Peter James: Dead at First Sight

‘Two miles west of the village of Forest Row in East Sussex?’

‘Very accurate, Detective Superintendent.’

‘Mr Roberts, I’ve a pretty good idea who your clients are and they are both in very considerable danger.’

‘That’s why I’m here, ready to go to their assistance.’

‘I appreciate your concern, but we have a major armed police operation in progress following several days of surveillance and intelligence gathering. I’d be very grateful for your cooperation. We both want the same thing.’

‘Of course, what do you need me to do?’

‘The best thing you can do for both your clients’ safety and your own would be to go back to your office. This may not be what you want to hear. I know your views on the police from what you told me when we met, but I need you to trust me.’

‘I’m sorry, Detective Superintendent, I promised Mrs Merrill and Major Fordwater I would be close to hand. I want to stay involved — it’s not often I get the chance of a live one, and it would be good for my business. I won’t go any closer and I won’t interfere. Is there any more information you need?’

‘Not at the moment, but stay in contact. I’m not happy about this but it’s too late to change things now,’ Grace replied. ‘We’ll stay in touch.’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

Grace ended the call and immediately updated Silver. ‘Can you trust Roberts to stay out of this?’ Helene Scott asked.

‘I hope so,’ he said.

And silently thought, So long as this doesn’t all go tits up.

Tooth, a baseball cap pulled low over his face, was fighting off another attack of giddiness as he drove his rental van up the high street of Forest Row, observing everything. Ahead was a church with a steeple at which he needed to turn right. Immediately to his right was a delivery truck unloading supplies into a deli. To his left an old red van, then a wide forecourt in front of Java & Jazz café and the Chequers Inn. Several cars were parked tail-out, except for one, a dark Ford saloon, which had reversed in.

He clocked two people inside it. Cops for sure, he could always spot them — he could smell them, the way a wildebeest scents a lion or a jackal. The third lot of cops he’d seen in the past ten minutes — one marked, the others plain, in separate lay-bys on the approach to the village. Watching. Hunting. He was well aware from stuff on the news and in the papers how short of resources the British police were, currently. To have deployed three vehicles — six officers — to a small village meant one distinct and dangerous possibility to him. That they had intel on Copeland.

Waiting for him to arrive?

From what he could see from his maps they’d been cleverly located, as anyone coming from the Brighton area would have a very long detour if they didn’t take one of the three directions these cars were covering.

He’d survived in this game for as long as he had by never taking chances. British police cars were now fitted with number-plate recognition kit, which meant that almost certainly they’d be running the plates of every passing vehicle. Rental vehicles would be of particular interest to them. There was every likelihood the caretaker at Marina Heights had been found.

One phone call to the company where he’d rented this van from two hours ago, from one of these cop cars, and there was a high probability they’d be looking for him, too.

A high probability, also, that the entrance to Primrose Farm Cottage was being watched.

He tried for a moment to put himself in the mind of the police behind whatever was going on. They would know Copeland was extremely violent and dangerous. Would they let him get as far as the cottage itself? He was on a mission to pick up £300,000 — surely they’d want to catch him red-handed? Maybe they already had undercover officers inside the house? As well as a decoy for the woman?

He needed to find out, get himself inside that cottage. How?

He navigated a small roundabout, forking right in the direction he had memorized. Parked on the pavement a short distance along on his right, outside a house, was a white van, bearing the name SOUTHERN WATER and a small blue logo. Its rear doors were open and two men in high-viz jackets and hard hats were standing on the lawn of the house. One was wearing what looked like ear defenders, until he looked more closely as he passed them and saw they were headphones. The workmen had a metal rod inserted into the lawn, with a cable running to the headset. He realized what they were doing, they were listening to a buried water pipe. Looking for a leak, he guessed.

A short distance on, passing a lychgate set in a flint wall, with a cemetery beyond, he saw a small field adjoining two houses under construction, but with no sign of activity. To the left was a large warehouse and beyond the field was wooded countryside. But what drew his attention was a second Southern Water van, parked up a track between the field and the first house. Two more men in yellow jackets and hard hats stood in the middle of the field, occupied with inserting a listening rod into the ground.

Definitely a leak, he decided, slowing down. How many more vans like this were in the area? Was it a major leak they were trying to trace?

He hoped it was. Very major.

He hoped it would be as big as leaks get.

As soon as he could find a place to turn, Tooth circled back, fast, and was relieved to see the two men were still occupied with the rod in the middle of the field. He pulled the van into the small car park for the cemetery, jumped out and locked it, then stood by the road while several cars passed, before running across.

He was feeling better now. The adrenaline coursing through him had nixed the nausea and hopefully would keep it at bay. He felt alert, back in the army, in the jungle, alone, surviving on his wits. The thrill. It was moments like this when he felt truly alive, as if all the rest of his life was padding.

This was the last time, he reminded himself. Savour it, enjoy the moment.

Could he really retire? Spend his days fishing and walking his dog? The mutt wouldn’t live for ever and he had no idea how old the creature was, anyhow — seven, ten? Whatever, he had a few years in him yet. But retirement meant not having to deal with punks like Steve Barrey, and all the others who’d employed him before. In his line of work, he wasn’t ever going to get hired by anyone decent.

He switched his mind back to his task. Stalking mode. Instinctively he crouched a fraction, keeping below behind the hedgerow until he reached the rear of the van. Obligingly, the workmen had reversed the vehicle in here. Which meant no one from the road could see him. Good.

He slipped along the far side of the van, which was out of sight to the men in the field, and around to the rear of the vehicle. The doors had been pushed to, but not closed. Perfect. He took another glance at the workmen, then pulled open one door, wincing at the loud creak of its hinge, but the men were too far away to hear it, and one had headphones on anyway. He peered in. It was cluttered with equipment — traffic cones, meters, gauges, a box of valves, a large toolkit, a pump and, to his joy, a tarpaulin that lay under a jumble of road signs, right behind the driver and passenger seats.

He scrambled in, pulled the door shut behind him, then trod his way carefully in the semi-darkness towards the front. Reaching the tarpaulin, he knelt and wormed his way under the heavy sheet, which smelled of damp and plastic. He lay on his back on the hard metal floor, right up against the seats, checking to ensure his legs were concealed by the signs lying on top of the tarp. Then he pulled out his gun, removed the safety catch and settled down to wait.