Want You Dead

  None of them took any notice of the small van parked a short distance along on the far side of the street.

  84

  Sunday, 3 November

  ‘Fuckwits,’ said Bryce Laurent, sitting in his little Ford van on the seafront, which shimmied in a strong gust of wind while he listened to the conversation. He was staring at the elegant Regency building that, in former times, would have been a single dwelling with servants’ quarters, no doubt, but was now divided into flats.

  The kind that would burn easily. Modern apartment blocks were designed to contain fires. Impossible to destroy. But not an old building like this.

  He’d looked it up on the internet, and the flat Red was buying was on the top floor. He’d seen them come out onto the terrace and look out at the view. It must be magnificent from up there.

  Too bad you’ll never get to enjoy it!

  Behind him, the rear of the van was nicely kitted out with a mattress and duvets. And a number of restraints he had fitted himself. Along with a bag containing a few implements with which to cause Red a lot of pain, which she richly deserved. Pliers. Razors. A small gas blowtorch. Some piano wire. An electric shock machine. A hood. And a few masks from a joke shop for him to wear.

  The gods of justice were surely smiling on him today. There was a Fox and Sons estate agency board fixed beside the front door. GROUND-FLOOR FLAT FOR SALE it read.

  He dialled the number and asked when it would be possible to view the ground-floor flat of the Royal Regent mansion block. ‘Whenever you like, sir. It’s an executor sale, so we have access whenever convenient.’

  He thanked the agent and made an appointment for that afternoon.

  Such good news!

  And it was such good news that Red and her parents liked the top-floor flat so much.

  The only bad news right now was the lack of accommodation. Strawberry Fields had suited him rather well. He was left alone there. A breakfast box was delivered to his door every morning. He could be totally anonymous there for as long as needed, and he was fully paid up for two more weeks. But he had seen his photograph on television this morning. A big black detective calling him a dangerous man. Warning the public not to approach him.

  Me?

  I’m gentle.

  Until I get angry. And I am angry now. You’d better believe it.

  But now the heat was off. They had Matt Wainwright in custody. How good was that?

  Except, that girl on reception was sharp. She had seen his face several times. He could not take the risk that she might call the police. So, sadly, there was no going back there. He would sleep in the van tonight. Then tomorrow the fun would really begin!

  He sprang to attention. Red and her parents were coming out of the front door of the building now. Going off to the Grand Hotel for Sunday lunch. Such a nice place! He totally approved.

  He did not bother to follow their little Honda SUV, he just listened to their progress. Heard them being greeted at the restaurant, and shown to their seats.

  ‘Anyone like a snifter?’ her idiot father said.

  Both her parents ordered gin and tonics. Red ordered a Sauvignon Blanc.

  He had to listen to them perusing the menus. Red’s stupid mother and imbecilic father ordered the Sunday roast. Red ordered the sea bass option.

  Ah, so healthy. Good girl! That’s my Red. Be healthy, my angel! I need you healthy to endure all I’m going to put you through. I’d hate to think of you dying before I’m done with you. Really I would! You’ve got a lot of suffering in front of you. To make up for all you’ve put me through. Your last words on earth will be, ‘I am so sorry, Bryce, I truly love you. I will love you for ever.’ I promise, that’s what you will say. With your dying breath. Really you will.

  Then I will release you. I’m a man of my word.

  85

  Sunday, 3 November

  ‘I need to warn you in advance about the condition this place is in,’ the estate agent said, with a slight French accent, unlocking the front door of the Royal Regent mansion block with a jailer-size bunch of keys. With her free hand she held the particulars.

  She was an elegant woman in her mid-forties, with chic blonde hair, a smart navy coat with brass buttons, and an expensive-looking handbag. She had told him her name, but he had forgotten it. Sophie? Sandrine? Suzy? He didn’t care, but he didn’t like forgetting things. Normally he remembered names scrupulously. He was too distracted, he knew, too much on edge. He needed to calm down and sharpen up.

  ‘It’s an executor sale, you see, Mr Millet. The family have been arguing about the valuation for a couple of years, so nothing’s been touched – and I’m afraid it was in a pretty neglected state when the owner died.’

  ‘Good,’ Bryce Laurent said, scratching his itching chin through his beard. ‘I’m looking for a restoration project.’

  ‘Well, this is certainly one. The wiring is frankly in a dangerous state. And the plumbing’s pretty ancient.’

  Wiring in a dangerous state was music to his ears.

  They entered the communal hallway, which appeared to have recently been done up. There was a smell of fresh paint and new carpet, and a row of smart-looking mailbox pigeon holes. Several bicycles stood propped against a wall, and leaflets littered the floor. He noticed the linked fire alarm high up on the wall. City regulations in all apartment buildings. She fumbled with her bunch of keys, found the right one, and unlocked the door to their right, pressed a light switch and they entered.

  Bryce wrinkled his nose in disgust at the musty, old-people smell, and the hint of damp and mildew. They were in a tiny hallway, with a framed, embroidered prayer on the wall beside a wooden Victorian coat rack, on which hung a dusty beige mackintosh and a tweed cap. He followed the agent through into the sitting room, a small, drab and sad-feeling space with hideous flock wallpaper, its view through greying net curtains out on to the seafront mostly obscured by iron railings and a row of dustbins. It was furnished with a 1950s three-piece suite, a three-bar electric fire, on an ancient brown flex, in the grate beneath a marble mantelpiece, and a square television that looked like something out of the Ark. A framed replica of Constable’s Hay Wain was fixed, slightly crooked, to one wall, and a replica Turner seascape on another.

  ‘He had nice taste in art,’ Laurent said.

  The agent looked at him quizzically, as if unsure whether he meant that or was making a joke. ‘Yes,’ she said, erring on the side of caution. ‘Quite.’

  ‘Great painters.’

  ‘Great painters,’ she said. ‘I understand from the family that all the contents are for sale by negotiation.’

  He smiled. ‘Good to know.’

  He looked back at the television. It was the television that interested him the most, but he tried not to let that show. He glanced up at the stuccoed ceiling, which was an ochre colour above the dado rail, studying the ancient smoke detector.

  ‘I think he must have been a heavy smoker,’ she said, looking up too.

  ‘Smoking kills you,’ he replied.

  ‘Quite.’

  He looked at the television set again. Stared at it. For as long as he dared.

  ‘Quite an antique, isn’t it!’ she said, clocking his interest.

  ‘Wonder if it only gets old programmes?’

  She gave him another uncertain look, as if she was unable to tell whether he was being humorous or serious.

  Then he followed her on a tour of the rest of the gloomy little ground-floor flat. He saw the toilet, with its wooden seat and stained bowl, a small frosted-glass window above it, and the wallpaper bulging near the bottom in one corner, and mottled – a sure sign of damp. He stared at the window for some moments, before following her into the kitchen.

  In keeping with the rest of the flat, it was a drab, old-fashioned room, with an ancient Lec fridge and a filthy-looking cloth hanging on a wooden drying rack. ‘This is definitely in need of some modernization,’ she said.

  Some? he thought. There wasn’t going to be
any need, not for his purposes. But he didn’t tell her that. Again he clocked the smoke detector in here. Following her, he peered into the grimy tiled bathroom, with brown stains running down the tub. Then the master bedroom, which had a candlewick bedspread over a narrow double bed. He wondered if anyone had ever had sex in this room, then shuddered in revulsion at the very idea. It was strange that there were no photographs, he thought, but maybe the family had already claimed them. Not that he cared. The television was the only thing on his mind at this moment.

  And the ancient wiring. Oh yes. That was good. So good. Especially the wiring for the fire alarm in the communal areas. None of the furniture in any of the rooms would have passed modern fire regulations, he thought. Perfect. The place was a tinder box waiting to go up.

  And it would not have to wait long!

  ‘What about parking?’ he asked.

  ‘There is a space that comes with the property, to the rear,’ she informed him. ‘Behind the toilet there’s an alleyway with one space that will accommodate a reasonably-sized car. Quite rare for properties in Kemp Town, actually,’ she said, her voice brightening as she pointed it out on the floor plans.

  ‘That’s very good,’ he said.

  ‘It is!’ She sensed his interest. ‘I’m sure the family would be open to offers, Mr Millet,’ she said. ‘It’s been empty for a while now and a lot of people I’ve shown around have been put off by the condition. But with some vision, and a little investment, this could be turned into a very nice flat. You could make it jolly cosy.’

  ‘It’s interesting,’ he agreed. ‘It definitely could be cosy. It has potential!’

  ‘A lot of potential!’ she agreed. Then she frowned.

  Was she frowning at his beard? He didn’t care. The television was the thing. Oh yes! And it was perfectly located in a corner. From his brief time in the fire brigade, before he had been sacked, he had learned quite what a danger old television sets presented. Especially those that caught fire which were located in a corner. The fire would shoot up two walls simultaneously, and rapidly spread from there. Especially with the old dry paper covering the walls. And no fire-proofing between the flats here, he could be sure of that.

  And old television sets were a frequent cause of fires. There would be little to be suspicious of with the television being the source.

  Yes. Beautiful.

  ‘You’re smiling!’ she said. ‘You like it?’

  ‘I do. I like it a lot!’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll have to move on – I have another appointment to go to. I’ll give you my card, if you would like to have a second viewing any time.’

  He took it, and glanced down at her name. Sylvie Young.

  ‘Thank you, Sylvie. I just need a quick pee.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He hurried back into the toilet, closed and locked the door, then turned his attention to the window. It had a rusted lever handle on it, but, as he had noticed earlier, no lock. He smiled. Simple.

  To mask the sound, he pulled the chain flush. Then he yanked the window handle. It was so corroded that for a moment it seemed almost welded to the locking stud. Then, on the second try, it came free. He pushed the window frame, hard. It did not budge. He tried again, then a third time, and finally it opened. A spider scurried down a web outside and out of sight. He peeped out into the alleyway the agent had talked about. Nothing there. He pulled the window almost shut, leaving the lever free.

  It was quite big enough for him to crawl through later, under the cover of darkness.

  He sauntered back across the flat to the front door, where the agent was waiting a tad impatiently.

  ‘It has potential. Most definitely,’ he said.

  ‘It does. It needs someone with a little vision.’

  ‘I have vision,’ he replied. ‘I have so much vision!’

  ‘I can see that,’ she said.

  ‘This is definitely my kind of place.’

  86

  Monday, 4 November

  Norman made her feel safe. She loved to wake curled up beside his plump body, and to smell the stale pipe smoke on his breath. That smell reminded her of her father, who had died over two decades ago, when she was in her early teens. She’d rarely ever seen her father without a pipe in his hand or his mouth. He was always cleaning it, filling it, tamping down the tobacco, lighting it, sending rich blue clouds of sweet-smelling smoke swirling across the room towards her. Just the way Norman did now.

  After years of looking after her constantly ailing mother, it had never occurred to her that one day she might fall in love with someone and start a totally new life. But this was how she felt now, lying in Norman Potting’s arms, feeling his morning erection against her stomach.

  ‘I have to go, babe,’ she whispered.

  He rolled over and looked at the radio alarm. ‘Briefing’s not until 8.30! We’ve two whole hours. And I’m feeling a bit randy, if you want to know! Go on, let’s have a Monday morning quickie!’

  ‘I have to leave early.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘Isn’t there some terrible joke you tell about that? About someone ordering in a restaurant?’

  ‘The bloke in the cafe who orders a quickie? The waitress says it’s actually pronounced “quiche”, sir.’

  Bella giggled. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m not at the main briefing. I have to be at Brighton nick first thing, to brief the Outside Enquiry Team.’

  She slipped out of bed.

  ‘Come back, I’m missing you!’

  ‘Missing you, too!’ she retorted, and blew him a kiss. God, she didn’t understand it. After years of working together and loathing this man. Listening to his terrible jokes and boasts of his conquests, one after another, she could not have imagined in a hundred years that she might fall in love with him.

  But gradually her dislike of him had turned to pity. And then to very different sorts of feelings for him. Inside he was a good man who’d had a shit childhood. A bit like her own, after her father had died. And she’d realized, eventually, they were both looking for the same thing, albeit in different directions. They were looking for love. Even now she couldn’t work out how it had really happened. Didn’t people say sometimes you fell for opposites?

  But maybe, she thought, as she stood in the shower, almost regretfully washing his smell off her, it was something else you fell for. She’d been fifteen years in the police. Fifteen years of seeing the shit side of human life. Slowly, gradually, however irritating Norman Potting was, she’d come to see him as a decent man, a good man in a rotten world.

  Then he’d been diagnosed with prostate cancer.

  He was scared as hell about that. And, she realized, she was scared as hell of losing him. Sure there was an age gap, but at heart he was just a big kid. He made her feel safe. But beneath all his bluff exterior, there was something deeply tender and vulnerable about him that made her want to throw her arms around him and protect him.

  Last night, after he had fallen asleep in her arms, she had prayed, as she did often. She’d prayed to God to make his cancer better. To ensure he didn’t lose what he was terrified of losing, his winkyaction.

  She did not want him to lose that either. She’d not had many lovers in her life, and Norman was the best by a million miles. He knew how to turn her on in ways she had never known. And he took genuine pleasure in that. He cared. He really did. So many colleagues dismissed him as an old sweat, a dinosaur, way past his sell-by date. But they were wrong.

  He was in his prime. And she was determined not to let anyone, ever again, dismiss him. That was something she liked about Roy Grace. Unlike so many others, he actually got Norman. He realized just how good he was. Maybe, in time, she could change him, she thought. Stop him from making a fool of himself, like the way he had done on Saturday at the wedding. It was insecurity, that was all. If she could make him feel secure then, she was confident, she could soften and change him.

  She stepped out of the shower, a towel around her body and another, like a
turban, around her head. He had gone back to sleep. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I love you so much.’

  He farted.

  87

  Monday, 4 November

  Building fires had a repellent, noxious smell that was utterly distinctive, Bella thought. She could smell one now, at a quarter to eight in the morning, as she drove her Mini west into Brighton along the clifftop from Norman’s home in Peacehaven. It was getting stronger.

  The acrid stench of burning paint, plastics, wood, rubber, paper. A smell that was tinged with sadness and tragedy. Any home that burned meant the loss of so much to the occupants. Their photographs, memories, possessions. Gone for ever. As had just happened to Red Westwood’s family.

  As she negotiated the roundabout above the marina, and headed through the early morning daylight along the road she loved so much, Kemp Town’s Marine Parade, with its elegant Regency terraced houses, she saw slivers of strobing blue light. Then, as she neared, over to her right she saw the thick black smoke belching from a ground-floor window, and from the first-floor window above.

  She swung across the road and pulled up behind a marked Ford Mondeo, then climbed out of her car, glad of her donkey jacket in the chilly air, and held up her warrant card to the two young male officers. One was tall and thin, the other short, stocky and bespectacled. She didn’t recognize either of them. Several bewildered-looking people, residents of the building who had evacuated, she presumed, were gathered on the pavement. Most of them looked as if they had just thrown on any clothes they could find. A young shaven-headed man sporting a goatee beard held a laptop under his arm. A teenage boy was filming the whole scene on his phone.

  Suddenly, a panicky-looking woman clad in a dressing gown and slippers, her hair a mess, came running out of the building holding an infant boy in her arms and looking around, in desperation, at the knot of people. She thrust him at another woman, crying, ‘Please take him, take Rhys. My daughter’s still inside, with the dog. Someone please help me.’