Peter James: Dead at First Sight

Roy Grace sat, worriedly, at his workstation in MIR-1, staring at the clock on his screen: 5.01 p.m. Less than ninety minutes, if their intel was correct, until Jules Copeland was due to arrive at Primrose Farm Cottage for a loved-up weekend with Lynda Merrill — not.

He had been toying with alternative possibilities. Had Copeland boarded a flight at Gatwick Airport? The Ghanaian was distinctive-looking and had two large suitcases with him. But no CCTV cameras had picked him up. Sure, they didn’t cover every square inch of the passenger areas, but the average person walking through the departure lounges of either the South or North Terminals would be picked up several times. Inspector Biggs’s team had shown Copeland’s photograph to all check-in staff and no one there had recognized him either, nor had any security staff. The Gatwick Hilton hotel had also been checked.

The Kia that had crashed outside Marina Heights this morning had been rented from a firm at Gatwick on Tuesday night to a man fitting Copeland’s description, using one of his aliases, Samuel Jackson. He’d assaulted the driver of the van he’d collided with and done a runner. The cab he’d taken to Gatwick Airport would have dropped him there around 8.45 a.m. So where had he spent the past eight and a half hours?

Was he still within the vicinity of the airport? Grace suspected not.

Was he still in the country?

Grace wrote down on his pad what he knew of the man. Resourceful. Ruthless. Driven by greed. Wife and child in Bavaria. £300,000 for the taking.

Then after a few moments further mulling over, he thought about Copeland’s red shoes and added vain to his list. And then:

Vain = arrogant = brazen

= Hubris

A man who was happy to murder two people who’d threatened to expose him, and to maim a third for daring to warn people about internet romance scammers.

Copeland, he decided, almost certainly was not going to let that money go. He was going to turn up.

Tooth heard the men returning to the van. He sensed the interior brightening a little as the rear doors were opened, heard the clatter of equipment being laid down in the rear, close to him, as he held his breath. Then the slam of the doors. Moments later the van rocked as the two men climbed into the front.

‘You OK to work on, Bob?’ one said.

‘Yeah, nice bit of overtime — you, Rog?’

‘The missus wants a new kitchen, the more the better — and it’s bloody Christmas coming up and all. Got fifteen more properties on our list, we’ll keep going?’

‘Big game at the Amex tomorrow, got my season ticket — I’d rather work on tonight than have to come in tomorrow and miss the footy.’

‘How many other teams out there this afternoon?’

‘There’s eight vans.’

‘So it’s a big leak, you reckon, Bob?’

‘Very big. Head office are concerned, they need it found ASAP. Problem is, a lot of the pipework around here’s ancient — could be a break anywhere.’

‘We haven’t had a frost yet.’

‘Could just be a valve’s let go. Or a builder or a farmer’s dug through some pipework without realizing.’

‘Have the traffic police been alerted to look for standing water in an unusual place?’

‘I believe so.’

‘OK, so where’s next?’

Tooth heard the click of their seat belts. It was followed by the rustle of paper — maybe a map or plans. He waited, silently, until the starter motor whirred. As the engine fired, he rose up behind the driver’s seat and was pleased to see the driver had removed his hard hat. Tooth chopped him hard in the back of his neck with his left hand and, instantly, he slumped forward, unconscious.

His startled colleague, still wearing his hat, spun round and found himself looking down the barrel of an automatic pistol.

‘Hello, Bob,’ Tooth said, calmly.

The man had fair hair and a tattooed neck. He stared at Tooth with petrified eyes behind rimless lenses. ‘Wh— what... who... who... what do you — please... please don’t shoot.’

‘Well, Bob, that’s all going to depend on how you and I get on.’ Tooth transferred the gun to his left hand. ‘Undo your pal’s seat belt.’

Shaking with terror, the man leaned over and, a second later, Tooth heard the click of the buckle releasing. ‘We don’t have any money. Is that what you want?’

Keeping the gun trained on the man in the passenger seat, Tooth crooked an arm around the unconscious driver’s neck, then using a taekwondo movement, jerked hard, pulling the man upwards over the top of his seat, with its built-in headrest, and catapulting him over his head, striking the ceiling of the van, then falling on his back onto some of the equipment lying around in the rear of the vehicle.

The man’s work buddy stared on, paralysed with fear.

Behind him, Tooth heard groans. He cursed. He’d not hit him hard enough. ‘Get in the driver’s seat,’ he said.

The man clambered over.

‘I’m going to give you directions,’ Tooth said. ‘You’re going to follow them, nice and easy. You with me?’

The man nodded several times, urgently.

Tooth jabbed the muzzle of the gun into the back of his neck.

‘Please... I... I’ve got two kids — two young kids,’ the man jabbered. ‘Two and four. Please don’t shoot me.’

‘I got a dog,’ Tooth replied.

‘You’ve got a dog? I... I’ve got a dog, too.’

‘You’re going to drive down to the road and make a left.’

‘Yes... yes... what kind of dog? You know? What kind of dog do you have?’

Tooth was silent. There was a loud moan behind him, then a voice called out, ‘Jesus, who are you?’

The man tried to stand, as if making a lunge for Tooth. ‘Who are—?’ Then he cried out in pain, clutching the back of his ribcage.

‘I’m the man with the gun,’ Tooth said. ‘You’re in pain, right, Rog?’

He saw the man’s right hand moving stealthily but clumsily towards a metal rod on the floor. Maybe the one they’d just been using. Then he launched himself at Tooth, raising the rod to strike him.

Tooth fired two near-silent shots in rapid succession into his forehead. His head jerked, then he fell on his back and lay still for a second. Then twitched.

His colleague screamed in shock and terror.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Tooth said, loudly and firmly.

The man was shaking uncontrollably. ‘You shot him. You shot him! Oh my God, you shot him.’

‘It’s a mutt,’ Tooth said, staring at the man he’d just shot. He was twitching the way he often saw a caught fish twitch after he’d smashed its head with a priest.

‘What?’ the man said.

‘My associate.’

‘Associate?’

‘It’s a mutt. I was just walking along a street in Beverly Hills and it started following me.’

‘I... I... I—’ His eyes were bulging. ‘Started following you? What did?’

‘My dog,’ Tooth replied. ‘You asked about my dog. He’s my associate.’

The man was staring past him at his colleague who was now motionless, with blood running from the two holes in his forehead. He tried to say something but nothing came out. He tried again. ‘I... I... you... you shot him.’

‘His name’s Yossarian.’

He looked at Tooth, bewildered. ‘Yossarian?’

‘Turn around, put your seat belt on and drive.’ Tooth raised the gun, putting it right up close to his face. ‘Drive.’

The man continued staring at Tooth as if too frozen with terror to think or move.

‘You want me to shoot you, too? I don’t mind, I’ll drive myself.’

‘N-n-n-n-n-no, please.’