Peter James - Dead at First Sight

‘What was the problem with the tyre?’ the Armed Response Unit officer asked.

‘A flat — unrepairable. Been slashed. Might have been a pothole — or vandals.’

‘Who was it rented to?’

The driver looked at his call sheet, attached to a clipboard on his dash. ‘The customer’s name was Samuel Jackson.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘He was a tall black guy. Not as good-looking as the actor!’ Then he added, as an afterthought, ‘And he smelled nice.’

‘Do you remember what colour his shoes were?’

‘Oh, yes — they were red.’

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘A little — he seemed agitated but very polite. He tried to give me a fifty-pound tip, but I told him we’re not allowed to accept tips.’

Deciding it was safe now to step forward, Kevin Hall held up his warrant card and asked the driver, ‘Do you have his flat number?’

The driver shook his head. ‘Just the address of the building and his mobile phone.’

‘Can you give me the number?’ Hall wrote it down on his pad.

‘Is there a problem, officers?’ the driver asked, looking bewildered and overwhelmed.

After a brief discussion with the Armed Response officers, Hall said to him, ‘No, thanks for your help. You are free to go on your way.’

Hurrying back to his car, Hall phoned the Incident Room and gave the phone number to Arnie Crown, who answered, telling him to check it out urgently.

Jules de Copeland stood by the window of his apartment, up on the fifth floor, watching the progress of the breakdown truck as it headed east along Marine Parade. He saw the small saloon suddenly appear from seemingly nowhere and accelerate hard in the same direction.

Cops?

Moments later he lost sight of it in the mist.

Cops who had been waiting somewhere outside, out of his view? Watching the building? Watching him? What would the breakdown truck driver tell them? The man had turned down his attempt to bribe him. Would he give them his phone number?

Of course he would. The phone which he had dropped down the chute. It was a burner, but he did not know how much information they could pull from it. His address?

He looked at his watch: 7.25 a.m.

How accurately could GPS triangulation on his phone call pinpoint him? To the building? The floor? The apartment?

Even more urgent to make a run for it.

In his van across the road from Marina Heights, Tooth watched the breakdown truck emerge from the car park and turn east. Moments later he was startled by the sight of a small, silver Ford, with two people in the front, moving fast in the same direction as the truck, racing past other vehicles and vanishing into the mist.

Where had it sprung from?

Had Copeland escaped in the rear of the truck? Should he chase after it, too, and see? But what if he was wrong? What if he did that and Copeland left the building in his car, with the tyre replaced, and he lost him?

It was a gamble either way. Stay put, he decided.

A few minutes later he would see he had made the right decision.

Jules de Copeland did a frantic last-minute check of his flat. Was there anything he had missed that could give the police any leads to him if they raided it?

He ran through into the bedroom, the spare room, the bathroom, then back into the large, open-plan living area.

His laptop!

Duh! How could he have missed it? Jesus, calm down. How shot were his nerves?

Cool it, man! Take a chill pill, wasn’t that what they said these days? Chill! Calm it all down. Hold your nerve, hang tight. Tonight you are going to scoop up £300,000 in cash from that dumb bitch. Tomorrow morning you’ll be in Germany. And by Sunday you’ll be back with Ama and Bobo. And rolling in cash!

Buoyed by the thought, he reached the front door, opened it, gave the room one final sweep with his jumpy eyes, turned the master switch off and closed the door behind him. Then, to be safe, he took the fire-escape stairs down to the basement.

All four tyres of the Kia looked nicely inflated. He put the laptop in one of the cases in the boot then jumped in, holding the key, and for a moment couldn’t find where to insert it. Was it to the right or the left of the steering wheel?

His hand was shaking like a jackhammer. Calm down, dude!

His vision was blurry. Nerves. He took several deep breaths. They didn’t calm him the way they usually did.

It took him three stabs to insert the damned key into the ignition slot. He twisted it. A whole bunch of dash lights and dials came to life. But nothing more.

No!

No, no, no!

He switched it off and tried again, twisting it so hard he was worried the key would snap.

NO! Don’t do this to me!

He tried again. Again. Then, to his relief, the car finally started.

Thank you, God!

He released the handbrake, reversed out of the bay, then accelerated forward and up the steep exit ramp. Shaking. In a total state, his eyes not even seeming to focus properly.

Get a grip!

The car-park door rose steadily upwards. As soon as it was well clear of his roof, he drove out and turned left through the visitors’ parking area, passing the Polo with its windscreen all misted and wondering if there was anyone inside it, but no longer caring. He was focused on just one thing, now. Getting away from here.

He drove past the EXIT sign and stopped at the main road. A steady stream of traffic was passing, at speed. Anxiously he peered in his mirrors. Any sign of the Polo moving? Nothing.

Good.

The traffic was relentless. Car. Car. Car. Taxi. Van. Bus. Truck. Car. Car. Car. Truck.

Come on, give us a break!

A short gap opened up. A large van, headlights on, was bearing down, but he had time if he floored it.

He pulled out sharply into the road. Halfway, the engine stalled.

Died.

No, not now!

Frantically he pumped the accelerator. Heard the scream of brakes and tyres and—

Suddenly he was inside a cocktail shaker. Or a tumble dryer. Spinning.

In slow motion and fast motion simultaneously.

Tooth, fingers closed around the handgrip of his gun, was scarcely able to believe what he was seeing. He was watching a scene from a horror movie playing in front of his eyes in slow motion.

The Kia pulling out into the busy road, then stopping dead. His doing, he realized.

An instant later, the Kia being T-boned, just behind the passenger compartment, the van sending it spinning around and into the oncoming traffic, where it was hit again by a Mini. The Kia rolled onto its roof and then, somehow, righted itself, landing on its wheels, stationary, in the middle of the road.

All the traffic, in both directions, halted.

People were jumping out of their vehicles and running towards the scene. The driver of the Mini, a woman, wasn’t moving.

Tooth maintained his grip on his gun. Watching through the windscreen of his van.

He saw, to his dismay, the tall black guy, looking dazed, climb out of the car.

Copeland stared around, lost, like an astronaut who’d landed on the wrong planet.

Tooth rapidly considered his options. Rush to the gathering crowd, half of whom were filming the scene on their phones, and in the chaos put two quick shots into Copeland and sprint away before anyone figured what was happening?

Then he heard a siren. Louder.

Saw blue lights in the distance approaching along the seafront, from the west.

He cursed, put the safety catch back on and pocketed the gun, watching the unfolding scene. Maybe they’d take Copeland to hospital. He knew that place, knew it extremely well. He’d have no problem hitting Copeland there.