Want You Dead

  ‘Thank God she’s safe,’ Grace said. He thanked Spofford and then rang Silver, updating him with the information he had been given.

  ‘I’ll put a twenty-four-hour police guard on her until further notice – a covert car outside her home – and make sure she is not left without a police presence nearby for one second. We can’t make her leave the flat, but we’ll do all we can.’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Grace replied. He ended the call and immediately called Andy Kille. ‘We’re looking for a small white van, possibly a Renault, with the following digits in its index: Four Seven Charlie Papa. We need to find this van urgently. We believe it was in the Tongdean Road area of the city around midday and more recently in the vicinity of Dyke Grange Farm near the Devil’s Dyke, up until forty-five minutes ago. I want an ANPR check and a careful study of all CCTV footage that would pick up a vehicle travelling between those two areas. And also run through the partials on PNC.’

  ‘Four Seven Charlie Papa?’ Kille repeated calmly.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘I’ve only got three RPU units available now, sir,’ Kille said. ‘I’ll see what Brighton Response have. And we have other county units making for Brighton.’

  ‘This has to have priority over everything, Andy.’

  Grace ended the conversation and immediately called MIR-1. Norman Potting answered.

  ‘Norman, is Haydn Kelly still there by any chance?’

  ‘No, chief,’ he replied gloomily. ‘He went home.’

  ‘You should go home, too, Norman.’

  ‘I’d rather stay here, if it’s all right, sir?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘Of course. Okay, I need you to get hold of Haydn and ask him to come out here to the Dyke right away. I need some footprint analysis done very fast.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Potting said.

  There was a rap on the window. Grace looked up and saw Cassian Pewe’s face glaring in at him. He lowered the window.

  ‘Sheltering from the rain, are we, Roy? Nothing better to do?’

  104

  Monday, 4 November

  The locksmith worked on each of Red’s front door locks in turn, using a long, thin spindle with what looked like a small square tooth at the end. Red and the two police officers stood back, watching as Mal Oxley wiggled his tool one way and then the other, his ear close to the door, listening.

  Then, within a couple of minutes, he pushed the door open.

  ‘I thought these locks were meant to be unpickable?’ Red quizzed him, entering the hallway gratefully and switching on the light.

  ‘There are unpickable locks,’ he grinned. ‘People invent them all the time. Particularly the automotive industry. Lock yourself out of some modern cars and your only way back in is with a new key from the dealer. But most domestic residential locks are pickable – luckily for people like you who lock themselves out.’

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘So how do I make my home secure?’

  ‘Put on the safety chain whenever you are in.’ He pointed to the one on the inside of her door. ‘That’s substantial; no one’s getting in here with that in place, without bolt-cutters. You can sleep tight with that.’

  ‘But I can’t stop someone who’s determined from getting in here when I’m out?’

  ‘You can make it so difficult for them that only a pro will get in. You’ll never keep a pro out, no one will.’

  Red thought back to some of the findings of the private detective her mother had hired to look into Bryce’s background. Bryce had had a job, for a brief time, installing security systems in buildings. One of his magic acts was picking locks. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘What you have here are quality locks, both of them. You can’t do better. I’ll replace the cylinders.’

  ‘We are going to take a look around, Red,’ PC Susi Holiday said. ‘Check everything is in order.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  The two police officers walked down the hall, intermittent, muffled snatches of dialogue emitting from their radios. ‘Charlie Romeo Four,’ Red heard, then a moment later, ‘We have a report of a male acting suspiciously in Trafalgar Gate.’

  She was starting to realize the enormity of what losing her bag, with her purse in it, meant. She now had no credit cards and no means of drawing out any cash, certainly not tonight anyway. She’d have to wait until the morning when the banks were open. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told the locksmith, ‘I can’t pay you tonight.’ She realized she was still holding his roll-up.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said with a smile. ‘I know where you live.’ He gave her a light, then departed cheerily. ‘They’ll post you an invoice and some spare keys.’

  ‘I really appreciate your help,’ she said.

  ‘Anytime,’ he said with a grin. ‘For a fellow smoker!’

  She let him out, then closed the door and walked towards the sitting room. She heard voices from the police radio coming from inside the safe room and went in. It was a small space, with a chair and a simple wooden table, with louvred doors to a toilet and tiny washbasin, fashioned out of what had originally been the spare bedroom. There were smoke and fireproof seals on the window and around the door frame. On the table sat a mobile phone, with the 999 number and PC Spofford’s number both programmed in on speed dial.

  Susi Holiday ran her fingers along the edge of the six-inch-wide steel door, which was as thick as a bank vault, with a large round wheel-handle on the inside to double lock it. There was no handle on the outside. ‘This should make you feel pretty secure,’ she said.

  ‘It does,’ Red agreed.

  ‘What would happen if you passed out in here?’ PC Roberts asked her. ‘How would the emergency services get to you?’

  ‘Well, I think that’s the point of it,’ Red said. ‘Once I’m in here, no one can get in. The window is triple-glazed and sealed shut. There is a window lock key on the ledge above it.’ She pointed. ‘I guess in a worst-case scenario, if I did pass out, the fire brigade could get to me through this window.’

  Susi Holiday peered through it. ‘What’s down below?’

  ‘It’s the alley at the rear of the building; there are some lock-up garages and the bin store.’

  ‘You don’t know where Bryce Laurent is currently?’ Holiday asked.

  ‘Last time I saw him was an hour and a half or so ago, maybe longer, firing a crossbow at me. I don’t know where he is now.’

  ‘I really think it would be better for you to come with us to Brighton police station, where you can be looked after.’

  ‘I’ve lost a whole afternoon,’ Red said. ‘I’m trying to build a new career as an estate agent, and I have a ton of work to do. I feel pretty safe here. If there’s anything I’m not happy about, I’ll lock myself in this room and phone you.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m not leaving here now. Please don’t force me.’

  ‘It’s okay, we can’t force you,’ PC Holiday said gently. ‘But could you at least let us have all your clothes so they can be forensically examined?’

  ‘Okay,’ Red said, ‘sure. I’ll go and change.’

  Five minutes later she returned, in a dressing gown, with her clothes in the separate bags the police had provided her with.

  ‘We’re on lates tonight,’ Susi Holiday said. ‘We’re around until midnight. And there’s going to be a police car outside your front entrance all night. But we’ll also make sure we stay local to you. If there’s anything you are not happy about, just call 999. Anything at all – don’t worry how trivial you think it might be. We want to keep you safe, okay? Detectives are on their way to your flat now.’

  Red nodded, feeling tears welling in her eyes again at the kindness of these officers. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Two?’ the voice from Susi Holiday’s radio said.

  She tilted her head and spoke into it, ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Two.’

  ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Two, an alarm’s gone off at the Big Beach Cafe on the Hove
Lagoon. There’s a report of two intruders on the premises. Are you free to investigate?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, and explained why not. She turned back to Red. ‘We’ll be close by all evening.’

  Red thanked her. She closed the door, pushed home the safety chain and the top and bottom bolts. Then she went into the kitchen, took a bottle of Albarino out of the fridge, poured herself a large glass of the white wine, and picked her ashtray up off the draining board. She went through into the sitting room, sat down on the sofa, took a large gulp of wine, and relit the roll-up which had gone out again. Then she stared out of the window at the darkness and the lights of the apartment block across the courtyard and picked up the television remote.

  Her hand was shaking. Shaking so much she was unable to push the green power button. She put the remote back down, dragged on her cigarette and drained her glass. Then she got up and went through to the kitchen to pour herself a refill, and carried the bottle back into the sitting room.

  The wine was calming her down. She drank some more, then used her landline to dial her mother’s mobile phone, her hand a little calmer now, and was relieved to hear her answer after two rings.

  ‘Darling, are you all right?’ Her mother sounded desperately anxious.

  ‘Yes, I’m home, I’m safe, the police are just outside. What about you and Dad?’

  ‘We’re safe as well, and we just heard the news. A police helicopter has crashed just outside Brighton, and apparently three people are feared dead. A nice police officer outside in the corridor who is guarding us said that this was an incident involving you. Your father and I have been worried out of our wits.’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m safe. God, where are you?’

  Her mother sounded hesitant suddenly and her voice lowered to almost a whisper. ‘Well, the thing is, darling, we’re not allowed to tell anyone. They’ve moved us from the hotel, but I can’t tell you where in case – it sounds ridiculous, I know – but in case Bryce is listening. But you’re okay? You are safe?’

  ‘Yes. I have police guards outside the flat. I’m safe.’

  ‘Keep in touch, darling. Phone us every hour until you go to bed, all right?’

  Red promised she would, ended the call and then phoned Raquel Evans’s mobile.

  It went to voicemail. ‘Hi, this is Raquel. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Hi Raq,’ Red said. ‘It’s me. Give me a call when you get this if not too late.’

  She poured herself another glass of wine, then lit another cigarette, a Silk Cut. It tasted feeble after the strong tobacco of the locksmith’s roll-up. She stubbed it out, picked up her glass, walked through into her bedroom and stripped off, then went into the bathroom, turned on the shower and waited for it to warm up. The police had asked her not to shower because of potential forensic evidence on her body, but she had refused; she just felt dirty and was beyond caring.

  She stepped inside and despite the stinging of her wounds, stayed a long time, luxuriating in the hot jets of water and, helped by the wine, finally relaxing a little. Yet her fear remained.

  Images of the film Psycho played in her mind. The knife blade ripping through the shower curtain.

  What if Bryce had let himself in somehow? She’d never hear him with the water running.

  Feeling far too vulnerable, she stepped out again, shivering with cold and fear, dried herself tenderly, dabbed some antiseptic on the worst cuts and grazes, then pulled on her towelling dressing gown and padded along the corridor, past the safe room and up to the front door. Everything seemed to be as she had left it. The safety chain was securely in place. She peered through the spyhole, and all she could see was the dimly lit, silent landing outside.

  Her phone was ringing. She hurried back into her sitting room and saw the caller was Raquel Evans. She snatched the receiver off the cradle.

  ‘Hi!’ she said.

  ‘Red, you okay?’

  ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘What’s going on? Paul and I are so worried.’

  ‘It’s been a bit shit today, to be honest. But what about you?’

  ‘We’ve been told we have to have a police guard, that Bryce is out there somewhere trying to hurt people close to you. I just went out to collect a takeaway curry and had a police officer come with me in the car. Do you want to come over here and stay with us?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to put you and Paul through this, Raq.’

  ‘Don’t worry about us. It’s you we’re worried about. Do you want me to come over and pick you up?’

  ‘No, I’m okay. I’m fine, honest.’

  ‘You don’t sound at all fine.’

  ‘I’ve just had the locks changed and I have a police car outside. I’ve had one hell of a day and I’m shattered. I just want to try to calm down and get some sleep. I’m okay, really, thanks.’

  ‘Do you want me to come over and stay with you?’

  ‘No, I’m good, honestly.’

  ‘What a bastard. Unbelievable. I never liked him. But, you know, you seemed happy and it was good seeing you like that, so I didn’t say too much. But, shit . . .’

  ‘They’ll catch him soon. The whole of Sussex Police is hunting for him. They’ll find him, and then all this will be over, Raq. I feel confident about it.’

  ‘I’m here for you, at the end of the phone, all night. Call anytime. Doesn’t matter how late, okay?’

  ‘Love you,’ Red said.

  ‘Love you too.’

  105

  Monday, 4 November

  And I love you, too, both of you, Bryce Laurent said silently, listening to the conversation in his van. I love you to death. So sweet, Raquel, so sweet, Red. I’ll deal with you later, Raquel, and your smug little husband, Paul. I know you never liked me. Well, you want to know a secret? I never liked you, either. But hey, what’s a little hatred between friends? Eh, Raq?

  So you love Red? Did you ever love her the way I loved her and she loved me? Did she ever send you a text like this? He looked down at his iPhone, at the texts he had been scrolling through for the past twenty minutes, until he came to one of his favourites. One of the fantasies that he and Red used to text each other constantly. This one, Raquel?

  So we hire out a cute cottage in the Cotswolds which we are driving to. You are driving. We’ve got some music on and you have your hand on me all the time you can. I pick up your arm and begin to kiss it; I suck your fingers and lick the back of your hand before placing it on my chest, smiling. You start to stroke my breasts and squeeze my nipples, which gets me so horny. I look over and down; I can see how hard you are and I put my hand on you. You are pulsing with excitement and are telling me that you are going to have to stop the car. You pull in at the next opportunity and lustfully take my face in your hands and kiss me passionately while your hand slips down into my knickers and you press your fingers inside me, working me to a mind-blowing orgasm and making me crazily hungry for you.

  Did you get a text like this from her, Raquel? I don’t think so. But me, I did, daily. Sometimes several times a day.

  Until her bitch mother intervened and ruined it all.

  Perhaps I should send you the whole list of her texts and then you might begin to understand the feelings we once had for each other. The deepest love two human beings could have.

  Then you might be able to understand why I’m just a tiny bit unhappy.

  Actually, I’m lying. I’m really more than a tiny bit unhappy. As Red is going to find out very soon now.

  He pulled out of his pocket a pay-as-you-go mobile phone he had bought some days ago and dialled 999. When the operator answered, asking which service he required, he said, ‘Police, please. It’s very urgent!’

  106

  Monday, 4 November

  All thoughts of his honeymoon had long been gone from his mind. Shortly after 9.30 p.m., when he should have been in Venice with Cleo, Roy Grace sat in the windowless CCTV room
on the third floor of John Street police station, with Glenn Branson, Cassian Pewe and Nev Kemp, the Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove Police. In front of them was a bank of CCTV monitors, and each of them was focusing intently on one screen.

  There were currently four hundred and three cameras covering the city of Brighton and Hove. Most of them were concentrated on the downtown areas, where the majority of the city’s problems occurred, but the outlying areas were also covered, particularly the exit routes from the city.

  A civilian controller, Jon Pumfrey, a neatly dressed and quietly efficient man, was operating the playbacks for them. He was fast-forwarding, on the four monitors in front of them, footage from cameras that were located in the Tongdean and Dyke Road Avenue areas from midday until early evening today. So far there had been no sighting of a van answering the description of the one they were looking for.

  Pumfrey took a swig of coffee from a thermos, then unwrapped a sandwich, all the time eyeing the screens. The synchronized time clock on them reached 19.32.

  ‘Can you freeze them, please,’ Grace asked, suddenly.

  Pumfrey leaned forward and tapped some keys on the large control panel in front of him.

  Roy knew he could have delegated this task, but he wanted to see for himself this CCTV footage whilst the search for Bryce Laurent continued.

  Camera Three was showing the top of Dyke Road Avenue. ‘That’s the obvious way Laurent would have gone to the Dyke from Tongdean Avenue,’ Grace said.

  ‘Yes,’ Pumfrey concurred.

  ‘The less obvious route would have been to detour via the A23 London Road,’ Grace said. ‘Let’s see the footage from that.’

  ‘I’ll put it up on Camera Three, sir.’

  Roy Grace’s phone rang. It was an operator from the control room. ‘Detective Superintendent, I’ve a man on the line who insists he speak to you. He says he gave a lift to someone answering Red Westwood’s description earlier this evening.’