Peter James: Dead at First Sight

The first ARV officer stopped at the driver’s door, as his colleague reached the passenger side.

‘Police!’ the first one yelled. ‘Hands in the air! Show me your hands!’ The man behind the wheel, looking scared, raised his arms.

The officer yanked open the door. ‘Keep your hands up and get out!’ The driver tried to move but his seat belt restrained him.

Standing back, holding both hands on the gun, the officer yelled, ‘Unbuckle and get out, out, out!’

The man obeyed and climbed out, raising his arms as high as he could. He was short, wearing a hoodie, jeans and trainers.

Doug Riley instinctively felt something was wrong. That this was not his man. Not from his height, for sure. ‘What’s your name?’ he yelled.

‘Lucius Orji,’ the man said, with some reluctance.

Hastings came round, stood behind the man and frisked him thoroughly. Then he jerked his arms down behind his back and snapped on handcuffs, as Riley peered carefully into the empty rear of the car.

‘Where’s Jules de Copeland?’ Riley demanded as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the support van followed by the second ARV approaching at speed.

‘Who?’

‘Jules de Copeland. Don’t try playing innocent. Did he send you?’

‘I don’t know any Jules de Copeland .’

‘No? So what are you doing here? Taking a drive in the country? Admiring the autumn colours?’

Lucius Orji nodded. ‘Yeah, just taking a drive — must have took a wrong turning.’

From the look in the man’s eyes, Riley knew he was lying. ‘Are you sure? It wasn’t Jules de Copeland who asked you to come here tonight?’

‘I don’t know no one of that name,’ he said, sounding angry and insolent.

‘Really?’

‘Well, maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

The van and the car pulled up behind them. The support officers, also guns in hand, got out of the van. Two ARV officers, in vizors and full body armour, jumped out of the car, brandishing Heckler and Koch sub-machine guns, further covering the handcuffed man.

Riley conferred with the support officers, who then began searching the Mercedes. Glancing around, he suddenly saw that the driverless Southern Water van was rocking. He sprinted towards it.

Jules de Copeland, for once in many years not wearing red shoes, stood in the woods, shielded by a tree, a short distance to the west of Primrose Farm Cottage, watching the unfolding events, the empty suitcase by his side. His car, which he had rented from a company twenty miles from Gatwick Airport, was concealed up a forest track fifteen minutes’ trek through the woods from here.

Good man, Lucius!

His most trusted senior employee had done exactly what he had planned — to flush out any cops that might be watching the house and distract them.

Keep it going!

Copeland was dressed, head to foot, in dark camouflage gear, black boots and a black balaclava over his head. For the past half-hour he’d worked his way steadily through the dense woods and even denser undergrowth. He was feeling pleased, and not a little smug, that his plan had worked out. The police officers he had suspected might be watching the house were now all occupied out front.

Through a downstairs window he could see a woman, standing alone, looking out at the commotion. Dressed to kill.

Lynda Merrill.

With the £300,000 in cash for him!

He had to trust that Lucius Orji would hold his nerve and stick to the script.

Out of sight from everyone at the front of the house, a hunting knife in his hand, he sprinted the hundred yards to the flimsy-looking side door. Not wanting to take a chance on whether or not it was locked, he hurled his full weight against it, splintering it open and stumbling in.

The woman spun towards him, shock and fear and bewilderment in her eyes. ‘Lynda! I have a message from your darling Richie!’ he said, reaching her in two fast steps and holding the blade out of sight. ‘Don’t be scared, my love. Just get the money, quick, quick, quick, and let’s go!’ He knelt and clicked open the suitcase. ‘Quick!’

She pointed at a cupboard under the stairs. ‘It’s in there.’

‘Get it! I’m taking you away to Richie! He is waiting! Quick, quick!’

Calmly, she walked over to the cupboard, opened the door and knelt. As she did, he heard a voice behind him.

‘Freeze, you scammer bastard!’

He spun round.

A silver-haired man in his late fifties had appeared from seemingly nowhere, with a gun in his hand.

Copeland’s mind went into overdrive.

Had he walked, dumbly, into a trap? ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘You should know me, you and your friends have relieved me of over £400,000,’ Fordwater replied.

Copeland looked at him, patronizingly. ‘Put the gun down, I’m sure we can sort something out.’

‘Really?’

Suddenly, the old guy raised his aim, away from him, at something behind him.

Copeland turned. He saw a short man, halfway down the stairs, crouched, holding a handgun in a double-grip, aiming straight at him. Then he heard what sounded like a gunshot from behind him. A chunk of plaster flew out of the wall beside the short man’s head. Followed by another gunshot. This time the man was flung backwards. Then another shot and he tumbled down the staircase, head first, spurting blood from his shoulder.

Copeland, frozen in panic like a rabbit in headlights, smelled the pungent reek of cordite.

Tooth disorientated, his brain swirling, aimed through the banisters and fired at Copeland. The bullet hit his thigh, sending him reeling back. Tooth fired again and the bullet went wide. Saw the blurry shape of the silver-haired man standing on the far side of the kitchen, aiming at him. Tooth fired again. Missed.

Then all hell broke loose as the front door caved in, and with the warning shouts, ‘ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, DROP YOUR WEAPONS!’, he saw two vizored officers, sub-machine guns in hand, crash into the room, sweeping in every direction with their guns. They were followed by more officers wearing baseball hats marked, SUSSEX POLICE.

It seemed to him, for an instant, that the pause button on a video had been pressed. The silver-haired guy dropped his gun. The woman and Copeland both froze. For an instant.

Giving him the chance to finish his task. Against all his training, which was to shoot at the body because that made a bigger target, he aimed at the balaclava. He wanted to bring that big bastard down with a headshot. Finish the job he’d come here to do. Finish his career with one final success. It seemed, in this moment, that he had all the time in the world.

‘DROP YOUR GUN!’ someone shouted.

Tooth fired. Shit. Fabric and blood flew from Copeland’s left arm and he lurched back. Instantaneously Tooth saw muzzle flashes in the periphery of his vision and heard a volley of shots. In the same instant, it seemed, he was kicked in the chest by what felt like the boots of an entire football team, slamming him back against the wall.

The gun fell from his hand.

His vision blurred. Light faded from his eyes as if a dimmer switch was being turned.

He saw Yossarian. He was sitting on the prow of Long Shot as they skimmed across the azure Caribbean Sea, heading out of Turtle Cove Marina on Providenciales Island for a day of deep-sea fishing. Hoping his master might catch a yellowtail snapper or some other tasty morsel which he might throw his way.

But the sun was already setting and he hadn’t yet put out his lines.

Yossarian stared at him with disappointment showing in his two different-coloured eyes. Stared at him as the sun set and darkness fell.

Tooth tried to mouth the word, ‘Sorry’. But the darkness struck first.