Peter James - Dead at First Sight

Following the numbers along the corridor, past the lift, he saw the door to Flat 2 facing him at the end. There was a smell of burnt toast. He stopped in front of it and glanced behind him, checking there was no one, then pressed the buzzer. There was a sharp rasping sound. After a few seconds Tooth heard the man call out.

‘Hold on a sec, I got fecking toast on fire here!’

It was another minute or so before the door opened and the stench was much stronger now. Wisps of smoke drifted out. The shaven-headed caretaker, barefoot in a T-shirt and jeans, peered at him, bolshily. The flat looked typical of the poky little ratholes they gave caretakers — he’d been one himself for a couple of years after he left the military. He could see a kitchen just beyond with smoke wafting in it.

‘My hours are eight thirty to five, it says so outside, come back in half an hour.’ He was about to shut the door in Tooth’s face, when he peered at him more closely, with recognition. ‘I know you, don’t I — we met before?’

‘Wednesday night, seven thirty. Out of your office hours. You must have been putting in overtime — saving up for some dental work?’ Tooth replied, rapidly trying to assess whether anyone was here with him. From the slovenly look of the place he doubted it. ‘You’re going to have to save a bit harder.’

‘Huh?’

Tooth headbutted him, straight in the mouth, relieving him of the teeth either side of the missing one, sending the man staggering back across his small hall and crashing against the wall.

As the caretaker groaned, covering his bleeding mouth with a tattooed hand, Tooth shoved the door shut behind him, simultaneously launching himself forward and aiming a disabling kick at the man’s groin, instantly shooting all the wind out of him. The man doubled-up in agony, gasping. As he did so, Tooth seized his forearm and threw him over his shoulder, still gripping the arm, which snapped clean in two.

The caretaker lay on his back on the carpeted floor, staring at him fearfully, blood over his chin and neck, half his radius bone sticking out through the skin of his forearm. Gasping in agony, he cried, ‘What is this, what do you want?’

‘I don’t like you.’

‘Huh?’

‘You’re a very rude man.’

‘Rude... ah... ah... you’re the fekker that was parked outside.’

Tooth saw what he needed, hanging on the wall by the door. No need for the caretaker any more. He knelt and put a hand under the base of the man’s chin, staring him in the eyes. ‘If I was a politer guy than you, I’d apologize for what I’m about to do. But I’m not and I don’t like you, so I won’t.’ He jerked the janitor’s chin up sharply with his left hand, simultaneously smashing a karate chop with his right into his neck, shattering his windpipe. As the man’s head slumped forward, his throat rattling in his struggle for oxygen, Tooth cracked the side of his hand into the rear of his neck, severing the spinal cord.

The caretaker spasmed, then lay still.

Tooth stood back up, went over to the board by the door, which looked like it had keys to every flat in the building hanging on numbered hooks, and found No. 507. As he removed the key and pocketed it, the doorbell rasped.

He froze, thinking. Waiting.

It rasped again.

A resident — or police? There was no damned spyhole to look through and see.

Shit.

He knelt, grabbed the dead man under the armpits and dragged him through into the little kitchen. Then he went back out into the hall and closed the kitchen door, softly. He stood waiting. One minute. Two. Three.

Was someone still out there? He pulled out his gun, removed the safety catch and put it back in his pocket. He waited a short while longer, then, braced to take down anyone standing there, he pulled the door wide open.

The corridor was empty.

But as he stepped out and closed the door, a man in a business suit, holding a smart laptop bag, appeared at the end of the corridor and strode up to Tooth, smiling.

‘Hi, are you the caretaker?’ he asked politely in a South African accent. Tooth nodded. Ready to tackle him if he needed to.

‘I’m Dave Allen — my partner, Nicky, and I have just moved into No. 402. The hot water’s not coming on — could you see if you could fix it or let me know the name of a plumber?’

‘Sure,’ Tooth said, disarmingly pleasant. ‘I’m just dealing with a problem in another flat. Can you give me half an hour?’

‘We’re both just off to work — I think you have a key?’

‘I do. Flat 402. I’ll go and investigate, Mr Allen, and if I can’t find the problem I’ll call the plumber in right away.’

‘You’re American?’

‘Uh-huh, but I’ve been here a long while.’

Dave Allen thanked him, then went through the door to the underground car park.

Tooth took the fire-escape staircase up to the fifth floor.

Closing the door of Flat 507 behind him, Tooth stood in a wide, luxuriously appointed hallway. As a precaution, he called out, ‘Hello! Caretaker!’

There was no response.

He called out again louder, to make sure, then walked along the hallway and into a large, open-plan living-dining area. Picture windows gave panoramic views to the east and south, all with full-length blinds, fully lowered and opened at an angle that would allow the occupant to look out but not be seen.

It was some pad. Clearly Jules de Copeland didn’t stint himself, lavishing some of the money he conned from his internet dating scam business on a nice lifestyle. Smart, modern furnishings, with a fancy Bang and Olufsen hi-fi and a vast flat-screen television.

He walked across thick, white broadloom to the south-facing windows and peered down at the road. The fire brigade were in attendance now, applying heavy cutting gear to the Mini, the driver still inside. There were three ambulances. Police everywhere. His van was still parked across the road in the bus stop, no one seemingly paying it any attention.

He turned away and looked around. Somewhere in here, he hoped he’d find a clue as to where Copeland might be heading.

And if he didn’t?

Tough shit, Steven Barrey. This was his last contract. For the first time since he had started his business he decided to throw his principles to the wind. Take his chances on the burnt-face bastard ever tracking him down in South America.

Over against the far wall, where there was no window, was a fancy walnut desk and white leather chair. He went over to it. There was a Mac charging cable, a phone charger and a mouse. He looked around more carefully. In the waste-paper basket he saw a screwed-up yellow Post-it note that had some scribble on it. Curious, he retrieved it and opened out the small yellow square of paper. The words were barely legible.

Lynda. Primrose Farm Cottage. Forest Row. 6.30 pm. 300K

He pocketed it, then left the apartment, making his way back down the stairwell. There was a non-alarmed fire-escape door out onto the street at the back of the building. He took it. Too risky to return to his van, he decided. No doubt it would be clamped or towed sometime later this morning. But with all the chaos happening in the street in front of it, he doubted anyone would be paying it too much attention for some while. With luck it would be removed to a car pound and, long before anyone started looking for the man who had rented it, he would be out of the country.

A light drizzle was falling again. He walked along the street, with an underpass to the left and the gasometer beyond, thinking, planning. Feeling very much better, suddenly, although he knew that would not last. Sometime soon again the nausea would return.

When he was a fair distance away from the seafront road he stopped and did a Google search for van rental companies in the area. In his search yesterday, he’d found several. He pressed the link for the phone number of the one that had been second on his list, and dialled the firm. They had a vehicle which suited his purposes fine. He told them he would be with them within the next two hours.