by Peter James
‘What about risk to the officer concerned?’ Tanja Cale asked.
‘That’s what we have to manage in the full risk assessment,’ Grace said. ‘But that’s what we all do, every day, isn’t it? We try to make our city a safer place. To do that, all of us at some time have to take risks. I’ve never met a good police officer who, at some point, didn’t have their life on the line. The day we aren’t willing to do that is the day to quit.’
Cale and Branson nodded.
89
Wednesday 11 March
After the meeting ended, Roy Grace called DC Maggie Bridgeman, who was the liaison officer at the Covert Policing Unit.
He gave her the specifics. He needed a male officer immediately available, who could pass as someone terminally ill in their sixties, and someone who had local knowledge.
Unfazed, as if she dealt with requests like this all day long, Bridgeman said she would check with Resourcing and get back to him.
A few minutes after ending the call, Pat Lanigan rang him back from New York.
‘Hey, pal! I got some of the other aliases you wanted. Try James Beam and George Dickel.’
‘Aren’t they American whisky distilleries?’ Grace asked.
‘You got it. Amazing to us all, seems like our mutual buddy, Tooth, has a sense of humour.’
There seemed to be so many false names involved that Grace was starting to wonder if this operation’s name should be changed from Operation Spider to Operation Alias. As soon as he ended the call, he passed the information to one of his team.
Ten minutes later a Detective Constable Ballantine called him back from the Waterfront Hotel’s front desk. They had a guest named George Dickel in room 407.
Grace sometimes let excitement rule his head. That had led to Glenn Branson being shot. Had the bullet gone an inch to the right his mate would have either been dead or paralysed from the waist down. He remembered that and other lessons. Yet at the same time adrenalin surged through him. Tooth would be a major prize – a massive prize. He had to be certain the man did not slip through his fingers this time.
First he asked the reception desk to check that Mr Dickel was in his room, suggesting they phone up on a housekeeping pretext of checking he was happy with the way his room had been cleaned. Then he phoned the Ops-1 Inspector, and was glad to hear the voice of the one he trusted the most, Don Mark, on the line.
Grace spoke with the Silver Commander who, within ten minutes, had an Armed Response Unit, two dog handlers and members of the Tactical Firearms Unit heading towards the Waterfront Hotel. And as an extra precaution, Silver had the helicopter NPAS 15 on standby – hoping it wasn’t called away to another police or medical emergency, as Sussex Police no longer had an exclusive helicopter of their own.
It wasn’t often, in his current role as Head of Major Crime, that Grace was present at operations, but this one was different. It was personal. He’d led the last manhunt for this monster from the front, when after a ferocious struggle with Glenn Branson, Tooth had dived recklessly into a dock at Shoreham Harbour and vanished. If this really was him, and he was still alive, Grace was determined to be the officer who finally read the evil bastard his rights, although he knew that the TFU – Tactical Firearms Unit – officers would have to secure him first.
So for the first time in some while he grabbed his Kevlar vest off the hook on the back of his door, pulled it on and headed downstairs.
90
Wednesday 11 March
As Roy Grace raced down to the seafront in his unmarked Ford Mondeo, blue lights flashing, talking to Ops-1, he saw to his dismay that the traffic was gridlocked ahead with roadworks.
He eventually parked up and approached the side entrance of the hotel. Guy Batchelor, also wearing a bulletproof vest under his coat, was waiting with Roy Apps, the Duty Inspector, and a tall TFU sergeant, who quickly outlined the plan that had been agreed between him and the Silver Commander.
‘Tooth is in room 407. We’re ready to rock and roll, sir,’ Batchelor said.
‘Are we certain he’s there?’
‘There’s a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and the television’s on very loudly, which may have meant he didn’t hear the housekeeper’s call. He’s due to check out tomorrow, so it would seem he must be here.’
‘OK, good.’
‘We’ve got TFU officers up on his floor, covering his door, the lifts and the fourth-floor fire-escape stairs, sir,’ the TFU sergeant said. ‘Up on the sixth floor, there are more waiting. They’re ready to go in.’
That made Grace feel better. His biggest nightmare was to have another officer injured by a gunshot wound. The TFU knew what they were doing – and the risks.
‘OK,’ Grace said.
He heard from Ops-1 that the Silver Commander was satisfied everything was in place.
‘I want to be up there when they get the bastard, Guy,’ Grace said.
‘Be careful, boss,’ the DS cautioned.
‘I will. Which way are the stairs?’
Batchelor pointed.
Adrenalin surging, Grace ran up the stone staircases, his heart pounding harder with each floor. Two armed officers turned warily as he reached the fourth floor, then smiled at him.
‘All OK?’ he said, breathless and perspiring.
‘All good, guv,’ said one.
He went through into the corridor and saw the Firearms Team ready to enter the room. Two held semi-automatic rifles and two of them handguns. Another, a solidly built woman, wielded the heavy red battering ram, affectionately known as the bosher. An instant later they all broke into a run, lumbering down the corridor and halting outside a door. Grace, standing behind them, had his view of the room number blocked.
They paused for a moment, the two officers with rifles braced in front of the door, the two with handguns at their sides. Then their leader, a female sergeant, gave the signal. Grace had agreed with the Silver and Firearms Commander that once the team had entered the room and secured the target, he would be called in to make the arrest.
As one officer put an electronic pass key against the door lock, the officer with the bosher standing ready, there was a click and a green light on the door lock. She kicked it open and in unison they yelled out, ‘POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!’
The two holding the automatic rifles went through the door, yelling, ‘FREEZE! POLICE!’
At an empty room.
The television was on, with an afternoon game show playing. The bed was made, the room spotless.
Followed by the rest of the team, but with Roy Grace holding back outside for the moment, as he had been instructed, the armed officers raced across the floor and opened each of the doors for the bathroom, the toilet and the cupboards.
But the room was bare, pristine, fully cleaned by the housekeepers as if awaiting a new guest to arrive.
Grace was given the all-clear to enter.
‘Shit!’ he said, looking around. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit!’ There was no sign that anyone had been in this room all day.
‘Do we have the right room?’ he asked the equally frustrated-looking sergeant.
‘George Dickel. Four zero seven, guv.’
Grace radioed down to Guy Batchelor and told him what they had found.
Two minutes later Batchelor radioed back. ‘That’s his room, chief. He checked in the Saturday before last.’
‘So where the hell is he?’
91
Wednesday 11 March
From behind the curtains in the sanctuary of his fifth-floor, sea-view room at the Royal Albion Hotel, Tooth watched the commotion on the seafront below him, concentrated around the Waterfront Hotel a short distance to the west, with a wry smile.
Did that dickhead Detective Superintendent Roy Grace and his team of morons really think he would make it that easy for them?
He had news for them. He was here to do a job; they could raid every hotel room in the city but they weren’t going to find him, because they weren’t going to catch
up with him.
He had paid in advance for a week. But ten minutes later, unnoticed, he slipped out with his bags, then headed for the Russell Square car park to recover his rental Ford.
92
Wednesday 11 March
Roy Grace arrived back at Sussex House shortly after 5 p.m. in a despondent mood. Where the hell in this city, and under what name, was Tooth?
He went straight to MIR-1 and was pleased to see Glenn was there, as he wanted an update on Lyon. The DI apologized for Norman Potting’s absence – he’d told him he had to attend a medical appointment – then gave Grace a short debrief on Crisp’s disappearance from custody in Lyon. It seemed the security in the hospital wing was severely lacking, but as yet no one could explain how the man had escaped.
Disappointed as he was that the suspected serial killer had yet again evaded justice – for now – Grace was at least relieved this was not something he or any of his fellow Sussex officers could be blamed for. He told his team the next briefing would be at 8.30 a.m. tomorrow and headed back to his office. He was badly in need of some time alone to think. But as he entered his room, his phone was ringing.
It was Maggie Bridgeman from the Covert Policing Unit, sounding excited. ‘Roy,’ she said, ‘I think I have the perfect undercover operative for you. UC 2431. Can you give me until tomorrow morning?’
‘Brilliant, thanks, tomorrow morning is fine!’ Then he asked, ‘Do you have a name for him?’
‘Yes – you’ll know him as J. Paul Cornel.’ She gave him some details.
Instantly, while he continued talking to her, Grace googled the name. A long list of Cornels appeared. A Paul J. Cornel on LinkedIn. One who was an attorney. One who ran a driving school. One who had a web page on ‘Knowledge Management For Development’, whatever that was. One who was involved in the wine business. One who was an academic at Brighton University.
It was a smart choice for a name, he thought. Plenty of diversity. Then he googled images for J. Paul Cornel. A dozen different faces appeared, including a black electric guitar player, and several other characters of differing ages and appearances.
He narrowed the search to ‘J. Paul Cornel, millionaire philanthropist’.
Over a hundred different faces and identities appeared, from John Paul Getty and a bloated John Paul Getty Junior, to people of every age and race, as well as cartoon drawings.
He tried ‘J. Paul Cornel, Brighton’.
A whole raft of hits appeared related to Brighton University.
Then, drilling down to the third page, he found what he was pretty sure was the target. An obscure photograph of a thick-set man in sunglasses, seemingly deliberately in semi-darkness, looking as if the camera had caught him unawares and in hiding. The caption read: ‘One of the rare public appearances of reclusive Brighton-born technology billionaire J. Paul Cornel.’
It was followed by another hit, dated six years earlier. ‘English tech tycoon who made his fortune buying emerging companies in California’s Silicon Valley, stalks US baseball team as his next trophy.’
And another: ‘Charles Johnson, 25 per cent owner of the San Francisco Giants baseball team, and Larry Baer, Chief Executive Officer, have successfully seen off a bid by reclusive ex-pat Brit dot-com billionaire J. Paul Cornel for control of the team.’
Then a further related hit from five years ago. ‘US-domiciled billionaire and baseball fanatic Brit recluse J. Paul Cornel sets sights on Boston Red Sox after failing in bid to acquire control of the San Francisco Giants.’
Grace smiled. Brilliant stuff ! He’d believe J. Paul Cornel was real. Hey, he’d even try to tempt him into sponsoring the rugby team!
He checked his emails; glancing down them he clicked on one he did not recognize, from someone called Kate Tate of the City of London Police Financial Crimes Unit, about the undercover operation.
Tate said she would be with him mid-morning tomorrow.
Grace glanced at his watch. 5.30 p.m. He’d told Cleo he would try to be home early tonight. She’d sent him a picture of the inflatable baby play ring they’d ordered from Amazon and it looked like Noah was loving it! He really looked forward to getting home and seeing it for himself.
His phone rang. It was Cassian Pewe returning the call Grace had put in half an hour ago to update him on the latest developments.
‘Maybe you should retrain as a magician, Roy,’ Pewe said. ‘I saw a very good one called Matt Wainwright. He works as a Fire and Rescue Officer and is a close magician in his spare time. You ought to have a word with him.’
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’
‘All these disappearing acts, Roy,’ Pewe said, his voice sounding more whiney and snide than ever. ‘Jodie Bentley, Dr Crisp and now Mr Tooth. Perhaps you need the help of a magician to un-disappear them all?’
‘It’s beginning to feel that way, sir,’ Grace said, holding his temper with difficulty.
‘I have to warn you that our new Chief Constable is not impressed. Perhaps you’re becoming too distracted by the latest developments with your missing wife, Sandy? Would you like some compassionate leave?’
Grace took a moment to gather his thoughts before replying. ‘Sir, with respect, if it hadn’t been for my relationship with Detective Investigator Lanigan of the NYPD we wouldn’t even know that Tooth was in this country. Crisp was out of our jurisdiction when he absconded from custody. And I believe we are closing the net on Jodie Bentley.’
‘I’m happy for your sanity that you’re having that fantasy, Roy, but I’m less happy for the citizens of this county we’re here to serve and protect. Because at this moment you’re not serving or protecting them.’
Before Grace could reply he heard a click. The ACC had ended the call.
Roy sat, smarting with anger and said, aloud, ‘You tosser.’
He left his office and walked back through into MIR-1, and stared at the whiteboards, which had been returned from the Conference Room after the 2 p.m. briefing. He looked at the photographs of Christopher Bentley, Walt Klein, Rollo Carmichael.
Three dead lovers.
Three, at least, that they knew about.
Would she take the bait of number four?
Would he get to her before Tooth did?
What – if anything – was he overlooking? One thing he had not informed Pewe of was the danger to any undercover operative from Tooth. Should he pull the operation on the grounds of it being too risky?
It was at times like this that he felt lonely. All major crime investigations were teamwork. But the one at the head of the team shouldered the ultimate& responsibility. Decisions& made by& the Senior Investigating Officer could make the difference between life and death. As so many times before, the buck stopped with him. This dangerous bitch was out there, undoubtedly planning, scheming. And, if Pat Lanigan was right, so was Tooth. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of thinking how simple it would be to just let Tooth carry right on and take her out. In his job, moral judgements too often needed to be put to one side. His job was to enforce the law. And however unsavoury the target of a professional hitman in Brighton might be, he could not let that hit happen.
An email appeared in his inbox that was a salutary reminder of the potential dangers all police officers faced every day, throughout their careers, whether they were front line or off-duty and acting out of civic responsibility. It was from the Chief Constable’s staff officer.
Roy, there will be a small ceremony here at Malling House at 3.30 p.m. next Thursday, 19 March, to recognize the posthumous Queen’s Gallantry Award to Detective Sergeant Bella Moy. We would like you to attend with Norman Potting and a couple of other members of your team. We are picking Bella’s mother up and bringing her to Headquarters.
He checked his diary, knowing it had been pretty much cleared by his assistant for the first crucial weeks of the Operation Spider investigation. Then he typed a reply saying that he would be honoured to attend, copying in Lesley so she could log it in his diary.
He arrived home
shortly after 6 p.m., to be greeted by Humphrey holding a squeaky, furry, toy rodent in his mouth. Cleo was spark-out asleep on the sofa, her Open University coursework spread out around her, and the nanny was on the floor playing with Noah. Marlon was on his eternal, eager quest around his new tank, in search of what? Grace wondered often. An escape route? A female mate?
He took the dog for a walk around the neighbourhood, thinking hard, refreshed by the cold evening air. If Tooth really was in town – and he trusted Pat Lanigan’s information, plus his own possible sighting – where the hell was he? If they could find him, would he lead them to this woman?
He arrived back at the house to the appetizing smell of hot food. Kaitlynn, who had been asked to stay on this evening, was cooking a lasagne that Cleo had left out. He sat on the sofa, eating it in front of the television, with a glass of red wine, while Cleo continued to sleep beside him. There was a cop drama playing, but he didn’t engage with it. Too often when such shows were on he found himself shouting at the screen about all the inaccuracies. And this one looked even worse than most. A crime-scene tent had been erected over the body of a dead boy on a beach, who had seemingly fallen from a cliff. Quite correctly, several SOCOs emerged in their protective clothing. Then the SIO walked out in mackintosh and brogue shoes. Hadn’t anyone on this production done their basic research? He would never have been allowed inside this crime scene without wearing protective clothing to prevent him from contaminating it.
‘What?’ Grace hissed furiously. ‘You arsehole!’
‘Uh?’ Cleo stirred.
Grace kissed her forehead. ‘Sorry, darling.’
93
Thursday 12 March
Grace travelled to Worthing to meet the undercover officer and his handler. They had chosen a small discreet café, the Old Bakehouse in Tarring village, well away from police premises. A stocky, shaven-headed man with grey, neatly trimmed stubble, in an expensive-looking suit and dark glasses, was seated at a table, absorbed in his iPhone. Sitting alongside him was a slim woman with short, chestnut hair. There were cups and a steaming teapot on the table in front of them.