Fordwater gave a wan nod.
‘I’m afraid you’ve joined a very big club, Major — Johnny.’
‘So I realize,’ he said glumly, feeling his chin. Feeling the growth of stubble and aware he probably didn’t smell that great.
‘Let me ask you a direct question. What are your expectations from me, or anyone else you’re approaching for help?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘At best, to recover my money, which I know isn’t going to happen. At worst, for my American chum and I to at least nail the bastards who did this and stop them from destroying any more lives.’
Ray Packham looked at him sympathetically. ‘I appreciate your sentiments. I’d love to help you for free, but since leaving the police I have to make a living — I’ve a mortgage over my head — so I do have to charge for my services. But the thing is, I don’t want you throwing good money after bad. To be very blunt, in my experience your chances of recovering a single penny are remote, as I think you understand. The scammers could be anywhere in the world — most likely Ghana, Nigeria or somewhere in Eastern Europe — Romania, Albania. My honest advice to you is to treat this as a life-lesson, bite the bullet, try to forget all about it and move on. Don’t let it destroy the rest of your life.’
‘I can’t do that, Mr Packham, I’m afraid that’s not in my DNA. What is it they say — you can take the man out of the army, but you can’t take the army out of the man? I’m a soldier through and through. One of the reasons I joined the army was because I wanted to correct injustices. These bastards have suckered me out of just about every penny I have. What’s left in the kitty is yours. I’m happy to pay you. I want revenge on these bastards. I need you to understand that.’
‘Revenge? That’s your driver?’
‘Yes.’
Packham looked hard at him. ‘Can I just remind you of the words of Confucius, a very wise man: Before you seek revenge, first dig two graves.’
‘I’m comfortable with that. I’m wiped out, my beloved wife is dead, my eldest child lives in Canada and I’m buggered if I’m going to go and live there, sponging off him until I die. I have nothing to live for. If any good can come out of this appalling mess, I’m happy to dig two graves — and pay for them up front. At least I’ll have one certainty to look forward to.’ Johnny gave him a wistful look, then stood and reached up to one of the bookshelves for a volume he’d spotted. Sun Tzu’s The Art Of War. He pulled it out and handed it to Packham. ‘Ever read this?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Stand by the riverbank for long enough, and the bodies of all your enemies will float past,’ Johnny recited.
There was a brief reflective silence by both men, before Johnny continued.
‘Do you have any idea how it feels to be such a mug as I’ve been, Mr Packham? I’ve served my country to the best of my abilities, always tried to do the decent thing, always treated people fairly, and always put a little bit aside for a rainy day. Now I’m faced with losing my home and every bean I have in the world — and going cap in hand to charity. Shall I tell you what my future holds?’
Packham looked at him expectantly.
‘At my age I have no chance of building up any kind of nest egg again. I’m wiped out. I face a future of living on benefits, in council accommodation. Then at some point in the future, I’ll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they can’t find a defibrillator. That’s the future I face. Not a great prospect, is it? All because of my own stupidity.’ He shrugged. ‘Look, I’m not blaming anyone. I was lucky, I didn’t take a bullet or lose my limbs in the desert. I suppose sooner or later everyone’s luck runs out. I’d just rather mine had run out when I was a younger man, at an age when I could have started over and rebuilt my life. Now I’m an old fart. The best I can hope for, to supplement my meagre income, is a job on a supermarket checkout.’
Packham scribbled a note on a pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Fordwater. ‘I don’t want to take your money, there’s no charge for today’s session. This is who you should go and talk to, he knows more about this field than anyone. Save your money for him.’
Johnny Fordwater looked down at the sheet.
On it was written a name — Jack Roberts, Private Investigator — and a phone number.
‘If he likes you, Mr Fordwater, he’s your man.’
‘How do I get him to like me?’
Ray Packham shrugged. ‘Can’t help you on that one, mate. But good luck.’
50
Tuesday 9 October
The Force Control Room was the nerve centre of Sussex Police. Located in a modern building on the HQ campus it housed, in a vast open-plan area, all the emergency call handlers and radio dispatchers, as well as the CCTV surveillance hub, from where any of the county’s cameras could be monitored.
The CCTV hub was manned 24/7, with each shift comprising a team of four operators. Much of their time was spent scanning randomly through the cameras, watching for anything unusual or suspicious, or any accidents. During major incidents and crimes in action they would provide visual guidance to the police on any activity within camera range. Occasionally, as they were tasked now, they carried out a search.
Haydn Kelly, accompanied by DS Jack Alexander, sat staring at a bank of monitors. Next to them was the senior CCTV operator assigned to assist, Jon Pumfrey. Each of the screens showed different street views of Brighton. On one was the seafront at the bottom of West Street. Another a section of the Lanes, the lunchtime crowds shuffling along. The rain had eased off and many were carrying furled umbrellas. Another showed the busy shopping area of North Street, with the Clock Tower in the background. A further one showed a steady trickle of people heading down Queen’s Road from the station.
Jack Alexander remembered the stuffed fish Roy Grace had on the wall of his office in their previous building, Sussex House. When he’d asked the Detective Superintendent about it, Grace had told him it was to remind him always of one of the essential qualities you needed to be an effective detective. Patience. Good anglers had endless patience and detectives needed that, too. Jack was understanding that only too well, now. For the past hour and ten minutes, his lean, beanstalk frame had been perched on an uncomfortable chair as the four operators cycled, randomly, through live images from various of the plethora of CCTV cameras covering the central area of Brighton and Hove.
It was a long-shot, he knew. All they had to go on was the blurry footage from Munich Police, and the description from Suzy Driver’s neighbour. They were looking for a tall black man with a distinctive swagger, wearing red shoes. Since the surveillance had started there had been over a dozen sightings of males in red shoes, but none of the images had remotely matched their target. They had no knowledge who the suspect actually was, nor if he was indeed still in the area. Even less so whether he would be brazenly out and about on the streets.
After another thirty minutes, badly in need of a drink, Jack was about to get up and stretch his legs when Haydn Kelly suddenly called out, urgently, ‘Camera Five! Can you stop it!’
Pumfrey froze the image. ‘Want me to rewind a bit?’ he asked.
‘Yes, until they first appear, please,’ Kelly said.
Pumfrey wound back, then played it again. The camera showed a pedestrianized street of what looked like fashion boutiques on both sides. Two black men suddenly came into view. One was tall, in a shiny suit and bright-red shoes, striding along like he owned the pavement. His companion was a much smaller, morose-looking man, in a bomber jacket and jeans. They stopped outside a men’s boutique, peering at the window display. The tall African pointed at something and the other nodded.