Peter James - Dead at First Sight

The man spun round as if a plug had been pushed into a socket, sat down, clicked on his belt and put the vehicle in gear. They lurched forward and stalled.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Please don’t kill me, please, please, I’ll drive.’ He restarted, they lurched forward again and this time they kept going.

‘Left at the road,’ Tooth said.

‘Left. Left at the road,’ the driver repeated.

‘He has different-coloured eyes. One’s kind of red, the other sort of grey. Depends on the light.’

‘Different eyes?’

‘My dog. Make the next right.’

They turned into a narrow lane. There were damp leaves on the road surface and the trees formed a tunnel overhead, blotting out the sky.

‘W-what kind of d-dog did you say you have?’ He was struggling to speak through his fear.

‘Anyone stops us, anyone asks you any questions, you tell them what you’re doing, hunting a leak, right? Hunting a big leak. You’re working late like a lot of your colleagues tonight, hunting a big leak. Saving the environment, saving natural resources. Understand what I’m saying?’ He pressed the barrel into the man’s neck for emphasis.

‘Yes, yes, I do!’ the man yammered, jerking in terror, and the van swerved, momentarily losing grip on the slippery surface as he fought with the wheel to steady it.

‘Drive more carefully, asshole.’

‘Yes, sorry, sorry.’

‘Or you want me to put you in the back with your friend?’

‘No, please, please, please.’

‘You make a left at the T-junction.’

The driver turned left at the T-junction. He was shaking and nodding his head at the same time.

‘I don’t know what kind. It’s a dog,’ Tooth said. ‘I don’t give a shit what kind.’

They passed a row of cottages with a couple of cars parked outside. Then a large house to the left, with a horsebox in the driveway. They continued past a sign to a sailing club and to waterworks, then Tooth instructed him to slow right down and turn into another single-track lane.

The light was beginning to fail, and Tooth was happy about that. He told the driver to slow again as they reached an open gate and read the sign.

PRIMROSE FARM

‘Carry on,’ he instructed.

A quarter of a mile further, Tooth saw rotten wooden gates that were open. And the oval sign, PRIMROSE FARM COTTAGE, with a cart-track of a driveway dipping steeply down.

‘Turn in here,’ Tooth said.

Riley, deep in his hide in the rhododendron bush, heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Immediately, the CROPS officer radioed the support team.

Moments later the van came into view.

‘Mike Whisky One, do you have visual contact?’

‘Romeo One, a Ford Transit van with Southern Water markings, heading towards target house.’

‘Southern Water?’

‘Yes yes.’

‘Hold station, we are checking.’

‘Hold station, yes yes.’

Riley watched the van drive around the bumpy driveway and pull up in front of the house.

Inside the rear of the van, Tooth, now wearing the dead man’s yellow high-viz jacket, crawled up behind the driver and chopped him hard in the back of his neck, knocking him out. He hauled him over the seat and onto the floor, where he gagged him and tied him up securely with cable from a reel and wound duct tape round his mouth.

He then climbed over the driver’s seat and, as an added precaution, pulled the keys from the ignition.

‘You don’t move, Bob. Understand?’ he said to the unconscious man. He opened the door and stepped out into near darkness.

Doug Riley’s radio crackled. ‘Romeo One to Mike Whisky One.’

‘Romeo One, this is Mike Whisky One.’

‘Mike Whisky One, we’ve just spoken to Southern Water. There is a serious leak in the Forest Row area causing localized water pressure issues. They currently have a number of vehicles out working into the night, checking the pipes and meters of properties in the area, trying to locate and isolate the problem.’

Riley checked his watch as he replied. ‘Romeo One, any idea how long they have to spend at each property?’

‘Five to ten minutes, maximum, Mike Whisky One.’

‘Roger that, Romeo One.’

Tooth, holding a clipboard, which he knew was always a good prop, looked for a bell, but couldn’t see one. So he rapped hard on the oak door with his knuckles. He found some British accents hard to master, but others came easily. At this particular moment, he was a Welshman.

It was opened by a woman with silver hair, and all dolled-up for lover boy. She wore a low-cut blouse revealing a large amount of cleavage, a short green skirt, knee-high patent-leather boots and reeked of dense, musky perfume. She looked at him with undisguised irritation, clearly not wanting anyone around at this moment queering the pitch.

He flashed the dead man’s identity card, keeping his finger over the photograph. ‘I am so very sorry to be bothering you, like. I’m from Southern Water and we are investigating a major leak. Would you mind if I checked your water meter — it might be saving you money, you know.’

‘Is this going to take long?’ she asked, unsmiling and clearly anxious.

‘Oh no, madam, just a few minutes. Can you direct me to the water meter?’

‘I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea — I’m house-sitting for a friend.’

‘All right then if I have a quick look for it?’

‘Be my guest.’ She glanced at her watch, then out of the window, past the van, at the drive beyond.

Tooth frowned. But he took it as licence to check the place out.

Lady , he thought, if you knew why I was really here, you’d be throwing your arms around me in gratitude. I’m your freakin’ guardian angel, lady.

‘Do you have a loft?’

‘Yes, there’s a hatch up on the landing. I saw a pole with a hook against the wall. I’ll show you.’

He followed her up the stairs, and she pointed to the hatch and then the pole. He reached up with the pole and pushed the hatch, which dropped down on a hinge to reveal a folding ladder. He hooked the bottom rung and pulled it down.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.

As he began climbing she went back downstairs.

‘Mike Whisky One to Romeo One. For information, Southern Water official has now been inside target house for ten minutes.’

‘Romeo One to Mike Whisky One. Did you say he is inside house?’ The support officer sounded concerned.

‘Inside the house, yes yes.’

‘Mike Whisky One, Southern Water say that all water meters are external. There is no need for anyone to enter a property, other than to ask where the stopcock and meter are.’

Doug Riley was distracted by the sound of another vehicle turning into the drive. A dark-grey Mercedes coupe drove past him, travelling slowly on the bumpy track. Slowly enough to make out the identity of the driver through his binoculars.

‘Romeo One,’ Riley said, urgently. ‘A Mercedes coupe is approaching target house. Driver is a male IC3.’

‘A black man, Mike Whisky One?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Can you positively identify him as Jules de Copeland?’

‘I can’t positively.’

‘ARVs to carry out enforced stop,’ came the command.

The Mercedes suddenly stopped. Doug Riley, bits of shrubbery tumbling from his clothes and helmet, stood a short distance from the car, his Glock drawn and aimed. He was joined by his colleague, Lewis Hastings, also showering vegetation from his clothes, gun in his hand.

An instant later an ARV raced up behind the Mercedes. A second blocked the exit onto the road.