what he was told and jumped down onto the tarmac. Then the short, wiry man with an angry face waited in the strong, gusting wind that billowed his camel sports coat as the pilot removed the brown holdall from the luggage locker behind the rear seats and handed it to him. Vogel always travelled light.

As he took the leather bag and turned away from the aircraft, limping from an injury earlier this year, he looked around warily for any signs of an official. But, as he had been previously reassured, there was none in sight. A woman in her thirties strode out of a building beside the hangars and greeted him. ‘Mr Vogel, welcome to Gama Aviation. Your car is here for you.’

He followed her through the building, passing a couple of empty baggage carts in a corridor, and then outside, where a black, long-wheelbase Range Rover was parked. A bald-headed giant of a man, in wrap-around sunglasses and a sharp suit, jumped out and strode towards him.

‘Mr Vogel?’

He gave a short nod.

‘Welcome to Jersey, sir. Your first visit?’

Vogel did not respond.

‘Mr Barrey sends his regards. You will see him at midday tomorrow. It’s important to be punctual, Mr Barrey does not like people who are late. I’ll be here to make sure you are not late.’

Again Vogel did not respond.

The man took his bag and ushered him into the rear of the car. As they swept away from the airport, Andreas Vogel glanced through the darkened glass. No one knew he was here. Just as no one knew he had left Germany. That was how he needed to travel. No checked baggage, no record of where he was. His mobile phone had been in airplane mode since before leaving Munich. It would remain in that mode until he returned.

Munich was his new home, for now. For the next few days he would be using a phone that had been placed on the seat beside him for his convenience. Programmed into it were all the telephone numbers he would need. It had no GPS capability. He wasn’t exactly persona grata on English soil these days. Maybe it was dumb to be accepting a job that took him back there. But the truth was, word had gotten around in the US that he had murdered one of his previous paymasters — and that hadn’t been great PR for him. Clients weren’t exactly tripping over each other to hire him any more.

Maybe it was time to quit. Cash in his chips.

‘You been to the Channel Isles before, Mr Vogel?’ the driver asked. Vogel did not reply.

He didn’t particularly like his current name, Vogel, either. It was a make of healthy bread sold in supermarkets, and not his choice. But it would suffice for now.

Johnny Fordwater saw on his phone display the words No Caller ID.

Instantly, his spirits rose. Was it Ingrid at last? Excitedly, he answered.

The voice at the other end said, ‘Hey, buddy, how you doing?’ His old mate, Gerald Ronson.

Masking his disappointment, he replied, with as much brightness as he could muster, ‘Gerry! Good to hear you!’

‘You OK, buddy?’

‘Yes, fine.’

They’d been in that foxhole together, almost twenty years back, and had both, somehow, survived the rest of their time in Iraq. They’d remained good friends ever since. Both couples had visited each other back in the good old days when Elaine was fit and well.

After his divorce, Gerry, who had become a firefighter when he quit the military, sounded like he’d been having a ball trying out online dating agencies. Gerry had been encouraging him to do the same. For over three years, still mourning Elaine’s death, Johnny had resisted. Almost a year ago, with wording provided by Gerry, he’d finally put a toe in the water. He’d chosen a German dating site, partly to avoid embarrassment if anyone in the UK found out, but just as much because of his liking for German women.

‘You don’t sound OK, buddy. You sound a little down.’

‘Around £400,000 down, if you want to know the truth, Gerry. I’m about to lose my home — thanks to my stupidity.’

‘Hey, hold on! What do you mean about what you are going to lose?’

‘My home. I’m about to lose my home.’

‘Your home?’

‘All of it, buddy.’

‘How — like — why — what’s happened?’

‘Want me to spell it out?’

‘Letter by letter.’

Johnny spelled it out. When he had finished, he sat in silence, waiting for Gerry’s response.

When it finally came it was succinct. ‘Shit, buddy.’

Within seconds of ending the call, his phone rang again. Once more he answered with his hopes raised.

It was Detective Sergeant Potting.

A sharp rap on Roy Grace’s office door, then it opened before he could say anything, and detectives Potting and Wilde appeared.

There had been a time, last year, when the four-times married Potting, approaching normal police retirement age, had been on the verge of marrying — yet again — this time to a police officer who was subsequently killed in a fire. He had really spruced himself up during the time he had been dating her, and he continued to take pride in his appearance after her death, which would have pleased Bella, Grace reflected.

Although he was still dressing well, some of his spark seemed to have left him, his face was drawn and pale and he seemed downcast. Grace wondered if that had anything to do with the prostate cancer treatment Norman had begun back in May, after which he had lamented privately to him that his libido was on the floor.

Unable to cope with the changed world he was in, the detective constantly upset people with his politically incorrect remarks and attitude, but Roy Grace resolutely kept him on his team, despite requests from ACC Pewe to the contrary. He fought Norman Potting’s corner for two reasons. Firstly, and most importantly, he was an immensely capable detective with years of invaluable experience — something, Grace rued, people seemed to value less and less. And secondly, he fought to keep him because he cared for the man. Compassion was another value that had gone missing during the country’s austerity measures.

Grace no longer had space for a conference table in his office, so Potting and Wilde had to sit in the two swivel chairs at the empty desk facing his own.

‘Good to see you, Norman,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘Not enough blooming murders,’ Potting grumbled. DC Wilde smiled politely.

‘Good to see you, too, Velvet,’ Grace said. She was a feisty character, with short, spiky blonde hair, though conservatively dressed, like most detectives. ‘How’s everything?’ he asked.

‘Good, thank you, sir,’ she said in her Belfast accent.

He turned to Potting. ‘Norman, what can you tell me about this man John — Johnny — Fordwater?’

‘If you want my opinion, chief, for a retired high-ranking soldier he’s pretty dim. Allowed himself to be defrauded by a woman he met on a German dating agency. I think he’s a sandwich short of a picnic.’

Grace looked at DC Wilde. ‘Would you agree with that assessment, Velvet?’

‘Well,’ she said, guardedly. ‘He’s a nice fellow, but he seems to have been pretty naive, as Norman says, sir.’

‘In what way naive, Velvet?’

‘To hand over every penny he has in the world to a complete stranger he’s never actually met in person. I call that naive, sir.’

Grace glanced quizzically at Norman Potting for being quick to criticize Fordwater. Potting’s own record wasn’t much better. His third marriage — or perhaps it was his fourth — had been to a Thai gold-digger. After just a few months, Potting had come to see him wanting advice. She’d returned to Thailand to be with her supposedly sick father. Within days, the first request for money had come through. The amounts had steadily risen. Grace had told him to stop, and Potting had, wisely, heeded his advice. But not before the DS had paid over many thousands into her bank account.