Peter James - Need You Dead

‘Correct, Guy. We need to get him either positively identified, or establish that it’s not him.’

‘That wouldn’t necessarily prove anything either way, would it, boss? What I’m saying is that if this character is Exton, that puts him in Lorna Belling’s apartment building, but if it’s someone else — a complete stranger — he’s not necessarily going to Lorna’s flat — he’s just behaving very oddly.’

‘Very.’

Grace picked up his phone and dialled Jonathan Jackson’s number. When he answered, he explained what they had on video, which didn’t faze the Met officer, and asked him how soon he could get a member of the Super Recognizer team down to Sussex.

‘I should be able to get someone to you within a few hours, Roy. I’ll call you back.’

Grace thanked him and ended the call. Then he looked again at the video on the screen. At the man with the bin bag.

His shape looked wrong. Wrong for Exton. Exton was slight — and in recent weeks had become even slighter. This man was quite a different build, quite a bit bulkier. But, on the other hand, the image was pretty crap.

Grace gave Batchelor a quizzical look. ‘Spot anything of significance, Guy?’

‘No, you?’

‘My best guess is he’s clearing any evidence. He did a pretty thorough job, as the CSIs weren’t able to find anything of real value.’

His colleague nodded, thoughtfully. ‘OK, I’ll bell you as soon as I have anything more,’ Batchelor said.

‘I’ll go and chase Ray, see what he can find from the laptop.’

Moments after Batchelor left Grace’s office, the phone rang. It was Jackson.

‘Roy, there’s a DS from our Super Recognizer team who’s not far from you at the moment. His name’s Tim Weatherley. He’s familiar with Sussex CID and has been working with one of your colleagues, Superintendent Sloan, on the Crime and Ops team. He’s currently at the Surrey Police HQ, working on a development on the multiple homicide of a British family and an unconnected cyclist, at Annecy in France — back in 2012. Apparently there’s some new footage come to light.’

‘Yes, I remember it,’ Grace said. An Iraqi-born British tourist, his wife and his mother-in-law, as well as a French cyclist, had been shot dead in a forest clearing. The family’s two young daughters had miraculously survived but had been unable to provide much evidence. It remained one of the darkest unsolved crimes of recent years.

‘He could be with you between 4 and 5 p.m. I’ve given him your number and he’ll call you when he has an ETA.’

‘Brilliant, thanks JJ.’

‘Anytime, Roy. We should have a drink and catch-up sometime.’

‘Are you still living in Saltdean?’

‘Yep — let me know when’s good.’

‘I will.’

As he ended the call, Grace wondered, in view of the sensitive nature of their prime suspect, whether he should view the footage with just the Super Recognizer and Guy Batchelor without involving the rest of the team.

But then he had a better idea.

It felt like he was swimming underwater. He could see light above him. The silhouettes of faces. His mind swam, too. He felt all giddy. Nauseous.

Momentarily he broke the surface. Saw a dog at the edge of the pool. A squat, ugly thing. It had different coloured eyes, one bright red, the other grey. It was a mutt. Part Dalmatian and part pug.

It was looking at him balefully. Reproachfully. Are you abandoning me? Just like my last owner?

‘Yossarian!’ he called out. ‘Yossarian!’

He cared about it. This ugly mutt that he had found on a Beverly Hills street was the only thing in his life he had ever cared about. It was standing, looking down at him, and hungry.

‘Yossarian!’ he screamed.

No sound came out of his intubated throat.

The ITU nurse at the Royal Sussex County Hospital ran across to Bed 17 and stared down at the small, shaven-headed man, who was connected to a forest of drip lines and a ventilator. He was thrashing around wildly, his eyes opening and shutting in rapid succession, as if he was fitting.

This patient, who went by the odd, single name of Tooth, was under special watch, and until recently there had been a police guard for him posted on a 24/7 rota outside the unit entrance. She did not know too much about the circumstances that had brought him here, in a persistent vegetative state, a month ago from the Tropical Diseases Unit at Guy’s Hospital in London, other than that he had suffered a series of bites and stings from a spider, a scorpion and a saw-scaled viper snake in a reptile house. Because of the police interest in him, she imagined he had been involved in a burglary at a zoo that had gone badly wrong.

She paged the duty doctor, urgently.

Ten minutes later Roy Grace was interrupted from his studies of the Jodie Bentley file by a call. The voice at the other end sounded foreign. ‘This is Dr Imran Hassan from the Intensive Care Unit at the Royal Sussex Hospital. We have a note on file to contact you if there is any change in the condition of one of our patients, a gentleman called Mr Tooth.’

This was all he needed right now, Grace thought. ‘Yes, thank you, Dr Hassan.’

‘He seems to be showing signs of emerging from his coma. He keeps trying to shout. We removed the tube from his throat and immediately he shouted out a name. It sounded like “Yossarian”.’

‘Yossarian?’

‘Yes, but now he seems very distressed about this Yossarian. His eyes remain closed but he screamed that Yossarian needs feeding. Does any of this make any sense to you?’

‘It does, yes, Dr Hassan. Yossarian is this man’s pet dog — he lives in the Turks and Caicos. Tooth is under suspicion of committing several murders, and the dog is being cared for. He doesn’t need to worry.’

But Grace was worried.

‘Good, we are regarding this as a positive sign that this patient is improving.’

‘To what extent?’

‘At this stage very minor. He is still totally incapacitated.’

‘Dr Hassan, if at any time you or your colleagues believe that Tooth is capable of standing and walking, I need to know immediately.’

‘Yes, this is on his notes, Detective Superintendent.’

Grace thanked him, then immediately sent an email to Pewe, updating him on Tooth’s condition. He did not suggest that the scene guard be reinstated at this stage, but instead covered his back by finishing,

as you know we are dealing with a man of extraordinary reserves and resources. It would be a deep embarrassment to Sussex Police if he were to disappear. At this time, the staff at the Royal Sussex County Hospital do not believe this is likely. But they know to notify me if the situation changes.

He wasn’t expecting a reply. And didn’t get one.

Grace liked Tim Weatherley instantly. The detective from the Scotland Yard Super Recognizer Unit arrived in his office shortly before 6 p.m., apologizing effusively for being so late, and looking like he’d already had a long day. He was dressed in a crumpled grey suit, a pink shirt and striped tie at half mast, and had untidy black hair. He reminded Grace of the TV comedian Michael McIntyre.

For some reason he had been expecting an intense, studious geek, but Weatherley, in his late thirties, was warm and open, with a booming voice.

‘I’ve got a message for you from Superintendent Sloan,’ he said.

‘Oh yes?’

‘He said to tell you that you still owe him a beer!’

Grace grinned. ‘That’s rich coming from him. Short arms, deep pockets.’

Weatherley grinned back.

‘Would you like tea? Coffee?’ Grace offered.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine. It’s actually my wedding anniversary and I have to take she-who-must-be-obeyed out to dinner in London — in Battersea — so without wanting to rush anything, the sooner I can get away, the better. How can I help you?’