He smiled, privately. ‘Can I talk to Jack, please.’
A few seconds later he heard the young detective’s slightly sheepish voice.
‘Sorry to wake you, Jack, but we have a development. I need your Outside Enquiry Team to crack into action at 6.30 a.m.’
‘Of course, yes, sir,’ he said, sounding more awake now.
Roy Grace told him about the parked rental car that had been spotted in Withdean Road, then added, ‘We don’t know why it was there, but the driver must have left it and walked along the street. If any of the houses have outward-facing CCTV cameras we need to get the footage between midnight and 1.30 a.m. checked out.’
‘Leave it with me, sir.’
Grace ended the call, then finally told his team to go home and meet again at 7 a.m.
Then he left to grab a precious few hours of sleep.
68
Wednesday 10 October
Dawn had come in the form of an oppressive grey sea mist, coating the windscreen of Tooth’s Polo in a film of moisture. From time to time he switched on the ignition and flicked the wipers to clear it. He listened on Radio Sussex for the news. But neither the 7 a.m. nor 8 a.m. bulletins carried any relevant updates.
There had been few signs of action in the apartment block. During the past hour, a handful of cars had driven out of the lot, but not the Kia, nor had any of them contained Jules de Copeland. A couple of people had left in taxis, one a weary-looking young woman — had she been the grumpy one he’d disturbed, he wondered, idly? The other, in a long dress, who looked like she was doing the walk of shame, had clambered hurriedly into the rear of a cab.
No Kia. No rush.
Take all the time you need, Jules de Copeland. Enjoy your last morning on earth, and tell your pal, Dunstan Ogwang, to enjoy his, too.
Tooth switched on the local radio, again, in time to catch the morning news.
To see if there was any update on the suspected homophobic attack of last night.
There was.
It was the second news item, after a concerned piece on the rise of Sussex burglary statistics and defensive soundbites from an aggressive-sounding Assistant Chief Constable called Cassian Pewe.
‘Following a brutal attack on Sussex motivational speaking expert, Toby Seward, Sussex Police have confirmed they have arrested a suspect. The events of last night are still unclear, but Sussex Police have announced that during the — possibly homophobic — attack, Mr Seward had his right hand severed. Trauma surgeon Robin Turner and his team worked through the night to reattach it. A hospital spokesman said the operation went well but it was too early to tell if it would be successful.’
Suspect, Tooth thought, with gloom as grey as the mist engulfing his car. Ogwang?
In custody?
He thought about his explicit instructions to eliminate Ogwang and Copeland.
Now one of his targets was possibly out of reach, in custody.
And if he was, for sure he would squeal. His paymaster, Steve Barrey, was not going to be happy.
Should he still go after Jules de Copeland? Or bail out while he could? The money from Barrey was in his bank account. Enough to live on comfortably for the retirement he had planned. Enough for the rest of his days.
He could fly out today and be in Ecuador tomorrow. End of.
Except, never in his life had he left a job unfinished. If you did that you would forever be looking over your shoulder. Because one day, whatever you left unfinished behind you, might instead come looking for you.
He was feeling lousy. Clammy. Giddy. Those flu-like symptoms again from that snake bite?
He dialled the number he had for Steve Barrey. It was answered after just one ring and Barrey did not sound happy.
‘You’ve failed again, Mr Tooth, is that what you’re phoning to tell me? I’ve made a mistake hiring you — you’re a has-been, aren’t you?’
Tooth bristled. But Barrey was right, he had screwed up. He’d lost the plot.
He was a has-been, it was time to quit. This was it, his last job. He’d had enough. ‘I think Ogwang may be in custody,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to find out.’
‘Don’t bother. I have contacts. If Ogwang is in custody I’ll have someone I can trust take care of him. Just deal with Copeland.’
Barrey hung up.
Tooth needed air. He got out of the car and walked around in the salty breeze, as he had done every hour or so during the night, trying to fight the nausea that was overwhelming him. He felt unsteady, his balance all over the place. He clutched the car for support, then sat back in it again and lit a cigarette. Thinking. There had to be a caretaker or janitor or concierge on the premises here, of such a big apartment block. As soon as he felt better he would go and find him.
69
Wednesday 10 October
Jack Roberts sat at the oval table in his meeting room, dressed in a smart, brown open-neck shirt and suit trousers, listening intently to his client. Johnny Fordwater looked every inch the retired soldier and must have cut quite a dash when he was younger, Roberts thought.
Seated across the table from him with fine, military posture, the retired major still had all his hair, a good salt-and-pepper shade of grey and neatly groomed, if in an old-fashioned style. His clothes, too, were conservative. He wore a tweedy suit over a checked Viyella shirt and a club tie. Wrapped up in his anger, ignoring his steaming coffee, the bottles of water and the plate of expensive biscuits, Fordwater poured out his story from start to finish, while the red light on the recorder on the table blinked steadily.
It was the same story, with minor variations, Jack Roberts had been hearing all too often during the past couple of years. ‘Four hundred thousand pounds?’
‘More or less,’ Johnny Fordwater said. Then, as if embarrassed to admit it, added, ‘Perhaps a bit more.’ He shrugged. ‘Four hundred and fifty, actually.’ His anger spent, he looked at the private investigator balefully. ‘I’ve been a damn fool, haven’t I?’
Roberts shook his head. He felt genuinely sad for his client. This was a man who had made serving his country his career. No one went into the armed forces to get rich, and there were plenty of his equally well-educated contemporaries who would have taken a different path and gone for high-paying careers in the City or elsewhere. Fordwater had clearly been a fine soldier, honoured with one of the highest decorations for bravery the nation could give. He didn’t deserve to be in this place now.
‘No, Mr Fordwater, you haven’t been a fool at all. You did what anyone might do in your situation, finding yourself alone, with very many active years in front of you.’
‘You’re kind. You see, the thing is I had a wonderful career in the army. There I was a somebody, I felt wanted. When I retired, for a while I had a focus — my wife, who became terminally ill. I retired early to look after her and for the next three years I was pretty much her nurse and carer, round the clock, until she passed away.’ He gave a wan smile.
‘And I suppose, looking back, that’s when it all started, really. I found myself walking down a street, feeling no different from when I was in my twenties, but pretty girls didn’t even bother looking at me. I tried to get a job, but no one was interested in a man of my age. I started to feel I was on the scrapheap, that this was it. I even toyed with joining the Scientologists, they at least were welcoming and wanted me. Then I bumped into an old army chum, Gerry, who reminded me he’d found the ideal woman through an internet dating site. He convinced me to have a go.’
‘So you did?’ Roberts asked.
‘Yes, and I met Ingrid. She gave me back my feeling of self-worth and made me feel wanted again. She — or whoever it really was — is clever. Knew how to pull all the strings.’ He looked wistful. ‘You know, I believed her, I really did.’