Want You Dead

by Peter James

  ‘Put him through.’

  Moments later, he heard a voice that sounded a little the worse for wear from drink. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’

  ‘Yes, who am I speaking to?’

  ‘I . . . my name’s Marcus Cunningham, detective. Listen, I gave a lift to a lady – on my way back, near the Dyke. She – she stepped out in front of me, looking in a pretty bad state. You know?’

  ‘I don’t know. Tell me?’

  ‘Just driving home from the Dyke . . . Golf Club. She flagged me down, needing a lift. She was covered – just covered – in mud and blood. She asked me to drive her home to the bottom of Westbourne Terrace. I took her there. She said she’d be fine. Then I went home and saw the news. I decided to come back down here and see if she’s all right.’

  ‘Where are you now, sir?’ Grace asked, sounding more patient than he felt.

  ‘Well, the thing is, I popped back down here . . . ’coz I felt a bit bad ‘bout leaving her on the street. But no sign of her. So I thought I should phone the police. Make sure she’s okay.’

  ‘Are you near her residence, sir?’

  ‘Where I dropped her off. Down Westbourne Terrace.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Just before eight o’clock. I would have stayed, you see, but my wife . . . had supper ready . . . promised her I’d be home by seven. But then we were watching Sky News Live, and there was her photograph. I thought you might want to know.’

  ‘Very much,’ Grace said. ‘I’m very grateful to you. You say you are in Westbourne Terrace now?’

  ‘Yes. I did escort her to the front door of her building, to make sure she got home safe.’

  ‘And you’re aware from the news that she had been abducted?’

  ‘Yes, saw on the television. But she’s safe now?’

  ‘She’s safe, sir, thank you. Out of interest, can you tell me what you can see from where you are?’

  ‘Yes. A police car pulling out of a side street. Blue lights on. Just whizzing up Westbourne Terrace now. In a bit of a hurry. Oh, and it said on the news that you are looking for a small white Renault van?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘If it’s of interest, I just passed one on my way here. Parked near the top of Westbourne Terrace.’

  107

  Monday, 4 November

  Red was awoken, confused, by a sharp ringing sound. The doorbell? Where the hell was she?

  The ringing continued.

  On the television she saw the youthful figure of the Secretary of State for Health, talking defensively about cuts in health benefits to visitors to the UK. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa, she realized. It was the phone ringing. She lunged forward and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’ She felt leadenly tired.

  ‘Red Westwood?’

  She recognized the friendly male voice, but could not immediately place it.

  ‘Yes, who is this?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Glenn Branson. How are you doing?’

  Her head felt muzzy, as if she wasn’t quite together yet. She saw the empty bottle of wine on the coffee table, and the equally empty glass beside it, and the ashtray studded with butts. Shit, had she drunk the entire bottle? And smoked all of those? ‘Yes, I’m okay, thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Listen, Red, I don’t want to panic you, but we’ve just had a report that a van that might belong to Bryce Laurent has been seen in your road.’

  She broke out into goosebumps. ‘I – I thought you – you were protecting me all night?’

  ‘Don’t worry, we are. But for your protection, we’d like you to lock yourself in your safe room for a little while. Just until we’ve had a chance to investigate the van and search the area. Can you do that?’

  Suddenly, she was thinking clearly again. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Is it really necessary? The locks have been changed, and I’m pretty secure.’

  ‘I’d feel happier if you did,’ he said. ‘It won’t be for long. Just until we know you are safe. Hopefully we are close to arresting him.’

  Despite the chill of her fear, she yawned. ‘Okay, I’m going there now.’

  ‘I have the number of the phone in there. I’ll call you as soon as it’s all right for you to come out, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She hung up and padded out into the hallway, and again looked down towards the front door, checking that the safety chain was in position, as she had left it. Feeling more comfortable, she entered the safe room, switched on the light, then pushed the heavy door shut. She wound the locking wheel, one turn, two, then three, until she couldn’t move it any more.

  Then she noticed something lying on the floor – something that had not been there earlier.

  It was a playing card, face up. The queen of hearts.

  She felt suddenly enveloped by a cold, paralysing swirl of fear. She heard the click of the louvred door behind her, then her hands were jerked, violently, behind her back.

  Then his voice, quiet and calm.

  ‘Now we’re all alone, Red.’

  108

  Monday, 4 November

  Roy Grace raced down the three flights of stairs, closely followed by Glenn Branson. They ran out of the rear door, across the car park in the pouring rain, and into the Ford. Branson sat behind the wheel, and both men belted themselves in, on the move, as Branson steered past a row of police vans and patrol cars.

  They pulled out of the front entrance and Branson reached forward to switch on the blue lights and siren.

  ‘Just the lights,’ Grace said. ‘We’ll turn them off when we get near – don’t want to alert him. Covert armed units are on their way and will be in place soon.’

  The DI nodded, driving down the steep slope at too high a speed, Grace thought, unsure whether they were going to be able to stop at the bottom, at the junction with the A23, on the wet, slippery road. But Branson didn’t bother stopping, he just pulled straight out, trusting too much to the blue lights, Grace thought, but did not say, his mind focused on the task ahead. His phone rang. It was Andy Kille.

  ‘Sir, unmarked units are in place at the top and bottom of Westbourne Terrace – one on New Church Road and the other on the Kingsway, out of sight of anyone in Westbourne Terrace,’ Kille continued. ‘If they see a white Renault van, with index containing the digits and letters Four Seven Charlie Papa, they are to stop it immediately and disable it however they can. Silver has authorized them to use any necessary tactics to stop the vehicle.’

  ‘Understood,’ Grace replied.

  Branson drove at high speed past the Royal Pavilion, which was to their right, then negotiated the roundabout in front of Brighton Pier and west along the seafront, weaving through the traffic. Grace’s phone rang. It was PC Spofford.

  ‘Sir, I’m not getting any reply from the landline in Red Westwood’s flat.’

  ‘We’re absolutely sure she’s still in there?’

  ‘Not one hundred per cent, no, sir. But if she’d gone out, she would have been seen by the officers outside.’

  They were passing the Peace Statue on their left, which marked the border between the former separate towns of Brighton and Hove. They were about a minute and a half away from Red Westwood’s flat, at the speed at which Glenn was driving, he calculated. ‘Have you tried the safe room number?’ he asked Spofford.

  ‘Yes I have, sir. I’ve called it every couple of minutes.’

  Grace knew the type of policeman Spofford was. Conscientious, hardworking, caring, decent.

  ‘My number is programmed on that phone, on speed dial, sir. If she has a reason to enter the safe room and lock herself in, the plan is for her to call me instantly.’

  Branson slowed for a red light at the bottom of Grand Avenue, then accelerated hard through it. He turned to Roy. ‘She should be in the safe room. I told her to go there before we left.’

  ‘Call that safe room number again, please, Rob.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll have to use this phone, so I’ll phone you back.’

/>   Grace thought, A white Renault van at the top of Westbourne Terrace. His phone rang.

  ‘Roy Grace?’ he answered.

  It was DS Exton, with information he had been able to obtain about Renault van models. ‘Kangoo, Trafic and Master, sir.’

  Grace made a mental note of them, then heard his phone beeping with an incoming call. Hastily thanking the DS, he switched over, hoping it would be Spofford.

  It was. But his news wasn’t good.

  109

  Monday, 4 November

  ‘We have a whole hour, Red! It’s not as long as I would have liked to spend with you, because we’ve so much catching up to do. But still, there is a lot we can do in an hour, hey? And who of us in life has the luxury of time, hey? You’re shaking, Red, I can feel you. Nervous, aren’t you? Not so confident as earlier, in my van, when you jammed your sharp little fingers in my eyes. You’ve blinded me in one eye – hopefully just temporarily. That’s my good eye, too. Lucky for you. I’d never have missed if I’d aimed with my good eye, I’d have got you with the first shot. But that’s history now. Like you. Like me. Soon we’re both going to be history.’

  Red was silent. He was gripping her wrists so hard they were hurting. The mobile phone on the desk in front of her began ringing. A soft, persistent warble. Four rings; five; six.

  It stopped.

  ‘We could of course have much longer than an hour, Red, if I could trust you.’

  She could feel the heat of his breath on her neck, and a minty smell as if he had just brushed his teeth. Her brain was racing, trying to think what to do. What options she had. What to say to him.

  The phone began warbling again.

  ‘I know all about this room,’ he went on. ‘Your safe room. Designed to give you one hour of protection. Impenetrable for one whole hour! That’s how long it would take anyone to get the door open. Even your new best friend Detective Inspector Branson and his eager little boss, Detective Superintendent Grace, would take an hour to break in here, throwing everything they’ve got at the door. Well, I’ll tell you something about your options. Would you like to know your options?’

  ‘I’d like to know how you got in here.’

  ‘I bet you would, Red. I’m an escapologist, I’m the best.’

  ‘I know you’re the best,’ she said. Maybe pandering to his narcissism would lower his guard? she wondered. ‘You’re brilliant.’

  ‘If an escapologist can get out of something, he can also get into it. Yes?’

  ‘So how did you?’

  ‘Easy, Red. Your neighbours in the flat above are away. I went in, and cut a panel out of the ceiling. So convenient – I cut away the one right above your toilet in this safe room. I knew no one was ever going to look up and spot the joins, you see; the plod aren’t that smart. You think they could protect you? Well, you’ve just learned a big lesson. I know the police think they’re protecting you by surrounding the flat, but they can’t see into the one above you. I’m not worried about telling you that little secret, because you are not going to be around to share it with anyone. Ever.’

  The phone stopped ringing.

  ‘Know what I think, Red?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I think that phone’s going to start ringing again in a minute.’

  ‘You never told me you were psychic.’

  Instantly she regretted saying that. His response was filled with vitriol.

  ‘There are a lot of things you never knew about me, you stupid, stupid girl. So much. You never gave me a chance, did you? You and your mother and your moronic yes-man father.’

  She stayed silent.

  ‘It’s not going to take your police friends long to figure out where you are – and that I’m in here with you, Red. That’s why they’re ringing this phone – because you’re not answering the landline. They’ll have seen my van out in the street and phoned you to tell you to come in here. If you don’t answer and tell them you are fine, they’ll start breaking in. One hour, it will take them. And you know what they will find when they do?’

  Through her terror, Red tried to think what she could say to him. To play for time somehow.

  ‘Did you ever see Romeo and Juliet, Red? Or maybe you acted in it in a school play, perhaps? It’s a terrible tragedy of misunderstanding between lovers. You and I, we’re like a modern-day version of that story, aren’t we? Do you remember the last line, as they both lay dead? For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’

  Still she said nothing.

  ‘So very sad, Red. They died so needlessly. Just like you and I are going to die needlessly. Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’ she replied, sensing the smallest window of hope.

  110

  Monday, 4 November

  ‘Twice?’ Roy Grace said to PC Spofford, as Glenn Branson swung the car right into Westbourne Terrace, blue lights off now, and slowed as they saw the marked patrol car in the side street, with two officers in it.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Spofford replied. ‘I’ve rung it twice and there’s no answer.’

  ‘Try it one more time,’ Grace said, then turned to Branson. ‘Drive up the street, I want to see if the van’s still here.’

  As they neared the top, at the junction with the wide, residential street New Church Road, they both saw a white Renault van parked on the right. Branson halted alongside it. Grace pulled a torch out of the glove compartment and jumped out. He shone the torch on the front number plate, and instantly picked out the numbers and letters 47 CP.

  In the beam of his torch he could see three mobile phones lying on the passenger seat. Then he shone it at the rear compartment, but it was curtained off. He went round to the back of the van, which had blacked-out windows, and saw the door handle had been removed, leaving a small hole. There was also a small gap between the doors. He was tempted to break into the vehicle, but knowing Laurent’s history with incendiary devices he knew it was unsafe to do so, and in any case, it did not appear there was anyone inside.

  Suddenly he became aware of a cyclist alongside him.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Grace! I’m Adam Trimingham from the Argus. I live nearby. Something going on?’

  ‘Boy, you guys get everywhere!’ Glenn Branson said to the elderly journalist, as Grace shone his torch into the rear, through the gap in the doors, and squinted through the handle hole.

  ‘Shit!’ Grace said. In the beam he could see what looked like a torture chamber. There was a mattress, with arm and leg restraints bolted to the floor on either side. A saw. A holdall lying on its side from which had spilled pliers and a small blowtorch. A transformer, connected to a car battery, with calipers on long cables. Several horror masks. And an angle grinder.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ Glenn Branson said, peering over Grace’s shoulder.

  Then a flash of light startled both detectives. The journalist had taken a photograph.

  111

  Monday, 4 November

  ‘Unless . . .’ Bryce said, with a taunt in his voice. ‘Unless, Red . . .’

  The phone began warbling again.

  ‘Unless you answer it and tell them you’re fine, that there’s no problem, no problem at all. Then we’ll have a little longer! How does that sound to you?’

  The fourth ring began.

  Then the fifth.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Smart girl.’

  Red felt her arms released. She stepped forward, picked up the phone from its charger cradle and pressed the green answer button, thinking fast. She heard Rob Spofford’s voice.

  ‘Red? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Never better. Is there a problem?’

  ‘You’re not answering your phones. I was worried.’

  Then she screamed, ‘Help me!’ spinning round as she did, and seeing Bryce for the first time. He was dressed all in black, with a hoodie. In one swift movement, catching him off-guard, she stabbed the phone as hard as she
could into his good eye.

  He staggered back. She twisted her wrist right and left, ground it in further, trying to gouge his eye out, hearing his grunt of pain, then brought her knee up as hard as she could between his legs, slamming it up into his groin.

  With a gasp, he staggered backwards and fell over. She leapt onto him, hammering at his head as hard as she could with the phone, feeling the plastic crack in her hand, but still continuing. Pounding him. Pounding. Again, again, again. Then suddenly, as if he had found some superhuman strength, she felt herself being levered up off the floor and propelled backwards. She fell painfully against the edge of the table. An instant later, leering with rage, Bryce was standing over her, red weals around his eyes, holding a boning knife in his hand. He was blinking wildly, his mouth filled with spittle. ‘You bitch, fucking little bitch. I’m going to kill you. You stupid fucking bitch.’

  She lashed out with her foot, and felt a searing pain as the blade cut into her ankle. She squirmed sideways, grabbing the chair, and held it up in front of her as he stabbed down hard, the blade thudding into the underside of the seat.

  ‘Help me!’ she screamed, hoping the phone line was still connected. Hoping someone was listening, that someone was coming to help her.

  ‘An hour, bitch! A whole hour!’

  She swung the chair, striking him on his hands, knocking the knife out of them, then swung it the other way, striking his knees. He took a pained step back.

  The knife lay on the floor, midway between them. ‘Scream all you like, bitch,’ he said. ‘They’ll be listening and they’re helpless. They’re going to have to listen to me killing you – but only after I’ve tortured you first. I’m sure they’ll enjoy your screams, but not as much as I will.’

  He lunged for the knife.

  112

  Monday, 4 November