Peter James - Dead at First Sight

‘You’re a regular cheerful Charlie, aren’t you?’ PC Riley said.

‘Nah, I just like horror flicks. Have fun, lads!’

As the van drove off, the two officers pulled on their night-vision goggles and set off along the track, which dipped steeply at first down to the left, then levelled out. It was a long walk, three-quarters of a mile, lined on both sides with ferns and scrubby bushes, with the occasional mature rhododendron, and with dense forest beyond. Finally a house came into view. It was in pitch darkness and showed up a ghostly green through their goggles.

It was a substantial brick building with three gables, a thatched roof and the front door off-set slightly. Attached to the right-hand side of the house, as if added on many years ago as an afterthought, was an ugly double garage that looked in a bad state of neglect. To Hastings, who’d worked in the building trade before joining the police, it looked like two — or possibly three — cottages had at some point in the past been knocked together and converted into a single dwelling. Ivy had grown up a large part of the facade, with almost bare branches of wisteria covering the rest.

A small off-roader was parked outside the front of the house, beyond an overgrown lawn with a brick wishing well bounded by an unpaved circular driveway. They slowed their pace. ‘Proper Hansel and Gretel,’ Hastings said, quietly.

‘Mmmm. I’m kind of thinking Texas Chainsaw Massacre ,’ Riley retorted, also quietly.

‘I’ll make sure Leatherface gets you first!’

‘And I always had you down as a gentleman!’ Riley retorted. ‘So what intel do we have?’

‘Not much.’

‘Dogs?’

‘Just a cat.’

‘If I lived here I’d have Rottweilers.’

‘Me too, so I could keep out old plods with boring sodding stories!’

They began to move forward more slowly now, one step at a time, in case there were motion-sensor lights.

‘Probably don’t get too many Jehovah’s Witnesses out here!’ Riley whispered. Hastings sniggered.

The house was now fifty feet in front of them. A light came on in an upstairs window. The two officers melted into the trees.

The shadow of a woman crossed the window. Another light came on. Then another. An owl hooted somewhere nearby.

Twenty minutes later the upstairs lights went off and several came on downstairs.

At a few minutes before 4.15 a.m., all the lights went off. A woman emerged from the front door with a handbag and a large suitcase. She popped the tailgate of the off-roader, pulled out a squeegee and wiped the vehicle’s windows clear of moisture. Then she hefted her suitcase into the rear and closed the tailgate. Firing up the rattling engine, she sat for some moments, then drove off past them, leaving behind a haze of diesel fumes.

Ten minutes later, Doug Riley had carved out a hide inside a dense rhododendron bush. He made sure both the front and rear were covered, then radioed the support team in the van. ‘Romeo One, Mike Whisky One in situ.’

His colleague, Lewis Hastings, buried deep inside a hedge behind the house, radioed in a few seconds later. ‘Romeo One, Mike Whisky Two in situ.’

Riley radioed again. ‘Romeo One. A woman, looks like the householder, has just departed with luggage. What’s the ETA of our weekend guests?’

‘Early evening, Mike Whisky One,’ the old sweat in the van replied. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be a long day, chaps. Silver has requested as soon as it’s light enough you take and email close-up shots of the front- and rear-door locks. He wants to get a listening device in the house ASAP.’

‘Yes yes,’ Riley said.

‘Yes yes,’ Hastings replied also.

At 4.30 a.m., dressed and heavily sprayed with cologne, Jules de Copeland peered down through the window at the parking area. The Polo was still there. The windscreen was wet and misted. Was that someone at the wheel?

Wait on, bro , Copeland thought.

He took the lift down to the underground car park, carrying two bags with him, one containing his passport and a few belongings, the other empty, big enough, he had calculated, for the cash Lynda Merrill was going to give him.

His plan was to leave here under the cover of darkness and head towards the rendezvous, then park up somewhere remote. En route he would buy a massive bunch of flowers, an impressive box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne.

He could imagine the look on her face. She would be expecting a handsome Richie Griffiths. Not him.

He had the spiel all prepared. ‘ Hi, Mrs Merrill, Richie got delayed, he sent me ahead to present you with these little gifts! ’

Then, depending how she reacted, he’d either knock her unconscious or more likely break the stupid bitch’s neck.

The doors opened. He stepped out and walked across the silent, dimly lit car park, looking around warily while he made his way towards the dark-blue Kia, checking every shadow the way he used to as a kid during jungle warfare. As he approached, he pulled the key out of his pocket and pressed the unlock button. The indicators flashed and he heard the clunk.

Then he saw the front right tyre. Completely flat.

Shit, shit, shit.

This was so not part of the plan.

Putting the bags down on the ground, he opened the boot and peered inside for a toolkit and spare wheel. There wasn’t one — instead he saw a bag labelled ‘Tyre Inflation Kit’. He opened it and studied the instructions. He removed the cylinder, knelt and removed the dust cap from the valve. Then he screwed in the nozzle and pressed the trigger.

There was a sharp hiss and to his relief the tyre began inflating. Then, as the gas in the cylinder ran out, he heard a further hiss. Coming from another part of the tyre.

In front of his eyes, it fully deflated again in seconds. He swore, feeling a flash of panic.

Opening the passenger door, he flipped down the lid of the glovebox, pulled out the rental document and scanned it, looking for an emergency contact number. He found it and dialled. It was answered after a few rings. He explained the problem to a polite, weary-sounding male. He would get a breakdown vehicle to him as soon as possible, he assured Copeland. But it might take a while because it was the middle of the night.

Copeland locked the bags in the boot of the car and went back up to his flat. Over two hours later, his phone rang. A chirpy-sounding man from the breakdown company told him he was five minutes away with a spare tyre for him in case the puncture could not be fixed; could he let him into the underground car park?

Copeland hurried back down.

Now parked just behind a bus stop lay-by on the far side of the clifftop road above Brighton Marina, two hundred yards to the east of the apartment block, where he had moved over two hours ago, Tooth maintained his vigil in the van. Oblivious to the cold, he sat pretty much motionless, just occasionally switching on the wipers. He was still nauseous.

The only thing that gave him any pleasure was the red NO SMOKING roundel fixed to the van’s dash. He shook out yet another Lucky Strike and lit it. After a few drags he flicked the ash into the footwell, where it fell on the pile of butts that had accumulated during the night.

A few hundred yards to the west, DC Hall and DC Wilde sat in their silver Ford Focus, in the parking bay of another, smaller block of flats, with a clear view but out of sight of the Polo parked at Marina Heights. They had relieved the Road Policing Officer, PC Trundle, almost eight hours earlier. In the breaking light they could see the skeletal structure of a gasometer a short distance to their left.