Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

‘He moved out.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ Glenn asked.

‘Abroad,’ the concierge said. ‘Fed up with the English climate.’ Then he jabbed his own chest. ‘Just like me – I got two more years to go, then I’m retiring to the Philippines.’

‘Do you have a forwarding address or a phone number?’

‘Nothing at all. He said he would be in touch.’

Glenn pointed upwards. ‘Let’s go to his flat.’

The three of them rode the lift and stepped straight out into the penthouse.

True to Oliver Dowler’s word, Cosmescu had indeed vacated the place. There was not one piece of furniture left. No carpet, rug, not even any rubbish of any kind. A couple of bare light bulbs hung from their flex, and a few down-lighters burned starkly. There was a strong smell of fresh paint.

They walked through each of the rooms, their footsteps echoing. The whole place looked as if it had been professionally cleaned. In the kitchen, Glenn opened the fridge and freezer doors. Inside they were bare. As was the dishwasher. He checked the inside of the washing machine and tumble dryer in the utility room and those were empty too.

There was nothing that either Glenn Branson or Bella Moy could see, in this cursory inspection, that gave any clue as to the previous occupant, or indeed that there had ever been one. There weren’t even any shadows on the walls from where pictures or mirrors might have been removed.

Branson rubbed his finger down one pale grey wall, but however recent the paint might have been, it was now dry.

‘Did he rent this flat or own it?’ Bella Moy asked.

‘He rented it,’ the concierge said. ‘Six-monthly renewable lease, unfurnished.’

‘How long has he been here?’

‘About the same as me. Ten years I been here, next month.’

‘So his lease just expired?’ Glenn Branson said.

Dowler shook his head. ‘Not at all. He’s paid up for about three months still.’

The two detectives frowned at each other. Then Glenn handed him a card.

‘If he gets in touch with you, will you contact me, please? We need to speak to him very urgently.’

‘He said he would be dropping me a line or an email, with a forwarding address, like for the bills and stuff.’

‘Can you tell us anything about him, Mr Dowler?’ Bella asked.

He shook his head. ‘In ten years I never had a conversation with him. Nothing. Very private.’ Then he grinned. ‘But I saw him a few times with some lovely ladies. He had a good eye for women, he did.’

‘What about his car?’

‘Gone too.’ Then he yawned. ‘Will you be needing me any more tonight? Or shall I leave you to be getting on with your search?’

‘You can leave us. I don’t think we’ll be very long,’ Glenn said.

‘No,’ the concierge said with a grin, ‘I don’t think that you will.’

After he had departed Glenn smiled at something. ‘Got it!’

‘What?’ Bella enquired.

‘Who the concierge reminds me of, the actor, Yul Brynner.’

‘Yul Brynner?’

‘ The Magnificent Seven. ’

She looked puzzled.

‘One of the greatest movies ever made! Also had Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, James Coburn.’

‘I never saw it.’

‘God, you’ve led a sheltered life!’

From the crestfallen look on her face, he realized he’d touched a raw nerve.

At 7.45 a.m. in the cramped conference room of the Specialist Search Unit, Tanya Whitlock was briefing her team on an operation none of them was enjoying.

Post-mortem tests on Brighton drug dealer, Niall Foster, who had fallen to his death from a seventh-floor flat, had concluded that the blow to the side of his head was caused by a heavy, blunt object which had struck him before he fell, and not, as had originally been believed, by one of the metal railings on which he had landed, head first.

From the bevel-mark imprints on his skull, and metallurgy analysis from fragments in the hair, the pathologist believed the murder weapon might well be an antique brass table lamp – which Foster’s distraught girlfriend said was missing from his flat.

Spread out in front of Tania was a crude map of a large open space to the south of Old Shoreham Road, adjoining Hove Cemetery – the Hove Domestic Waste and Recycling Depot. The whole team would be spending their entire Saturday searching through eighteen tons of rat-infested rubbish for this object. Last time they’d had to search this dump, a couple of months ago, several of them suffered headaches for days from the methane rising from the decomposing rubbish. None of them was looking forward to this return visit.

In the breaking dawn sky above the SSU building, the pilot of a four-seater Cessna was radioing Shoreham Tower.

‘Golf Bravo Echo Tango Whiskey inbound from Dover.’

The little airport was unlit, so only operated between the hours of sunrise and sunset. This plane would be one of the morning’s first arrivals.

‘Golf Bravo Echo Tango Whiskey, Runway Zero Three. How many passengers?’

‘I’m solo,’ the pilot said.

As Sergeant Whitlock showed the next section on the grid that her team members were to cover, they were all concentrating hard. None of them heard the drone of the light aircraft coming in low overhead, circling to make its landing approach to Shoreham Airport’s runway 03.

Private aircraft and helicopters came and went here all the time. As there were no international flights, there was no Border Control presence, or any Customs either. Incoming flights from abroad were meant to radio a request for a customs officer and a border control agent to attend, and to remain in their aircraft until both had cleared them. But that normally meant a long delay, often with no officers arriving anyway, so pilots sometimes took a risk and did not bother.

Certainly the pilot of the twin-engined Cessna was not intending to radio them. The flight plan he had filed last night was from Shoreham to a private airstrip near Dover and then back. He had omitted to include, on the plan, a minor detour across the Channel to Le Touquet in France and back – which he had made with his transponder switched off. For cash payments of the size that he was receiving for this trip, he was always more than happy to make omissions in his flight plans.

He taxied along the three-deep line of parked aircraft towards his parking space, happy to hear that there were several more incoming aircraft stacking up, which would keep the crew in the tower occupied. He turned in, manoeuvring his plane to the same angle as the others, then put on the parking brake and throttled back the engines. He looked around carefully for signs of anyone who might be taking an interest in them, then switched off both ignitions.

As the propellers spun down, the aircraft vibrated less and less and the noise diminished. The pilot removed his headset, turned to the beautiful, blonde German woman directly behind him and said, ‘OK?’

‘ Sehr gut ,’ she said, and began unbuckling her harness.

He raised a cautioning hand. ‘We have to wait a little.’ He peered anxiously out again, then turned to the tired-looking teenage girl, dressed in a smart white overcoat, on the seat behind the woman. ‘Enjoyed the flight?’

The girl didn’t understand English, but she picked up the gist of what he had said from his tone and nodded nervously. He unbuckled himself and reached over to help her out of her safety harness. Then he signalled for her to stay, climbed out and jumped down, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Marlene Hartmann welcomed the blast of cold, fresh air, even though it was laced with the smell of kerosene. Then she yawned and gave Simona a smile. The girl smiled back. A pretty little thing, Marlene thought. In another country, in different circumstances, life could have been good for her. She yawned again, longing for a cup of coffee. It had been a long, long night. By road to Belgrade, then a late flight to Paris, then a taxi at four in the morning to Le Touquet. But they were here. And she was happy with the plans.