Want You Dead

Roy Grace’s phone rang. ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s in there with him,’ Spofford said. ‘We have to get in there, fast, sir.’

  ‘How do we get through the sodding door?’ Grace asked. ‘Is there no other way in?’

  ‘There’s a window, sir, accessible from the rear. But she’s two floors up.’

  ‘So how the hell did he get in?’ Grace said. Then he thought for a moment. The man was cunning. He was a magician. A lot of magic tricks worked by distraction. The conjuror focused your attention away from the pocket he was going to pick, or the coin he was going to slip up his sleeve. Bryce Laurent would have seen the safe apartment as a challenge. He was remembering the words of the behavioural psychologist, Julius Proudfoot.

  He has to win, there’s no other possible option for him. He would kill Red and then himself, and see that as a grand act of defiance against you.

  One hour.

  Laurent had equipped his van to capture and torture Red. Was he aware it would take one hour for them to get into that safe room? If so, was he planning to use every minute of it? To torture her or torment her until the end? For better or worse, that at least gave them a bit of time.

  ‘Call the fire brigade,’ he instructed. ‘I want a ladder that will reach that window – and tell them no sirens or lights.’

  There was a fire station barely a mile away. They could be here within five minutes easily, he thought. He turned to Branson, jerking a finger at his car. ‘Spin her round, get us back down to the front of her building.’

  Less than a minute later, he jumped out, before it had come to a full halt, ran over to the police car and jerked open the passenger door, flashing his warrant card.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ DC Susi Holiday said.

  ‘Come with me to the rear of the building, please.’

  He looked at his watch. By his calculation, twenty minutes had elapsed. Every single second was critical. He wondered what the hell was happening inside that safe room right now.

  And he just had to hope to hell that Red was still alive. He was thinking hard, trying to work out how Bryce had got in with police outside the door. And then, suddenly, he knew the answer.

  113

  Monday, 4 November

  As Bryce’s hand reached the boning knife, Red threw the chair at him in desperation. The seat struck him squarely on the head, sending him reeling. He crashed into the louvred door, splintering it, and fell backwards into the toilet, and lay there, motionless.

  Red launched herself at the knife, seized it, clamped it under her armpit and began frantically turning the wheel. But she only managed half a turn when she heard a noise behind her. She spun round and saw Bryce lumbering, enraged, towards her, blinking furiously.

  She gripped the knife in her right hand and held it up, threatening.

  ‘You stupid girl. Think I’m afraid of you with that knife? Come on, stab me! Come on, stab me!’

  She stood her ground, the blade held out in front of her, and she could see, despite her terror, that it was worrying him. She lunged forward, in a feint, and he stepped back, almost losing his balance. She lunged forward again, another feint, and now his back was against the busted toilet door. He grinned at her.

  ‘Okay, Red, you have the knife. But you won’t have it for long, I promise you. Have you thought about where you are going to stick it in me? Like, you’ve got one chance, right? Do you understand that? Straight through the heart. Anywhere else, you’re just going to wound me. And if you do that, I’m going to get very angry. You don’t like me being angry, do you? Remember all those times when we were together and you made me angry? I’m not a nice person when I’m angry.’

  ‘I’m not a nice person with a knife, Bryce,’ she said.

  He pouted his lips, mocking. ‘Oooh, fighting talk!’ Suddenly he took a step towards her. A big step. She jumped back in fear.

  ‘Brave girl!’ he taunted, holding up his hands in a gesture to show he was unarmed. ‘Perhaps you’re not as brave as you think, Red. Are you? I’m not sure you have the guts to stick that in me, even to save your life. Shall we put it to the test?’ He took another step towards her.

  She was shaking so much, she could feel the weapon jiggling in her hand. Christ. Where were the police? Why couldn’t she hear anyone trying to open the door right behind her?

  Bryce glanced down at his watch. ‘It’s okay, we’ve plenty of time, Red. They haven’t even started on the door yet. That’s when the countdown’s really going to begin. And what a sight they’re going to find in here, eh? I’ll tell you what I’m thinking would be nice.’ He smiled, showing his immaculate white teeth. ‘How about the police finally break down the door and they find your severed head on the table, staring at them, with me lying on my back on the floor, with the knife through my heart? How good would that be? Eh, Red? Eh? Eh, Red?’

  He took another step towards her.

  She held the knife out determinedly. ‘Stay where you are!’ she commanded. ‘You killed Karl. Don’t push me, Bryce. I’ll kill you with pleasure.’

  He took another step forward. Now he was just two feet from her.

  Before she could react, he grabbed her arm holding the knife and wrenched it so hard she screamed in pain; the knife fell to the floor with a clatter.

  ‘Ooops!’ he said. ‘Clumsy monkey!’

  They stared at each other in a momentary face-off. Red felt her terror return. She had to get that knife back. Had to. Had to. Somehow.

  Suddenly he lashed out with his foot and kicked the knife, sending it skittering across the floor to the wall. Out of reach.

  ‘So who’s the big, brave girl now?’ he taunted. ‘Where is Mummy now? Why isn’t Mummy here to protect you? Mummy who hired the private dick to spy on her little girl’s new beau? Eh? Perhaps your daddy’s going to come through the door with that pea-shooter of an airgun he uses to kill bunnies in his garden, do you think? Eh?’

  Red stared at him. She felt paralysed with fear.

  “Coz I don’t think he is, Red. Mummy and Daddy are nicely tucked up in their safe place, probably watching a movie.’ He then mimicked her mother’s voice.

  ‘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?’

  She stared at him in shock, at the realization. He had heard their conversation. How many more had he heard?

  ‘Are you safe, Red?’

  She stared at him, then glanced at the knife. Thinking. Trying to find a way through to him. She was never going to beat him through physical strength, she knew. But maybe she could find a way to reason with him. To keep him talking for long enough. The police had to be on their way, surely? She was so terrified it was hard to think straight. She had to keep calm somehow. Had to.

  Had to think clearly.

  ‘It’s sharp, Red. Sharp enough to cut off your head. Or mine. Shall we have a race to see who gets to it first?’

  ‘Would that make you happy, cutting off my head, Bryce?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to cut yours off,’ she said.

  ‘No?’ He gave her a mocking grin.

  ‘Really I wouldn’t. It’s the most beautiful head I’ve ever seen. Why would I want to destroy such a beautiful person?’

  He stared at her and, for an instant, she wondered if she might have got through to something in his core.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘God, yes, really, Bryce.’

  Then he shot a glance at his watch. ‘Hmm, keep going, Red. Keep going.’

  She shrugged. ‘I really did love you.’

  ‘I know you did. I really loved you, too. But didn’t Oscar Wilde say in “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” that each man kills the thing he loves?’

  ‘You’re in a very literary mood tonight.’

  ‘I am, yes. I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately.’ He shot a glance towar
ds the knife. ‘Much nicer to die with beautiful words in our heads, don’t you think, Red?’

  She saw him lunge at the knife, and threw herself at it at the same time. They collided on the floor. He had it in his hand and raised it. She jabbed her fingers at his eyes, but he jerked back his head, then she bit hard into his wrist. He screamed in pain and she heard the clatter of the knife falling to the floor.

  ‘You bitch!’ he screamed.

  Somewhere behind him, she heard a sound, like a door slamming, as they both grappled for the knife. She touched it, fleetingly, then he had it in his hand again, and an instant later he was kneeling over her, pinning her to the floor, the knife raised above her.

  There was a crazed gleam in his eyes. ‘Who’s Daddy’s girl now?’ he said. ‘Which eye would you like me to cut out first, Red? Your right or your left? Eh?’

  She tried to move but he once again seemed to be fuelled by some superhuman strength. ‘Please, Bryce, let’s talk some more.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She saw the knife hurtling down towards her. Then, suddenly, it stopped in mid-air and flew out of his hand. She heard a crackling sound, like electrical static.

  He began to shake violently, as if he were having an epileptic fit, twisting and turning in a macabre dance. An instant later he was on the floor, jerking, a trail of twined coiled wires running from his back and through into the toilet.

  A voice shouted urgently, ‘Red, are you okay?’

  She switched from the twitching body to the face of Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, clambering down from the loft hatch above the toilet before standing next to a man in blue body armour, a helmet and visor, who was holding what looked like a pistol with wires running from it. Grace hurried over to her, casting a quick look at the twitching figure of Bryce. ‘You okay?’

  She stared into Grace’s cool blue eyes. Her heart was pounding, her head throbbing. For a moment she found it hard to speak. ‘Yes, yes, thank you. I’m okay.’

  More people were coming down through the hatch now, also wearing helmets and visors.

  ‘You’re safe, Red,’ Grace said gently. ‘It’s all over.’

  They were the sweetest-sounding words she had ever heard.

  114

  Sunday, 10 November

  Roy Grace knelt by his open suitcase, carefully folding a white shirt and laying it in. Cleo put a vodka martini down on the bedside table. ‘Thought you might like a little celebratory drink!’

  ‘Thank you.’ He took a sip of the ice-cold liquid; it was so strong it almost burned going down. ‘Mmm, you’re getting really rather good at these.’

  ‘It’s been my father’s favourite drink for years, remember?’

  ‘Yes, his are killer ones.’

  ‘Meaning this isn’t strong enough?’

  He grinned. ‘It’s plenty strong enough. A few more sips of this and I’ve no idea what I’ll be packing.’

  ‘There’s only one thing I really need you to bring.’ She put her arms around his neck and nuzzled his ear. ‘And the way I’m feeling about you right now, he’s not going to fit into your suitcase.’ She nuzzled his ear again.

  ‘You’re wicked and I love you.’

  ‘You’re a horny beast and I love you, Detective Superintendent Grace.’ She lifted the glass off the table, took a sip herself, pressed her lips against his, and let the vodka martini slowly slip into his mouth.

  ‘Mmmmnn!’ he said.

  ‘So we really are off tomorrow, darling?’

  ‘Only a week later than scheduled.’ He reached up and held her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed each of the fingers. ‘I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  He smelled her scent and the warmth of her breath, and pulled her arm tighter around him.

  ‘How’s the poor woman, Red Westwood, doing?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s okay, she’s a plucky lady. I popped into her office yesterday to see how she’s getting on and to ask her a couple of things, and she seemed remarkably perky, considering. But she has one big worry, which is Laurent being released.’

  ‘Surely he’ll be kept in custody?’

  ‘For now, yes. But he might not be in jail for ever. If he gets life, he still might get out one day, and Red knows that.’

  ‘God, poor woman. To have that hanging over you. And the constant fear of him being released – or worse, escaping.’

  ‘I don’t imagine she’s going to be joining another dating agency any time soon.’

  ‘I don’t blame her!’

  There was a massive explosion outside their window. Both of them jumped.

  ‘Shit, what the hell was – ?’ Roy said. Downstairs they heard a yelp from Humphrey.

  Then he realized. It had been the fifth of November, Bonfire Night, a few days ago. It was probably people still letting off fireworks.

  Noah began screaming. Cleo leapt to her feet and hurried through into the baby’s room, almost tripping over Humphrey, who came hurtling up the stairs and into their room like a hairy black rocket, whining and whimpering, his tail down. He was sopping wet from recently being out on the terrace in the pouring rain, where he had been furiously barking at a neighbour’s cat on the wall.

  ‘It’s okay, Humphrey! It’s okay!’

  There was another massive explosion, and a shower of brilliant white lights outside the window. With a yelp, Humphrey shot past Roy Grace and jumped straight into the open suitcase, turning himself round and round on top of his owner’s white shirt.

  ‘Hey! Hey! Get off, you idiot dog!’

  The dog gave him a reproachful look, as if to say, You’re leaving me, and with these explosions?

  Noah’s screams increased in volume.

  ‘That’s my best damned shirt!’

  Cleo came back into the room, cradling Noah in her arms in his blue and white striped sleepsuit. He was bawling his eyes out.

  ‘Look at the sodding dog!’ Grace said. ‘Look what he’s done to my shirt!’

  Cleo grinned. ‘Welcome to domestic bliss, my darling. Still sure you want to go away?’

  For his answer, Grace picked up the glass and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp.

  115

  Monday, 11 November

  Alan Setterington, one of the Governors of Lewes Prison, stepped out of the shower in the changing area, towelled himself dry, then dressed in his dark grey suit, white shirt, and one of the selection of bright ties he liked to wear. It was 7 a.m. and he was invigorated after his ninety-minute cycle ride through mostly back roads of Sussex from his home to here, his daily commute.

  He was a tall man in his forties, with boyish good looks and the lean figure of an athlete, who had spent his entire career in Her Majesty’s Prison Service, rising at a relatively early age to his current position. In his previous roles he had served at several of the UK’s maximum security prisons, and had had the dubious pleasure of meeting some of the most notorious criminals of his generation.

  Setterington still retained enthusiasm for his job, not letting any of his residents bother him too much, and rarely losing sleep over any of them. But today he was a tad tired. A few days ago a character, Bryce Laurent, had been remanded in custody on murder and arson charges. There was a coldness in Laurent’s eyes that he had seen on just a few occasions in life. A darkness, as if he had looked into some unfathomable depth of inhumanity.

  Visitors always found prisons uncomfortable places, and Lewes, built in Victorian times, was as formidable as they came. Grey cement floors, stark, bare walls, and the smell all prisons had, which he had never fully been able to describe – a mixture of disinfectant, institutional soap, stale clothes, sweat and despair.

  Information was the prison currency. Everywhere you walked you would see prisoners, in their crimson tunics, loitering, listening. Seeing what information they could eavesdrop. Which was why no sensible prison officer ever said where he or she lived, or what car they drove, or where they were going on holiday.
You never knew who might one day be out for revenge against you.

  Setterington went into his office and switched on the kettle to make himself a cappuccino, then sat at his desk and unwrapped the egg and tomato sandwich and carrot cake his wife, Lisa, had made him. The office was stark and functional, with a window that looked down, through the rain, onto the sodden exercise yard. In addition to enabling him to keep an eye on the prisoners, he could also see from here the occasional package of contraband that was lobbed over the wall from outside – containing usually either drugs or mobile phones.

  Guarding seven hundred and twenty prisoners, many of them highly cunning, was not an easy task. Setterington did not like it, but it was a fact of life he had to live with: that stuff always had been smuggled into prisons and always would be. Thrown over the walls, exchanged in contact between loved ones during visits, sometimes mouth to mouth. If a prisoner wanted something brought in from outside badly enough, he could usually get it.

  The governor logged on to his computer and began running through the mountain of overnight emails, noting concerns that officers had about particular prisoners, security risks and details about impending construction work to modernize the remand wing, which would be commencing in a few weeks. He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ he called out.

  One of his officers entered, a burly man called Jack Willis, keys dangling from a chain on his belt. ‘Morning, guv,’ he said. ‘Sorry to bother you so early, but I’ve got a prisoner on the remand wing who’s asking to speak to you – says it’s very urgent.’

  ‘Did he tell you what it’s about?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say, sir. He’s a bit nervous.’

  Prisoners giving information about fellow prisoners could be highly valuable. But at the same time, all of them were worried about being seen as snitches. Punishments meted out to those suspected by their fellow prisoners were brutal. There was an elaborate procedure in place, where they would be seen in an interview room, rather than be observed going to the staff office. Any contact between a prisoner and a senior staff member was noted by other prisoners, and queried rigorously.