Peter James - Dead at First Sight

‘Roy!’ Ray Packham answered, sounding genuinely pleased to hear from him.

Grace cut to the chase. ‘I’ve got a fast-time situation, Ray. Can you tell me if a Major Johnny Fordwater has been in touch with you — he was given your details by a detective in the NYPD on Monday.’

‘Hmmm,’ Packham replied. ‘Not sure whether I should be pleading client confidentiality.’

Grace was unsure from the tone of his voice whether he was joking or not. ‘There’s possibly life at stake here, Ray.’

‘Mate, I’ll always give you priority over any client. Yes, he’s been in touch, came to see me on Tuesday. He’s a pretty angry man — and with good reason. He wanted to pay me every penny he has left in the world to track down the scammers who’d targeted him. I told him he’s up against very smart operators, who hide behind a virtually untraceable digital trail, and the best thing he could do was write-off what he had lost, put it down to experience and try to enjoy the rest of his life and what money he had left. But he wasn’t having it. He’s just dead set on revenge.’

‘So how did you leave it with him?’

‘He wanted to hire me to have a go at finding them. But I genuinely felt I couldn’t help him. Frankly, if I’d taken his money I would have been conning him, too, and I wouldn’t do that to anyone. I gave him the name of a contact I’ve had some dealings with, who’s made something of a speciality in the internet romance field, and told him he’d be better off spending his money with him.’

‘Who’s that, Ray?’

‘A PI called Jack Roberts — has a company called Global Investigations.’

‘Interesting.’

‘You know this character?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Roberts has a great reputation — seems to be able to do a lot more for his clients than any of the current police forces around Europe.’

‘By taking the law into his own hands, Ray?’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment on his methods.’

Once again, Grace was unsure whether Packham was joking or not. But he was starting to have an idea what Major Johnny Fordwater might be doing at Primrose Farm Cottage.

And it wasn’t to enjoy a few hours of autumnal Sussex countryside.

Thanking Packham, he ended the call, then sat, absorbing what he had just been told. Thinking back to last week when he and Glenn Branson had met Jack Roberts in his company’s Kingston offices. When Roberts had, none too subtly, made clear his views on the ability of the police, with current resources, to effectively tackle internet fraud. And his chilling words.

I’ll give you one piece of advice. You’d better act fast and hard on this. Otherwise you’re going to find vigilantes doing your job for you.

So, he thought, Major Johnny Fordwater had gone to see Jack Roberts. Fordwater was angry, wanting to hit back at the scammers. Was Lynda Merrill also, possibly, a client of Roberts? Had Fordwater gone to Primrose Farm Cottage to protect her — or with the intention of confronting Jules de Copeland?

The bloody idiot was in danger of messing up his whole planned operation. He looked at his watch: 3.40 p.m. There was time. Should he send someone in to tell Fordwater to get the hell out of there?

He weighed up the pros and cons, and realized there was a definite pro to letting Fordwater remain in situ. If the retired major was in cahoots with Lynda Merrill and was planning to confront Jules de Copeland when he entered, he would be giving her protection until the police went in. The con was—

He was interrupted by a call from an officer at the Silver command centre. ‘Sir, Mike Whisky One has just called in a woman, fitting the description of Mrs Lynda Merrill, arriving at the cottage. The front door was opened by our mystery man and he has helped her unload several bunches of flowers and Waitrose carrier bags from her car, into the house.’

Grace began to panic. Could the intelligence he’d received be wrong? Were Lynda Merrill and Johnny Fordwater now lovers, having a romantic weekend together?

He’d put together this entire, huge and costly operation on the information from Aiden Gilbert’s team at Digital Forensics. What if they’d got it wrong and Copeland had slipped the net and left the country?

He didn’t even want to think about what Cassian Pewe would have to say. And yet.

He had to hold his nerve.

Had to remind himself that £300,000, in cash, was a lot of money. An amount worth taking a risk for. And from his past history, Copeland was a risk taker.

‘What else has happened during the day — have the CROPS reported any other activity?’

‘Nothing significant since the covert entry team, only the arrival of the postman around 1 p.m., and another van dropping what looks like an Amazon delivery, who left a package on the doorstep, about 2 p.m., sir.’

‘OK, patch the listening devices in the house through to me. Are the CROPS hearing it, too?’

‘They are, sir.’

Moments later, Grace followed the very clear dialogue between the couple.

It wasn’t the conversation of intimate lovers.

The woman said, ‘We need to find somewhere for you to hide.’

The man, in an upmarket voice, said, ‘What time is this runt meant to be arriving?’

‘Around 6.30.’

‘I’ll be ready. Just keep him sweet-talking. Tell him you’re going to fetch the cash and make him a drink. Whatever he wants.’

‘You’re not going to attack him?’

‘No, I just want to see the bastard face to face. See what he has to say. I’m wearing the wiretap Jack Roberts put on me. My goal is to get him to confess.’

‘Are we sure about what we’re doing? It’s not worth getting hurt for, Johnny.’

‘That, my dear lady,’ Fordwater said, ‘is a matter of opinion.’

Roy Grace, worried, removed his earpiece, riffled through his notes and found the number he was looking for. He dialled it.

A friendly-sounding woman answered after two rings. ‘Global Investigations. How can I help you?’

‘May I speak to Jack Roberts, please?’

‘I’m sorry, he’s out of the office for the rest of the afternoon.’

‘Can you give me his mobile number?’

‘I’m very sorry, sir, I’m not able to give that out.’

‘I’m Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. I met with Mr Roberts on Tuesday of last week. I need to speak with him very urgently — there is potentially a life at stake.’

‘Are you able to verify who you are, sir?’

‘I can send you through a scan of my warrant card. But you saw me in your office last week.’

Hesitantly, she gave him the number. Grace wrote it down. Immediately he rang the Digital Forensics Team and read out the number to one of its members, Daniel Salter, who answered. He asked Salter to locate the current position of the phone, as a matter of extreme urgency.

Ten minutes later, Salter called Roy Grace back with the GPS coordinates. The detective plotted them on his phone, then to double-check, looked at them on the map on the whiteboard.

Jack Roberts was less than two miles away from Primrose Farm Cottage. What was he doing?

Grace dialled the number.

‘Jack Roberts,’ the private investigator answered, almost instantly.

‘Mr Roberts, it’s Detective Superintendent Grace.’

He sounded hesitant. ‘Detective Superintendent — how can I help you?’

‘Can you tell me where you are and what you are doing?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m on a covert operation for some clients. I think I’m about to have some very good news for you, but I can’t tell you where I am yet.’