Peter James: Dead at First Sight

Jules de Copeland, his thigh and arm stinging in agonizing pain, looked around, bewildered.

Someone took hold of him, restraining his arms behind his back.

He heard a voice radioing urgently for an ambulance. And overhead the thwock-thwock-thwock of a helicopter.

Then a man in camouflage fatigues, wearing a helmet covered in netting with bits of greenery intertwined, faced him. ‘Tunde Oganjimi, alias Jules de Copeland, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Susan Adele Driver in Brighton and on suspicion of causing grievous bodily harm with intent to Toby Seward in Brighton. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?’

Copeland grimaced in pain at him. ‘Can you and I talk in private for a moment, officer?’

Lewis Hastings made a pretend show of switching off his radio’s microphone. ‘OK, we’re private now.’

‘I need more private than this.’

Hastings looked around. The silver-haired man was handcuffed and covered by one police officer with an automatic pistol. Another was standing, protectively, by the scared-looking woman.

‘This is as private as it’s going to get, OK?’

Copeland leaned forward and whispered into Hastings’s ear. ‘I’m a very rich man, officer. Name your price.’

Hastings looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Mr Copeland, my price is beyond anything you can afford or ever will be able to afford. It’s called morality. That’s probably not a word in your limited lexicon.’

Roy Grace, sitting in his car outside Primrose Farm Cottage, surrounded by police vehicles, two ambulances and the Coroner’s van, called Jack Roberts as he had promised.

‘Your clients are both safe,’ he informed him. ‘Major Fordwater has been arrested for illegal possession of a firearm and may face more serious charges. Copeland is currently in an ambulance, under arrest, being treated for gunshot wounds.’ He said nothing about the dead American contract killer.

‘That’s good to hear, Detective Superintendent,’ Roberts said. ‘I appreciate your updating me.’

‘There’s quite a lot to take in at this moment, as I’m sure you can understand, Mr Roberts,’ Grace continued. ‘But from what I know so far, I would say you’ve sailed pretty close to the wind. Fortunately we’ve had a result. It could have been a very different outcome.’

‘I’m taking that as a positive,’ Roberts replied.

Grace pursed his lips, not wanting to give the PI any encouragement. ‘When we met in your office, you gave me the impression you are not too enamoured with the police. I hope this might help change your mind.’

‘I’ll reserve judgement on that,’ Roberts replied. ‘You might be scooping the glory, but you need to remember who teed it up for you.’

As Grace ended the call, his phone rang. It was Cassian Pewe.

‘What’s going on, Roy?’ he demanded. ‘Where are you? Media Relations are being bombarded by the press for information on what’s happening. A caretaker’s been found dead in the apartment block you had under surveillance. Do you have anything I can tell them? Any bones I can throw for them to gnaw on?’

‘I was made aware of the caretaker just a couple of hours ago, sir.’

‘Well, really, I’m so pleased to know you are aware of something that’s happening in this county, where you are supposed to be the Head of Major Crime. Do we have any more dead bodies or is one enough for today?’

‘I’m afraid we have two more,’ Grace replied. ‘But I think you might be happy to know the second is the American, Tooth, who, as you know, has long been on our radar.’ He nearly added, Longer than need be, thanks to your intervention months back , but he held his tongue. ‘Tooth was shot by firearms officers and we will of course notify the Independent Office for Police Conduct.’

There was a brief silence from Pewe. Then he said, sarcastically, ‘I’m sure the Chief Constable will be very pleased, Roy. Thrilled to bits, I would say, when I inform him.’

‘Talking of chiefs, sir, I had lunch with Alison Vosper.’

‘Alison Vosper, did you say?’ Pewe sounded thrown.

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing her?’

‘You didn’t ask,’ Grace retorted, smugly. ‘I had an interesting conversation with her, in which she told me about all the major cases in Sussex that you’ve taken credit for. Maybe my memory is going, but I honestly don’t recall your involvement in quite a number of them.’

‘Is that so?’ Pewe said acidly. ‘So what was the purpose of this lunch?’

‘She offered me a job in London. It would put me on the same rank as you if I accepted.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘Well, if that’s what it takes, sir.’

Ignoring the comment, Pewe said, ‘Be in my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow.’

‘It’s Saturday tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Roy, quite correct. Saturday follows Friday in the Gregorian calendar. Although perhaps in the weird bubble you inhabit, you are still on the Julian calendar, which was started by Julius Caesar? In case you’re not up to date, we switched to the Gregorian calendar in this country in 1752, so we’ll go by that one, shall we?’ he said in his most patronizing tone.

Roy Grace drove up to the barrier at the entrance to the Police HQ a few minutes before 9 a.m. As he waited for it to rise, he noticed Cassian Pewe’s classic black Jaguar XJS sports car, which was usually as spick and span as the ACC himself, parked outside the handsome Queen Anne mansion that housed the offices of the Sussex Police top brass, and the East Sussex Fire and Rescue chiefs.

Grace couldn’t help smiling as he noticed also that the Jaguar’s paintwork was splattered, like a patterned carpet, with messy white blobs. Clearly a passing flock of migrating birds held the same opinion of the man as he did.

Five minutes later he knocked on the door of Pewe’s office and was summoned in. Despite it being the weekend, Pewe was attired in his full dress uniform. Grace hadn’t bothered to make the same effort himself. He was unshaven and he was dressed in a leather bomber jacket over a quilted gilet, T-shirt, jeans and trainers. His casual appearance had the desired effect, clearly throwing Pewe off his guard.

‘Very kind of you to make space in your valuable downtime to meet me, Roy,’ he said, briefly frowning disapproval at his appearance as he stood up and shook the Detective Superintendent’s hand, his signet ring glinting in the morning sunlight. He had a cold, damp and limp grip that always felt, to Roy Grace, like shaking hands with a corpse.

‘I see you’ve been attracting birds with your car, sir,’ Grace quipped.

Pewe gave him a sickly look. Then, without replying, said, ‘I’m afraid my assistant and staff officer are both off today, but I could make you a coffee myself if you’d like one?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, sir.’ Grace sat in one of the two imposing chairs in front of his desk. To his surprise, Pewe was actually looking friendly, which put him even more on guard than usual.

‘So, Roy, quite a showdown yesterday, eh? Gunfight at the OK Corral!’

Grace replied, hesitantly. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’

‘Well, it’s been quite a time, these past couple of weeks, Roy, for our supposed Head of Major Crime, hasn’t it? The murder of Mrs Susan Driver. The caretaker of the Marina Heights apartment complex. The murder of the Southern Water employee. And now the shooting of Mr Tooth. Not to mention the gunshot wounding of the — admittedly dubious character — Mr Jules de Copeland. And the brutal murder in custody of your prisoner, Mr Kofi Okonjo.’ Pewe was no longer smiling.