Peter James - Dead at First Sight

His head swam again, another bout of nausea engulfing him. He needed to be in hospital himself, he knew. One for tropical diseases. He needed urgently to see a specialist in venomous bites again, like the one in Munich, to get all this crap happening inside him sorted out. He’d find one in Ecuador, for sure.

Then he stiffened as he watched a new development. Something was up.

He tried to focus.

Jules de Copeland, trying desperately to focus, to gather his wits, saw a bearded man in paint-spattered overalls striding angrily towards him. A phone camera flashed.

‘You stupid twat!’ the man yelled. ‘You pulled right out in front of me. Jesus, are you all right? You stupid moron! I thought I’d killed you!’

Another camera flashed.

The man pushed through the crowd, fists clenched, and reached him. ‘You pulled right out in front of me!’ He grabbed Copeland’s coat lapels. ‘Look what you’ve done to my van — that’s my whole livelihood!’

Instinctively, without even thinking about it, Copeland took a swing at him, striking him under the jaw and decking him.

As the van driver staggered backwards and fell to the ground, Copeland ran to the rear of his car, barely clocking the shocked faces all around, wrenched open the boot lid, pulled out his two cases and ran, pushing through them, ignoring the shouts.

As he ran, he looked in desperation in both directions. Which way? Left? Right? They were his only options.

Tooth saw his chance. Copeland making a break for it. The roundabouts were coming on again inside his head. He opened the driver’s door and, as he climbed out, his foot caught in the seat belt and he fell flat on the hard, wet tarmac. He lay there, stunned, for some seconds, then vomited.

Copeland reached the far pavement and stopped for an instant, his brain feeling like it had been through a blender. The siren was getting closer. His right leg was hurting badly and his chest felt as if a sword was sticking into it. Busted rib? No time to think about it. To his right, the main road stretched endlessly away into the distance along the clifftop. He’d be completely exposed. His only option was left. A couple of hundred yards to his left another main road joined it. If he could reach that he could head up it, north and away.

He ran, limping, swinging the cases, every step agony, then turned right and carried on up the main road. Over to the left was an underpass and, beyond that, a gasometer. After a short distance he stopped and turned. No one was following him. A marked police car, lights flashing, shot past the junction.

How long before someone told the police which direction he’d run off in?

He had to hide. Where? There was a housing estate over to the right with a large car park in front. Could he hide behind one of the vehicles? He was about to make a dash for it when, unbelievably, he saw a turquoise-and-white taxi coming down the hill with the FOR HIRE sign lit up.

He dropped the cases and jumped out in front of it, holding up a hand, and to his relief the taxi stopped. The Asian driver lowered the nearside window and Copeland leaned in. ‘Oh man, you’ve saved my life! I’ve got to catch a flight from Gatwick and my bloody car won’t start!’

The driver climbed out, all happy. ‘No problem!’ Then he peered closely at Copeland’s face. ‘You’ve got a nasty gash.’

Copeland put his hand to his cheek and felt something sticky. He pulled it away and saw blood on his fingers. ‘Yeah, the bonnet caught me in the face when I lifted it to see if I could fix the problem.’

‘You ought to get that attended to, it might need stitching — do you want to go via the hospital?’

‘No, no time. And it’s nothing like the injury I’m going to be getting from my wife if I don’t catch that plane. It’s our wedding anniversary!’

‘All right, jump in, please. I’ll take care of the bags. I’ll give you some tissues — don’t let any blood get on the upholstery, please, it’s not my cab and the guy who owns it is well fussy.’

Copeland got into the rear and pulled the door shut while the driver put the cases in the boot. Moments later they were under way. He sat back, dabbing his face with a tissue and putting on his seat belt. They went over a pothole and he stifled a scream as the rib dug painfully into his chest.

Seconds later the taxi halted at the junction with the main seafront road. ‘Nasty-looking accident over there,’ the driver said.

Peering through his window, Copeland saw the police car stopped a short distance from the smashed Kia, van and Mini, and the crowd of people who had left their vehicles, from both directions. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s what the noise was. I heard a loud bang.’

‘Looks a big one!’ The driver pulled out, turning right, to Copeland’s relief, and away from the scene.

‘Where you from?’ he asked.

‘Scotland,’ Copeland replied, randomly.

‘Always raining there?’

‘Always.’

‘North or South Terminal?’

‘North,’ he said.

‘Are you sure? What airline?’

‘British Airways.’

‘They go from the South Terminal to Scotland.’

‘Ah, right, thank you. South, please.’

Copeland closed his eyes. Jesus. What a mess. What a mess.

‘I’ve got a mate who moved to Edinburgh, married a girl from there. Said it’s flipping cold.’

‘Yeah,’ Copeland said distantly, tuning him out. He was thinking. Police had been watching the flat. Someone else had also. Kofi had been murdered in prison. Steve Barrey’s doing? Almost certainly, that was his style, his reach — Barrey had long tentacles. And if he’d ordered Kofi dead, he would have ordered him dead, too. If he was sensible he’d forget the cash, just cut and run now. If the police and Barrey were after him, it could only be a matter of time.

But £300,000 was too much to walk away from. There had to be a way to grab the money and go, if need be from right under the nose of anyone watching — police or friends of Mr Steven Barrey.

An idea was forming. The police had raided his Withdean Place business premises, but there were only a few of his staff there. Most of them had gone home to their rented accommodation in the city. He hit the speed dial on his back-up phone of his trusted manager, a fellow Ghanaian, Lucius Orji, hoping and praying this was still his current number. He encouraged all his team to ditch their burners every three days and replace them.

It rang and moments later Orji answered.

‘Man, am I glad to hear your voice,’ Copeland said.

‘You too, boss. You OK? I mean I heard about Kofi.’

‘Meet me at Gatwick Airport, get there as quickly as you can. Bring your driving licence. South Terminal arrivals hall, there’s a Costa. I’ll see you there.’

For the next twenty minutes Copeland sat in silence, planning. He made a list of what he required.

There was a tradition within the Sussex Police Major Crime Unit of a member of an operation team anonymously sticking a cartoon, relevant to the enquiry, on the inside of the Incident Room door. Despite their collaboration some while back now with Surrey Police Major Crime Team, the tradition still held good.

Roy Grace, hunched over his workstation, stared with amusement at the one that had appeared overnight. It had been clipped from a newspaper. The headline above said,

and below was an image of a cash register spewing out money like a fruit machine.

Serious again, he focused back on his task of trying to piece together everything he currently had on Operation Lisbon. He read through his notes, carefully, on the pad in front of him, beside his Policy Book.