‘What is the lady’s name, please?’
Red leaned forward. ‘My name’s Red Westwood.’
There was a brief silence; she heard the putter of a keypad, then the change in tone of the operator’s voice. ‘I’ll try to reach him for you, Ms Westwood. We’ve been looking for you – are you safe now?’
‘Yes.’ She began crying again.
‘Can you give me your location?’
‘I’m outside my flat.’ She gave him the address. ‘I’ve just been kidnapped and escaped, but I can’t get inside because I don’t have my keys.’
‘I’ll try to contact PC Spofford, but in the meantime I’ll have a car with you within a few minutes. Are you safe for the moment?’
She looked at the locksmith, who was engrossed in laying a filter at one end of the brown cigarette paper. ‘Yes, thank you, I am.’ She peered nervously through the windscreen.
‘Can we contact you via this number?’ He was sounding kindly now, so kindly that her tears worsened.
‘Yes,’ she said, and sniffed.
‘If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll stay on the line until someone is with you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much. I’m in a van marked with a locksmith name.’ She looked at her companion.
‘24-Hour Lock-up,’ he said clearly, into the phone. ‘We’re parked on Westbourne Terrace just to the north of the Kingsway.’
With his large, grubby hands, he laid thick, golden strands of tobacco along the length of the paper, added more to it, then brought it to his lips, licked along the length, and rolled it. Then he handed the thin, slightly creased, but well-formed tube to her. ‘Get me into trouble, smoking in the workplace,’ he grinned, then held up the flame of a plastic lighter.
She inhaled the sweet smoke gratefully. As she did so, she was aware of what she assumed was an unmarked police car pulling up alongside, and suddenly she felt better, safer.
She opened the door and jumped down onto the road. Two uniformed officers climbed out of the car. One was a sturdily built woman in her late twenties, with brown curly hair and a friendly face; the other was a male, in his forties, tall and thin, holding a torch.
‘Ms Westwood?’ the woman asked, looking at her sympathetically.
Red nodded.
‘PC Holiday and PC Roberts. We’re on the Neighbourhood Team, with PC Spofford, so we know all about you. You look injured – do you need to go to hospital?’
‘I’m okay,’ Red said, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, then pressing it against each of her eyes in turn to stop the stinging. She was aware of the cigarette in her left hand.
‘Have you just been up near the Dyke?’
Red nodded.
‘We need to get you to hospital.’
‘No, I’m okay – I – I ran into a barbed-wire fence, just cut myself a bit. I want to get into my flat, I have to get cleaned up. What’s happened – to the helicopter? I saw it – I saw it on fire.’
The two officers shot a glance at each other. ‘We don’t have any information yet,’ PC Roberts said. ‘We were just down the road when we got the call to come here.’
‘Thank you,’ Red said.
‘Were you with Bryce Laurent?’
She nodded. ‘I went to show a prospective client around a property at lunchtime. Then next thing I knew I was tied up in the back of a van being driven by Bryce. We went into some kind of car park for . . . I don’t know how long. Then out to the Dyke. I managed to escape. He was shooting at me – with a crossbow, I think. I was able to get to the road and flag down a car – the driver kindly dropped me here.’
‘Why didn’t you call us then?’
Red began crying again. ‘I – I don’t know. I – I just wanted to get home. I had no phone or money; I was just terrified, not thinking straight. But I realized I don’t have my keys or anything.’ She jerked a finger at the van. ‘And he won’t open the door for me without ID.’
‘Okay, we’ll speak to him,’ PC Holiday said. ‘But we really need to take you to the Victim Suite, where you can be made comfortable, receive medical attention, and we can give you an opportunity to provide an account of what’s happened.’
Red replied, ‘I know, but I’m not going anywhere right now. I want to go into my flat.’ She burst into tears.
Two minutes later the four of them headed towards the front door of Red’s building, the locksmith carrying a metal toolbox.
103
Monday, 4 November
Roy Grace on the radio to Cassian Pewe said, ‘I’m making my way to the RV point, which has been set up for emergency vehicles, sir. I’ll then go closer to the crash site and meet Bronze at the Forward Control Point, which is being set up. Silver’s in the Control Room and my role is as the Senior Investigating Officer, nothing else. I’ve given Silver my investigative requirement, which has been approved by Force Gold. My team at Sussex House are also feeding up-to-date intel to him. Everyone is focused on finding Laurent and Ms Westwood.’
He could see the red glow in the distance, over to their left, in the middle of the farmland that extended a mile south from here to the Hangleton residential district of Brighton. The lights of the houses and the distant sprawl of the city beyond were faint through the driving rain.
He looked down at his phone, trying to read the text he had received with directions to the scene, but it was hard at the speed they were travelling on the uneven country road. ‘I think we make a left, opposite where the road turns right up towards the Dyke,’ he said to Glenn Branson.
‘Copy.’
‘I think this is it,’ Glenn said, the headlights picking out the sign to a farm and a track to the left. Dyke Grange Farm.
He swung the car onto it and they hurtled down a steep, potholed incline, then around the back of a cluster of buildings, far too fast. The car bounced, and Grace could feel the rear end losing traction, swinging out to the left, as Glenn sawed at the wheel. They swung violently to the right, and this time, the phone flying out of his hand, Grace was certain they were going to spin. At the last possible moment the car swung back the other way, then in the opposite direction again. Then somehow they were going in a straight line once more.
‘Sorry about that,’ Glenn said. ‘Bit of a tank-slapper!’
Grace leaned forward to retrieve his phone from the footwell, and his face slammed into the dash as they bounced over a ridge on the cart track.
‘I think we could slow down now, Lewis,’ he said.
‘Yeah, you see, Hamilton and me, we’re good in the wet. Am I scaring you?’
‘No more than usual.’ Roy Grace could smell an increasingly strong, acrid odour of burning plastic and paint. It reminded him of torched cars he had attended.
‘It’s all about keeping the car balanced. Basic physics, yeah?’
‘I thought it was all about getting to your destination alive.’ Then, staring at the cluster of police, fire and ambulance vehicles they could now see in the beam of the headlights, Grace fell into a grim silence. They had obviously arrived at the RV point. In the almost ethereal red glow, two uniformed officers in hi-viz jackets were putting up a tape barrier. Firefighters were jetting water onto the burning wreckage in the distance.
As they pulled up behind a fire appliance, another car hurtled down the track behind them. Grace and Branson climbed out, instantly feeling the heat on their faces. They were greeted by Inspector Roy Apps, in his hi-viz jacket and police hat. The red glow gave him a slightly demonic appearance. An experienced police officer, Apps was the current Golf 99 – Duty Inspector for Brighton and Hove. A wiry man in his early fifties, he had started life as a gamekeeper before joining Sussex Police. This rural setting was strangely appropriate for him.
‘Hi Roy, what’s the update?’ Grace asked him. The stench of burning was even stronger now, laced with the reek of spent aviation fuel. He could feel the heat on his face even more intensely.
Normally a cheery man, unfazed by most
things he encountered, the inspector had a sad countenance tonight. ‘It’s bad news, chief. NPAS 15 down and no sign of any survivors. The information I have is that there are three on board: the pilot, a police officer, Sergeant Amanda Morrison, and a paramedic. The standard crew. We believe they’re still in the helicopter, but the blaze is too fierce for anyone to get close enough to determine that. There’s an air crash investigation team coming down, but I don’t know when they are due.’
Grace shot a glance at the burning hulk beyond him, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was trying to shut out of his mind the thought of three humans incinerated in the inferno. But he could not shut out the knowledge that today two police officers involved with his investigation had been killed.
Then he heard the nasally voice of Assistant Chief Constable Cassian Pewe right behind him. ‘This is dreadful, Roy!’
He turned, and saw Pewe in his full dress uniform and braided cap.
‘This is the second tragedy we’ve had in the city today,’ Pewe said.
At that moment, out of thin air, a fair-haired young woman appeared, holding a shorthand notepad. ‘Amy Gee from the Argus. You’re the new Assistant Chief Constable, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anything you’d like to say to the people of Brighton and Hove about this terrible tragedy?’
‘It’s not safe here. We will have something to say, but for now you must get back to safety.’
She turned to Roy Grace. ‘Detective Superintendent, I understand that DS Bella Moy, who died in a house fire on Marine Parade this morning, was one of your team investigating Operation Aardvark?’
‘Yes,’ he said tersely, not wanting to be rude.
‘And this police helicopter crash occurred during your operation. Unconfirmed reports are that a woman police sergeant has died in the crash.’
‘I don’t have enough information at this stage to be able to comment,’ he replied. ‘I will be holding a press conference tomorrow morning. You need to leave now.’
‘Can I just ask you which of the fires in the city you are currently linking to the arsonist, Detective Superintendent?’
‘I hope to be able to give that information tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, don’t think me rude, one of my officers will escort you away.’
There were more headlights behind him now. He saw a television van and a Radio Sussex van approaching.
He turned to Roy Apps. ‘Is there a scene guard yet?’
‘I’ll have one in place in a few minutes.’
‘It needs to be sorted now – I want these bloody media people kept away. This is a crime scene, for Chrissake!’
‘Yes, sir. It’s being put in place as we speak. I’ll speed it up.’
‘Do we have any witnesses?’
‘There’s a local farmer.’ He pointed to a man who was on his mobile phone. ‘He’s just speaking to somebody and he’ll be back in a minute.’
Grace jerked a finger back at the approaching vehicles. ‘Keep them all at a safe distance.’
‘I will.’
Grace ducked under the tape, followed by Glenn Branson, and immediately saw the figure of Tony McCord, the Chief Fire Officer, heading towards him, looking solemn. He was a quiet, calm man, never easily perturbed, with film-star good looks. Grace had met him several times on past cases and he always thought that if he were a casting director looking for a handsome Fire Chief, McCord would fit the bill perfectly.
‘Good evening, Roy,’ he said.
‘Not looking good is it, Tony?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ve got more units on the way, but – ’ He shrugged.
‘Roy!’ Inspector Apps called out. ‘Eddie Naylor’s here now – the farmer!’
Grace turned. ‘Okay!’ He ducked back under the tape and walked up to the tall, grizzled-looking man, in a tweed cap, tattered Barbour over a chunky sweater, dungarees and work boots.
Apps said, ‘Mr Naylor, this is Detective Superintendent Grace, the Senior Investigating Officer.’
Grace shook the farmer’s massive, strong hand. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘I apologize for any disruption we’re causing you.’
‘No, none at all,’ he said affably, in a deep voice that was much posher than his appearance. ‘Dreadful thing, this.’
‘Can you tell me anything you saw this evening?’
‘Yes, well, those buildings over there, you see them?’ He jerked a finger at a distant cluster of farm buildings.
‘Yes.’
‘I rent them out, been a couple of years or so now, to a bit of a strange fellow. His name is Paul Riley.’
‘Paul Riley?’ Grace said, his interest piqued. Paul Riley was one of Bryce Laurent’s known aliases.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Well, to be honest, I haven’t seen him in a while. Pops the rent through my letterbox every three months, always well in advance of the due date. Quite a tall fellow – short dark hair, in his late thirties or early forties, I’d say. Quite well dressed – more of a city type than a countryman.’
‘What does he use the premises for?’
‘He told me he has a business making bespoke fireworks. He needed somewhere remote where he could experiment without bothering anyone. He’s been no trouble at all, apart from a few pretty big bangs every now and then, and the odd ball of flame that we can see from our house.’
‘How does he pay you?’
The farmer hesitated then gave an awkward smile. ‘Cash. It’s useful to have a bit of cash in hand, if you know what I mean.’
Grace detected the nervousness in his answer. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t work for the Revenue. I’m not interested in anything other than finding this man. Do you know what vehicle he drives?’
‘He’s had an old Land Rover most of the times I’ve seen him. But tonight I saw a white van. I was just going out rabbiting when I heard the helicopter, then the explosion. It was a few minutes after, this small white van went past at high speed, and out onto the road.’
‘Could you see what make it was?’
‘I’m pretty sure it was a Renault. I had one a while ago; it’s got a bit of a distinctive bonnet shape. I don’t know why, but something made me suspicious, so I tried to remember the licence plate. I wanted to write it down but my ruddy pen was out of ink. I ran inside, repeating it to myself, but to be honest I could only remember two numbers and two letters.’
‘What were they?’
He rummaged in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, then a torch which he switched on. He shone the beam onto the paper and held it out to Roy Grace.
‘Four Seven Charlie Papa,’ Grace read aloud. ‘You don’t remember any of the others?’
‘The third one might have been an N. But I can’t swear to that.’
‘Not CPN – Charlie Papa November?’ CPN, Grace knew, was a common Brighton registration number.
‘It’s possible, Detective Superintendent. But I’d be lying if I said I was sure. He went by very fast, and it was hard to see through the rain, in the dark.’
‘Of course. Can you remember as accurately as possible what time you saw this vehicle?’
Eddie Naylor looked pensive. Then he pulled up his sleeve and studied his wristwatch. ‘About half an hour ago. Twenty to eight, I would say.’
‘How certain are you?’
‘Give or take five minutes.’
‘Did you by chance get a glimpse of the driver? Could you positively identify that it was Paul Riley driving?’
‘I couldn’t say that for sure, no. It was too dark.’
‘Anyone else in the vehicle with him?’
‘I couldn’t say. I didn’t notice anyone, but really, it was too dark. Can you tell me what’s happened? Do you know why the helicopter came down?’
‘We don’t at this point, no, sir.’
‘I heard that there were three people on board.’
‘I’m afraid so
, but I can’t give you any more information than that.’
‘Dangerous things, helicopters. A mate of mine was killed in one a few years ago. Went down in conditions like this.’
Grace thanked him, turned to Glenn and said, ‘Talk to anyone you can find here who might have seen that Renault and see if you can get more of the index – and a description of who was in it. Then meet me back at the car.’
As he hurried through the rain, he dialled the number for MIR-1. DS Exton answered.
‘Jon, good, just who I wanted to speak to. I need to know about small Renault vans. How many different models are sold in the UK? And get me a list of every one that has the digits and letters Four Seven Charlie Papa in the index.’
‘Yes, sir. I may not be able to find out the amount of vehicles sold, and the breakdown of those in Sussex, until office hours tomorrow, but I’ll see if I can find someone to talk to at the DVLA who can conduct some enquiries on the details we have, or else make enquiries to get you the information on the different models.’
‘Good man.’ Roy reached the car and climbed in, shut the door, and sat for a moment, doing some mental calculations. How far could someone drive in forty minutes? At an average speed of, say, fifty miles an hour. Forty-five miles easily, which could take them into another county. But if it was Bryce Laurent, where would he be going? Would he be fleeing?
He didn’t think so. He’d be looking for Red locally. Waiting for her somewhere in Brighton. Perhaps at her flat? More importantly at the moment, where was Red Westwood? The report from the helicopter was that a figure was shooting at someone. Bryce Laurent shooting at Red Westwood, who was running away? So if he hadn’t hit her, would he be letting her go?
No way.
But had she got away? If so, she was somewhere on foot out there in the dark. Unless she was lying wounded or dead out in the fields.
His phone rang. ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
‘Sir, it’s PC Spofford. I’ve just been contacted by one of our Neighbourhood Policing teams who are with Red Westwood. She was apparently kidnapped by Bryce Laurent earlier today, around lunchtime, and taken to a farm out near the Devil’s Dyke. She managed to escape and is now back at her home, with two officers attending, and a locksmith who is changing her locks. Apparently she’s in a pretty bad state emotionally, but she’s not seriously hurt.’