Want You Dead

by Peter James

  ‘Okay, bring him along to an interview room.’

  Ten minutes later, Setterington sat behind a small table, in a room well away from the prying eyes of any other prisoners. The officer showed in a gangly, wiry man, with a shaven head and stooped posture, who Setterington had known for many years.

  Darren Spicer was in his early forties, and looked two decades older, thanks to most of his life being spent in prison, and he smelt of cigarette smoke. A career high-end house burglar, he was a true recidivist – what they termed here as a revolving door prisoner. He had a string of previous convictions for drug dealing and burglary, and regularly ensured he got arrested around this time of year so that he could spend Christmas in prison.

  Although he never became emotionally attached to any of his prisoners, Setterington had time for this man. For all his sins, life had dealt Spicer a shitty hand, and he was a model prisoner. Brought up in a single-parent family of third-generation dole scroungers and petty villains, he’d never had a role model in his life. Burgling was all he knew, and in all likelihood, all he ever would. Yet he had, in his own distorted way, moral principles. And he was a keen reader, which was why he never seemed to mind being incarcerated. He was currently on remand after being caught breaking into Brighton’s Royal Pavilion, trying to steal one of its most valuable paintings.

  Setterington gestured for him to sit.

  Spicer gave him a sheepish grin. ‘Nice to see you again, sir.’

  ‘It would be nicer not to see you here, Darren. But it doesn’t seem that’s ever going to happen, does it?’

  He hunched his shoulders, lowering his head and peering up at Setterington in an almost childlike manner. ‘Yeah, well. You know, sir, I have my dream. To be married again, have kids, live in a nice house, have a nice car, but it’s not going to happen, is it?’

  ‘You’ve told me that before. So why not?’

  ‘I got over one hundred and seventy previous. Who’s going to give me a chance?’

  ‘Didn’t you get a nice lump of money about a year ago, Darren? Fifty thousand quid reward through Crimestoppers. Couldn’t that have set you up?’

  Spicer shrugged, then sniffed and pointed to his nose. ‘That’s where most of it went, to tell you the truth. I prefer being inside – I like it in here.’

  The Governor nodded. ‘I know, you’ve told me your reasons before. You like the food, you’ve got everything paid for, and most of your friends are here, right?’

  ‘Yeah. And I like the Christmas dinner especially.’

  ‘Fifty grand could have bought you a lot of Christmas dinners.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.’ He nodded and for an instant the governor detected a wistful look in the man’s eyes.

  ‘So, you have something to tell me that’s urgent?’

  Spicer looked around furtively, as if worried there were other people in the room listening, and up towards the ceiling. Then he leaned forward, and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s about a bloke I’ve been chatting with on the remand wing, see.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘His name’s Bryce Laurent.’

  Suddenly, Spicer had Setterington’s full attention. ‘Okay, what about him?’

  ‘Well, the thing is . . . I don’t want to be a snitch, right?’

  ‘The conversation we’re having is private, Darren. There are no microphones or cameras in here. You can talk freely.’

  ‘Yeah, well, the thing is, he’s trying to hire a hitman.’

  ‘A hitman? To do what?’

  ‘To kill his ex. Get revenge. Her name’s Red. Red Westwood, I think he said. Thing is, he’s got a stash, a very big stash.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Over half a million quid. In folding.’

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘Yeah, cash. And he’s offering fifty grand for the hit.’

  ‘And has he found any hitmen yet?’

  ‘Well, there’s quite a few people in here interested, he told me. I ain’t surprised. That’s big money, that is.’

  ‘So why haven’t you had a go for it yourself?’

  Spicer grinned. ‘I have. I told him I knew just the bloke. But that I wanted to know the dough was real first.’

  ‘Has he told you where?’

  ‘He is willing to tell me where some of it is. The fifty’s spread over two different bank security boxes. He’ll pay half now to show he’s real. The balance on completion.’

  ‘And has he told you where these boxes are, Darren?’

  ‘No, but he will tell me where the first one is, if I can confirm I have someone.’

  ‘And I suppose you want a cut if you tell the police, right?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it. A cut.’ He shrugged. ‘Someone’s going to do it for that money, Mr Setterington, sir. That’s a lot of money, that is.’

  116

  Monday, 11 November

  Roy Grace had one thing to do this Monday morning, before setting off on honeymoon. Although they were due to leave for the airport in just over three hours, he left his casual clothes, which he had laid out the night before on the chair in the bedroom, put on a shirt and tie and donned a work suit. Then he gulped down a quick bowl of porridge and a mug of tea, and kissed Cleo, who was breastfeeding Noah, on the cheek, and promised he would be back in plenty of time. Then he kissed his son on the forehead.

  ‘When are your parents arriving?’ he asked.

  ‘They said they’d be here by nine to collect Noah.’

  ‘You sure you’re not going to miss him?’ He stifled a yawn, and glanced at his watch. 7.20 a.m. He needed to leave now to make the 8 a.m. meeting in good time. And he dared not be late.

  She gave him a tired smile. ‘After he managed to keep us awake most of the night? Yes, of course I will. But I’m so much looking forward to spending time with you, I’ll get over it!’

  He grinned and kissed Noah again. ‘Bye, my noisy little prince,’ he said to him. ‘Daddy’s going to miss you, too. But you’re going to be spoiled rotten, I’m not sure you’ll miss us at all!’ He grabbed his keys and hurried out to his car.

  Twenty-five minutes later he drove through the security barrier of Malling House, the police HQ on the outskirts of Lewes, parked in the visitors’ car park, then hurried over to the Queen Anne building which housed the top brass. As ever when entering this building, he was taken straight back to memories of being at school and being summoned to the headmaster’s study.

  He was taken straight up to Tom Martinson’s office, by his assistant, and shown in. The Chief Constable was standing there, in dark uniform trousers, a white short-sleeve shirt with epaulettes featuring the crown and cross-tipped staves, and black tie, alongside ACC Cassian Pewe in his full uniform.

  Both men shook hands with him. ‘Roy,’ Martinson said. ‘It’s good of you to make the time to come and see us – I’m aware you’re in a hurry. What time is your plane?’

  ‘Two o’clock from Gatwick, sir,’ he said. He smiled, trying not to show his nerves. He had been wondering what this meeting was all about ever since getting the call from the Chief himself last night. He had a pretty good idea. Two officers were dead. Both working on an operation he was involved in.

  Someone was going to have to be held to account.

  Himself?

  ‘This won’t take long, Roy,’ Martinson said, and glanced at Cassian Pewe, who nodded his confirmation. ‘Some tea or coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I’d love a coffee.’

  Martinson picked up the phone on his vast, spotless desk, and requested three coffees, then directed Grace to one of the two sofas. The Chief and the ACC sat on the other. Grace studied their body language, but could read no sinister message in the relaxed way they sat.

  Cassian Pewe brought his hands together on his lap. ‘Roy, the Chief and I wanted to see you before you went off, because we know you must be feeling pretty bad about the loss of Sergeant Moy. We’re aware you knew her personally and that you had a long professional hist
ory together. We’re sure you are also feeling bad about the loss of Sergeant Morrison on the helicopter, as we all are. This has been a really difficult week for everyone in Sussex Police – and one hell of a start to my role here. There are going to be a lot of questions asked, but we felt it was important to keep a perspective.’ He fell silent.

  Grace waited for him to continue, wondering when the sting in his tail was going to strike.

  ‘You’ve had a damned tough job with this case, dealing with a monster, and the Chief and I want to congratulate you on your handling of it. Your quick thinking undoubtedly saved the life of Ms Westwood and resulted in a highly dangerous man being brought into custody. We don’t want you to blame yourself for what happened. We are both right behind you.’ Pewe looked at Martinson.

  ‘I’d like to echo that, Roy,’ the Chief Constable said. ‘Sergeant Moy died in an act of supreme bravery, which she undertook of her own accord, whilst off-duty, saving the life of a child, and you can in no way be blamed for her death. I also do not believe that you should feel responsible for the downing of NPAS 15 and the loss of life of the personnel on board. That’s really what we wanted to say to you. You aborted your honeymoon to take over command of a situation that had become life-threatening to Ms Westwood, and I commend you for that. I want you now to go and enjoy your delayed honeymoon with a clear conscience.’

  Grace stared back at him, amazed, and very relieved. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. Then he turned to Cassian Pewe. Was he a changed man? He doubted it. Playing Mr Nice Guy in front of the Chief to show him that Roy had nothing to worry about, that their past antagonistic history was just that now, history? More likely. ‘I’m very grateful for your support, sir.’

  Pewe smiled at him with what seemed, despite his reptilian smile, genuine warmth. Absolutely, Roy.’

  ‘What’s going to happen regarding the funerals?’

  ‘It will be a while before their bodies are released by the Coroner,’ Tom Martinson said. ‘Neither will take place until well after you are back. So we want you to go with a clear conscience that you did your duty, and relax and enjoy. Focus on cherishing your very beautiful and delightful bride.’

  The assistant came in with a tray laden with their coffee and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘I’ll try,’ Grace said. ‘I can assure you of that.’

  ‘I think you know that Detective Chief Superintendent Skerritt is planning to retire next year, Roy,’ Martinson said.

  ‘Yes, sir, I had heard.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll apply for his job. I’d like to see you in that role.’ He looked at Cassian Pewe.

  ‘I endorse that, Roy.’

  Grace stared at both men in turn. With Martinson he felt it was genuine. With Cassian Pewe, he wondered whether he might be being handed a poisoned chalice. He was already doing some of this role, but was still able to be hands-on with cases when he wanted to be. Stepping into Skerritt’s shoes would make that harder – particularly given all the politics now involved since the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Teams were merged. But it was good to be asked.

  ‘I’ll certainly think about it,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I’m very grateful for your support. I think the one thing that is going to worry me, above all else, is the knowledge that whatever sentence Bryce Laurent receives, he might not be kept behind bars for ever. The nightmare is never going to really end for Red Westwood, is it? She’s always going to have to live with the fear that he might escape one day, or get released.’

  ‘Roy, you’ve given her a Warning Notice,’ Tom Martinson said. ‘You’ve offered for the police to help her change identity and move to another part of the country. She’s chosen not to take that advice. All of us have to make decisions in life, based on weighing up all the information we have. You’ve done all any police officer could to protect her. If, God forbid, Laurent is ever released, then we – and she – will have to make decisions based on what we know at that time. But for now, it’s job done. Okay?’

  Twenty minutes later, despite all the emotions running through his mind from the past few days, Roy Grace walked back to his car with a spring in his step and a smile in his heart.

  117

  Monday, 11 November

  Red sipped her second cup of coffee of the morning and stared at the list of nine appointments she had for viewings today. Last week already seemed a long time ago.

  And the best news, to start this new week, was that the husband of the couple she had shown around the house in Portland Avenue last week, who had originally told her they had seen somewhere they liked more, had just phoned to say that they had changed their minds again, and would now like to proceed to purchase the property.

  She had the forms in front of her, and they were coming in to sign this afternoon. And they were cash buyers! All being well, within a couple of days the Mishon Mackay FOR SALE board outside the house would have a banner across it announcing, SALE AGREED.

  Her first sale! Her new career was on its way.

  Despite the nightmare of her ordeal at Tongdean Lodge, she was really enjoying her job, and felt she had the right qualities for it.

  A new email pinged up on her screen, with a JPEG attachment. She did not recognize the sender’s name, but she opened the email and read it.

  ‘I have a very special attachment for a very special lady!’ it said.

  She double clicked on the attachment, and saw a cartoon.

  And froze.

  118

  Monday, 11 November

  In the furnished consulting room in Schwabing, close to Munich’s Isar river, the attractive woman in her late thirties, with her black hair cropped short in a boyish fringe, lay prostrate on the psychiatrist’s couch.

  ‘Tell me, how did you feel in the church, Sandy?’ the psychiatrist, Dr Eberstark, asked.

  She was silent for some moments, then she said, ‘I felt like an alien. I realized I didn’t know his world any more. And I kept thinking what a mistake I’d made. I watched him turn and gaze at his bride as she walked down the aisle on the arm of someone – I guess her father. And it made me think so much of the time, almost twenty years or so ago, when I walked down the aisle on the arm of my father, and he’d turned and smiled at me – and I’d never felt so happy or proud in all my life.’ She paused and let out a sob. ‘Such a big bloody mistake. When I realized that, I wanted him back so much, I wanted to be there, I wanted to be that woman.’

  ‘Yet you left him.’

  ‘Yes. I left him. I guess I didn’t know then what I know now. I wanted him back so badly. Really, at that moment when the priest guy – the vicar – asked if anyone knew any reason why they should not be joined together in Holy matrimony, I nearly shouted out that I did. Really, I so nearly did. That’s what I had gone there intending to do.’ She shrugged.

  The psychiatrist waited silently.

  ‘Looking at him, I realized what a mistake I’d made. I wanted him back. I still do. I feel I’ve screwed up my life. Every day I wake up in the morning and I lie to my son. He asks me about his father and I don’t tell him the truth. I’m scared I’m going to screw him up. What the hell should I do?’

  ‘What do you think you should do?’

  ‘Some days I think I should kill myself.’

  ‘Do you think about the consequence of that for Bruno?’

  ‘Bruno. Yes, I think sometimes that I should mail Roy a letter, telling him the truth, and telling him that by the time he gets it, I will be dead. He always wanted to have children. He could come here and take his son back to England.’

  She continued to talk for a few minutes before Dr Eberstark glanced at the clock on the wall.

  ‘We’ll have to leave it there,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you on Thursday. Is that okay with you?’

  After she closed the front door of Dr Eberstark’s building, Sandy walked out onto the pavement alongside the four lanes of heavy traffic on Widenmayerstrasse, and stopped, staring at the wide grass bank of the Isar river across the busy s
treet, collecting her thoughts.

  Reflecting on her session. How many sessions had she had? Where were they getting her? Sometimes she left the psychiatrist’s office feeling strong, but other times, like now, she left feeling more confused than ever.

  As the traffic thundered past in front of her, she wondered if now really was the time, finally, to tell Roy about Bruno. Their son.

  That would sure as hell throw a spanner into his newly-wed bliss.

  How would his blonde bimbo take the news?

  How would he take it?

  She had an idea; he was a kind man at heart. A responsible person. He would take responsibility, he would have no option. But how much did he care for the bimbo, really? He’d kept telling her, during their life together, that he could not live without her. Well, he seemed to be doing pretty well.

  She decided a walk along the bank of the Isar, towards the Englischergarten, would do her some good, clear her head.

  Her sodding confused head.

  For an instant she was back in Brighton, in England. Where the traffic drove on the opposite side of the road. She looked to the right, and the road was clear. She stepped out. Heard the blare of a horn. The scream of tyres on dry tarmac.

  Then the cream Mercedes taxi hit her broadside.

  119

  Monday, 11 November

  It felt like another Groundhog Day, as Roy Grace stood in his socks and placed his shoes in one of the Gatwick Airport security trays, along with his jacket, mobile phone, laptop, watch and belt. He had done exactly the same thing a week ago, to the hour, if not almost to the minute.

  He followed Cleo through the metal detector, and to his relief, again neither of them pinged it. As he pulled his shoes back on, his excitement was growing. By hanging onto both of their tickets again, this time around, he’d managed to keep from her that they were flying in luxury.