Tooth strolled along the street. As he drew level with the entrance to No. 191 he glanced down and saw that the rear doors of the van were open, and a rugged-looking man in his forties, in work clothes and gum boots, was busily pulling some gardening tools out of the interior. On the van’s side panel was written ‘Stepney Garden Maintenance Services’.
He sauntered casually down the drive, and up to the man. With his fake English accent he said, ‘Hi, we’ve just moved in and are looking for a gardener.’ He jerked his thumb vaguely over his shoulder.
‘I’ll give you a card,’ the man said. ‘You’ll need to go through the office. Hang on a sec.’
Tooth waited while the gardener went to the front of the vehicle. A moment later the man handed him a card with green writing on it.
‘The people who live here, they’d be able to give a reference for you?’ Tooth asked.
‘It’s a lady on her own,’ the man said. ‘Hardly ever see her.’
‘Right. What’s her name?’
The gardener shrugged. ‘I dunno. I work for the company and just do the addresses they give me. I’ve probably not spoken ten words to the lady in two years.’
‘Does she rent the house or is it hers?’ Tooth asked.
‘Couldn’t even tell you that, sir, sorry.’
Tooth left him and walked back up the drive, then headed down towards the sea, thinking about the mysterious woman. Very few photos in the house. No contact with her household staff. No messages on her landline answering machine. It seemed she liked to keep herself invisible. That suited him very well indeed.
It could mean that it would be a long while before anyone started to miss her. Time for him to be long gone. With the memory stick. Wherever she had hidden it, he would find it. She would tell him.
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, and starting to feel hungry, he walked back towards the centre of Brighton, deciding to resume his vigil later. As he strode along, he remembered a burger place called Grubbs, where he had eaten last time he was here, that made what he called proper burgers. He navigated his way along St James’s Street to it.
After his meal, he headed towards the sea, took the steps down to Madeira Drive and crossed over the road. Then, heading west, with the tracks of the Volks Railway to his left and the deserted pebble beach beyond that, he was thinking hard as he walked, but was distracted every few minutes by the clatter of a bicycle or ping of a bell on the cycle lane at the edge of the pavement. A cold, blustery, sou’westerly wind was blowing against him.
Where would he have hidden the memory stick? He’d searched every inch of the house, the loft, the garden shed. He wasn’t comfortable being in Brighton. Although he had travelled here under one of the aliases he used, he knew he was still a wanted man in this city. After his escape at Shoreham Harbour last year, he’d checked out the local news online from back home. That detective, Roy Grace, and his team had stated that he was missing, presumed drowned. But from his dockside wrestle with the black cop, he knew they were likely to have his DNA on file. The sooner he got out of here, the better.
He was feeling frustrated and aimless. How long was he going to have to wait for this bitch to return? He wanted to be back home, out on his boat in the warmth, with his associate.
He missed his associate.
Missed him more than he’d ever missed any human.
As he walked by the pier with its stalls out front – Moo Moos, the best Shakes in town, Donuts & Churros, Delicious Donuts, Crepes, The Hot Dog Hut – the clock tower over the entrance, with a pyramid sign in front of it advertising The Best Fish & Chips in Brighton – he was suddenly reminded of his childhood vacations in Atlantic City with one of his foster mothers. Hot summer days ambling alone, aimlessly, along the boardwalk, avoiding tourists in push carts, while she played the slots.
She played them all day long, coins stacked up beside her, plastic beaker of beer in one hand, yanking the handle or pushing the buttons, peering at the revolving fruits through curling smoke from the cigarette dangling permanently from her lips. When she was winning, she’d bribe him with a handful of coins, and he’d immediately go and spend them at one of the shooting galleries.
He always tried for, and normally succeeded, in getting the maximum score. When he didn’t he got angry, and on more than one occasion cracked the glass or wrenched the grip of the gun so hard that it broke.
There was an aquarium to his right and, across a busy intersection, a cream and red building advertising Harry Ramsden Fish & Chips.
Ahead, across the far side of the intersection, was the yellow and white Royal Albion Hotel. A stack of beer barrels was piled on the sidewalk. He ambled on, passing a café to his left and a flint-walled groyne. How long before the bitch came back from her cruise?
He crossed the cycle lane and waited for a green light at the pedestrian crossing, heading back to the modern slab of his hotel, unsure what the rest of the day held for him. Waiting. He was OK with waiting. He was fine with waiting. Letting time slide by. Maybe he’d catch a movie in town or on his hotel television.
The light changed to green. He was about to cross the road when he had a thought. He’d check the pier out, why not? See if it had any shooting galleries. It was something to do.
He turned back, totally forgetting the cycle lane. As he stepped forward he heard the ping of a bell, a clank and a shout then a loud squeal of rubber on metal. An instant later a shadow descended on him. He felt a crashing blow that hurled him off his feet. He saw the sidewalk coming up to meet his face.
Then a firework show inside his head.
Then silence.
65
Friday 6 March
Shortly after midday Roy Grace, still distracted by the news he’d had about Sandy, sat in Cassian Pewe’s large office, drinking coffee from a china cup. He absently noted the spoon in the saucer – and doubted that spoons ever vanished here, in this hallowed Police HQ building. He updated the ACC on the processing by the French authorities of their extradition request for Edward Crisp, and the progress on Operation Spider, the investigation into the suspicious death of Shelby Stonor.
Or to be more accurate, and to his old adversary’s clear irritation, the lack of progress on both. With luck there would be an update from the French police, so he had been assured, within a few days. But there was little progress from the actions on Operation Spider that he had given his team at their briefing three days ago. A check of Stonor’s movements since his last release from prison had revealed some relevant information, but not much.
Plotting from the ANPR cameras and footage from the city’s network of 350 CCTV cameras, showed Stonor had recently made numerous visits to the expensive and exclusive Roedean area of the city. These visits coincided with a spate of reported house burglaries in the area. But thanks to the budget constraints, housebreaking, except where life was in imminent danger had, to Grace’s fury, become a lower priority. He could quite seriously envisage a time, in the near future, when someone would wake to find an intruder in their home, dial 999 and be told to send an email.
Angi Bunsen, Stonor’s girlfriend, had been questioned extensively, but had not provided anything useful. It appeared that Stonor had lied to her about having a job in a warehouse – presumably to cover for his burglary activities. She had said nothing of significance in any of her interviews. Stonor had given her every indication that he planned to go straight and save up to buy a Brighton taxi plate. She couldn’t understand why he might have any connection to venomous snakes.
DC Jack Alexander’s action of checking all holders of licences, under the Dangerous Wild Animals Act of 1976 in the city of Brighton and Hove, had revealed just a handful, including a police inspector they knew who kept a pet python. They were all legitimate.
Suppliers of vivariums had been contacted, the addresses of all customers they held on record visited, to reveal nothing more lethal than a tank of gerbils who had ganged up on one of their own and bitten a toe off. There was a
reptile owners’ association but none of its members knew of Shelby Stonor.
Information from source handlers about Stonor and his associates, since he had last been freed, so far had provided nothing new. Nor had the High Tech Crime Unit’s interrogation of his pay-as-you-go mobile phone and computer revealed any unexpected contacts, or anything else of significance other than the blurry photograph. The main person he saw regularly was a small-time drug dealer and car thief called Dean Warren, who also appeared to be part of the gang conspiring to steal high-value cars. Like Warren, Stonor had connections to the Sussex towns of Crawley and Hastings through a number of small-time criminal associates, all of whom were being interviewed, but so far nothing had come from any of them.
To Grace’s surprise, rather than being angry at him for failing to bring the case to a swift conclusion, Pewe took a pragmatic view. ‘I think we have to accept that whatever happened, Stonor is not someone worth throwing unlimited expensive resources at, Roy. Yes?’
‘In the current climate, I’d have to agree, sir.’
‘Good man.’ Pewe, in his white shirt with epaulettes, shiny blond hair and angelic blue eyes, gave Grace a condescending smile. ‘Now I have a nice bit of news, which I’m sure you will like. I’ve just heard from our new Chief Constable, Lesley Manning, that Bella Moy has been posthumously awarded the Queen’s Gallantry Medal. I understand that she and Norman Potting had become an item?’
‘More than an item, sir. They were engaged to be married.’
Pewe nodded. ‘It sounds as if DS Potting will be accompanying Bella’s mother to the ceremony, then. A member of the Royal Family will be presenting the medal later in the year. But to recognize the award in Sussex we are having a small local event with the Chief.’
‘Very appropriate.’
Pewe nodded. ‘I’ll see to it. Now, back to business. I want you to stay on the Stonor enquiry, but don’t bust your balls on it. I’d like you to focus your energies on Crisp. Once he has been released back to us there’s going to need to be a lot of work preparing for his prosecution, and it has to be watertight, belt and braces. It’s going to be one of the highest profile trials we’ll ever have been involved with and I need it to be in a safe pair of hands. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
As ever with ACC Pewe, Grace waited for the sting. It came rapidly and subtly from the man who had once secretly ordered a team to scan and excavate the garden of the home Grace had shared with Sandy, on the suspicion that he had murdered her.
‘Such a shame the glory for his capture goes to the French police rather than to us, don’t you think, Roy?’
Actually, no, he felt like replying, defensively. But that would have been an argument he could not win. The truth was that Operation Haywain, which he had run, had successfully identified and found Sussex’s first serial killer in many decades. Through his efforts and those of his team, Edward Crisp had been trapped in an underground tunnel which had collapsed, nearly killing Grace and several of his colleagues. It had seemed certain that Crisp must be dead. Yet, somehow, he had escaped.
The buck stopped with Grace as the Senior Investigating Officer. However improbable the odds on Crisp having survived, somehow he had. Which meant that in the eyes of Pewe, justifiably, Grace had screwed up. He’d had the offender in his grasp and the man had slipped the net. It didn’t matter that Grace had been in hospital, his leg filled with shotgun pellets, when Crisp had escaped. He was the SIO and ultimately to blame. And to make it worse, the recapture was down to pure luck. Although swift circulation of Crisp’s details had meant the French police were able to act decisively.
‘Yes,’ Grace said. ‘I think Crisp makes Harry Houdini look like an amateur.’
In his sarcastic tone, Pewe said, ‘I would have thought – given all you had found out about the man during your operation – you would have been aware of that.’ He stared sternly at Grace for some moments, then went on. ‘Quite frankly, most people in my position would have taken you off the case after such a fiasco. But I want you to understand, despite our past differences, I’m not a vindictive person. I appreciate with your injuries there were extenuating circumstances, and I’ve not forgotten that last year you risked your life to save mine. So I’m going to give you a reprieve. Just make sure there are no more screw-ups from the moment Crisp is released to us. Bringing a successful prosecution is going to be on your head. Do I make myself clear?’
Grace said, stiffly, ‘Very clear, sir.’
‘I’ll give you some words of wisdom, Roy. We don’t learn from our successes – we only learn from our mistakes. You’d do well to remember that.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
66
Friday 6 March
‘How are you feeling, Mr Carmichael?’ Dr Ryerson asked, entering the cabin. It was just after 6 p.m. and Jodie’s husband had stayed in bed for the past two days, throwing up constantly, sustained only by sugary drinks. He had resisted the doctor, telling Jodie that, from his experience on cruise ships, if the doctor believed you might have a contagious bug they would confine you and your partner to your cabin for days. But finally he had given in and told her to ask him to come.
‘Terrible,’ he said, holding a handkerchief to his nose to staunch his latest nosebleed.
‘Your wife tells me you had oysters for dinner the night before last. Afterwards Martinis, then champagne and white wine?’
Jodie, holding her husband’s hand, said, ‘You did rather go for it, didn’t you, my darling?’
He nodded.
‘It’s possible they haven’t agreed with you. Oysters and spirits can be a dangerous mix. But is there anything else you can think of ?’
‘Yesterday,’ he said listlessly. ‘Sorry – day before yesterday – at the crocodile farm. Mumbai. I got bitten.’
‘Bitten?’
‘Something bit me.’
‘Where were you bitten?’
‘On my leg – ankle – my right ankle.’
‘He fell over in the crocodile farm and thought he had been bitten by something,’ Jodie confirmed. ‘I had a look but I couldn’t see anything.’
The doctor lifted away the sheet and examined his ankle carefully, frowning. ‘There is a faint mark but I can’t see any swelling,’ he said. ‘It might be an insect bite. If you’d been bitten by something venomous, a snake or a spider, there would almost certainly be swelling.’
He took Rollo’s temperature then studied the thermometer. ‘Hmmn,’ he said. ‘You have quite a high temperature. It might be something you’ve eaten, a bug, or a reaction to some sort of insect bite.’ He looked at Jodie. ‘Do you feel all right?’
‘Absolutely fine.’ She gave him a smile.
The doctor quizzed Rollo about his medical history, then delved into his medical bag, which he had placed on the floor, and removed a syringe and a vial. ‘I’m going to give you a shot of antibiotic, and then I’ll come back and see you in a few hours.’ He turned to Jodie. ‘I think you should stay with your husband and keep an eye on him. I suggest you have room service tonight.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course. I wouldn’t want to leave him on his own. Can you explain his nosebleed?’
‘His blood pressure is up quite a bit, which I’d expect in his condition at the moment. That’s probably causing it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Good,’ the doctor said, preparing the injection. Then he smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll be feeling right as rain very soon, Mr Carmichael!’ he said. ‘Best if you don’t eat anything, but I’d like you to drink as much water as you can.’
‘Don’t care for water,’ Rollo Carmichael said, looking at him balefully. ‘You know what W. C. Fields said about water?’
‘W. C. Fields, the actor?’
He nodded. ‘Never drink water,’ he said. ‘Cos fish screw in it.’
The doctor laughed. ‘Well, he had a point, I suppose!’
Then suddenly, and without warning, Carmichael vomited a jet
of bile and blood.
67
Sunday 8 March
The unconscious American in bed 14 had been brought in to the Intensive Care Unit of the Royal Sussex County Hospital on Friday afternoon. He was in a bad way, with an MRI scan showing a brain contusion from a small, hairline skull fracture, as well as two broken ribs and severe bruising to his right leg. The two cyclists, who had been racing each other along the cycle lane, were both taken to the hospital as well; one with a broken arm and dislocated shoulder, the other with a shattered knee.
The American had been identified from his driving licence as John Daniels, with an address in New York City. He had a bar receipt in his wallet for the Waterfront Hotel in Brighton. The hospital had checked with the hotel, but they said they had no record of any John Daniels, though they did have a large group of Americans staying for a conference in the city. A request had been sent by Brighton Police to the New York Police Department for the contact details of the man’s next of kin, but so far nothing had come back.
Now, this afternoon, the duty nurse in charge of him had called the registrar, excitedly, to say that he was showing signs of coming round.
‘Welcome back, Mr Daniels!’
Tooth blinked. The man was a fuzzy outline. As his focus slowly returned he saw a man in his early thirties, with close-cropped fair hair, dressed in blue surgical scrubs and holding a clipboard. Beside him stood an Arabic woman, similarly attired, and another man in dark trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt, who looked authoritative.
Tooth stared at them blankly. Was he in Iraq? ‘Back?’ he asked. ‘Back?’
‘I’m Dr Martin, this is Mr Buxton, our consultant neurosurgeon, and our registrar – you’re at the Royal Sussex County Hospital.’
‘Hospital?’
All Tooth could think was that he was in hospital in Iraq. Had he been shot? He remembered a shadow looming over him. That was all. ‘Hospital?’ he repeated blankly. ‘Doc Marten. Boots?’