Peter James - Not Dead Yet

Next to Barrington was DI Jason Tingley, boyishly handsome, with brown hair brushed forward into a fringe, dressed in a navy suit; his only concession to the weekend was allowing his tie to be slack and his top shirt button open. Greeting him with a warm smile was the extremely competent press officer, thirty-two-year-old redhead Sue Fleet, wearing a dark suit and a blue blouse. Two other women he did not recognize, one in her late twenties in police uniform, the other in her late thirties wearing a white blouse, were also present, as was a solidly built, shaven-headed Sergeant from the Close Protection Team, Greg Worsley, dressed in a rumpled blue T-shirt, jeans and trainers. Completing the gathering was Chief Inspector Rob Hammond, a Tactical Firearms Commander.

Graham Barrington stood up to greet him. ‘Roy, thank you so much for giving up your Sunday!’

‘I can’t remember the last time I actually had one!’ he replied, then smiled at each of the others. He was pleased to see Jason Tingley, with whom he had worked years back on a brutal rape case. Tingley was a very smart detective. He also went back a long way with Graham Barrington; like most of the force, he had a great deal of respect for the man who had been credited with very substantial crime reductions in many areas of the city.

Barrington introduced him to the two women, then Grace sat down. All of them, he noticed, had Starbucks containers in front of them. He could have killed for a coffee right now – he cursed himself for not thinking ahead and getting one on the way here.

They chatted informally for some moments before Barrington cut across them. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The situation is I’ve had telephone contact with the Threat Management Unit of the Los Angeles Police Department and with Gaia’s security chief, a former police officer called Andrew Gulli. The first issue I’ve had to deal with is explaining to Mr Gulli that his bodyguards are not permitted to carry guns in the UK.’

DI Tingley cut in. ‘The threat is global, and we know our target is capable of using a firearm. Are we going to have any Armed Response Unit members active?’

‘We are, Jason,’ Barrington assured him. ‘Chief Inspector Hammond and Sergeant Worsley are here to give us their plan for protecting Gaia and her son Roan.’ He indicated to the two men to proceed.

Sergeant Worsley went first. ‘Gaia Lafayette and her entourage are flying in to London Heathrow Terminal Five at 7 a.m. on Wednesday,’ he said. ‘We have suggested putting out a false trail that she is flying in to Gatwick via a private jet, but I understand she has had her press secretary inform the entire UK press of her actual plans. It looks like we have a case of the ego is about to land.’

Grace suppressed a grin. This was so typical of major stars. They claimed to hate the paparazzi, yet always tipped them off where they would be. ‘Where is she staying? In Brighton, or outside?’

‘In Brighton, sir,’ Worsley replied. ‘In The Grand Hotel. Her entourage has booked the Presidential Suite and all the other rooms on that floor – so we can at least make that floor a sterile area.’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘One of our big issues is budget, sir. The Chief has told me to offer every resource I have to her, but she’s going to have to pay for anything beyond what we would consider a reasonable level – the kind of security we’d give to minor royalty.’

‘You’re aware of the attempt on her life last week?’ Grace asked.

‘That is very largely why were are here,’ Hammond said.

‘We’re also aware that she will probably make some kind of pilgrimage to her childhood home in Whitehawk,’ Worsley added.

‘Another problem is she likes to jog, Roy,’ Barrington said. ‘Apparently she has her minders jog with her, but that’s another area of security risk.’

Worsley nodded. ‘We’re planning on putting a ring of steel around her, sir. No one’s going to get near her without us checking them first.’

Grace nodded. ‘Good.’ But he knew that no matter how much security you laid on, it was impossible to protect anyone totally. He asked Barrington for the name of his contact in Los Angeles and wrote it down, intending to speak to him directly.

They were all experienced officers in this room. And they all knew the reality. You could protect someone as much as you liked, but if they insisted on moving around freely, they were always going to be at risk from a lone nutcase.

He could not stop the chill of unease that coiled inside him.

The gaunt, cadaverous-looking American was dressed in a weary checked jacket, tieless gingham shirt buttoned to the top, grey trousers, leather sandals and grey socks. He peered down through unfashionably large glasses, his Adams apple throbbing, reading her name badge. Becky Rivett. Worried that he was about to kick off at any moment, the receptionist at The Grand Hotel glanced up from her screen to give him a quick, reassuring smile, then moved the cursor up the page, searching desperately for his reservation.

He had thinning hair the colour of ash, cut in a pageboy fringe – a style that looked slightly absurd on a grown man in his fifties, she thought. His fists rested on the counter, clenching and unclenching, and he was perspiring slightly.

When Becky Rivett later tried to give the police a description of him, she told them he had reminded her of the actor Robin Williams, when he played that creepy role in One Hour Photo .

‘I have a confirmation,’ he insisted. ‘I have your email.’

She smiled at him again, then frowned at her screen. He hated the way she smiled at him. It was a meaningless smile. She smiled at him not because she wanted to, but because she had to. He felt the anger rising; snakes uncoiling. He wanted to tell her she didn’t need to smile at him, and that if she smiled at him again, with those neat little white teeth, he-

Calm down.

Then he remembered. Stupid fool! It was the jet lag. Then doing his recce when he should have gone to bed and rested. You made mistakes when you were tired. ‘I – ah – you know – gave you the wrong name.’

‘You gave me Mr Drayton Wheeler?’

‘Yuh uh – you’ll find the reservation’s under Baxter. Jerry Baxter.’ He had decided using a fictional name might come in useful.

She looked down her list, frowned, tapped her computer, then saw it almost instantly. ‘Ah yes, a single room for two weeks?’

‘Correct.’ He took several deep breaths.

She handed him the check-in form and a pen, and he filled it out. ‘Do you need a parking space, Mr Wheeler – sorry – er, Baxter?’ she asked.

‘Why would I need a parking space?’

‘I wasn’t sure if you had a car.’ She smiled again and his anger rose further. ‘May I take a credit card imprint, please?’

‘I’ll be paying cash.’

She frowned. Guests who paid cash were a rarity these days. Then she smiled again, breezily. ‘That’s fine, sir. But we will need you to pay for incidentals as you go, if that’s all right?’

‘I will pay incidentally.’ He grinned at her for some moments through stained teeth, then the smile slipped from his face as she failed to get his little joke.

She tapped away at her keyboard then, after some moments, handed him his plastic key card in a small folder. ‘Room 608.’

‘Do you have anything a little lower? I’m rather nervous of heights.’

She looked back at her screen, and tapped again on the keyboard. ‘I’m afraid not, sir, we are fully booked.’

‘Ah yes, you have that singer staying, Gaia?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot comment on other guests.’

‘I heard it on the news. It’s in the newspapers.’