by Peter James
A hideous old lady, with Pan-Cake make-up, stared back.
She reminded him of his mother.
Taking out a face wipe, he rigorously cleaned his face of all the gunk.
Changed back into the clothes he felt comfortable in – navy chinos and a grey T-shirt – Tooth set to work. His first task, as always in a hotel room, was to cover the smoke alarm.
Next, he lifted a corner of the bed’s mattress and saw the coil springs that held the base in place. Removing one of the springs, he took it over to his temporary workbench, the desk. He unwound a few inches of the coiled wire, then cut it off with the pliers. Next, he folded the wire into a U-shape, and pushed it into the end of the heavy-duty insulated wire he had bought earlier.
He programmed the mini relay for thirty seconds and connected it, via the wire, to the mercury tilt switch. Then he angled the switch downward. The mercury inside slid down to complete the circuit to the motion sensor, which in turn would set the timer going. After exactly thirty seconds there was the flash of a spark, and a smell of burned electrics reached his nostrils.
Excellent! It worked fine.
Good, very good. He disconnected the timer.
He plugged in the coffee grinder, filled it with potassium chlorate oxygenating tablets from the aquarium supplies store, and switched the machine on. When they were ground into a small mound of powder, he tipped it out onto the scales, and then into a tumbler from the bathroom. He repeated the process with further tablets until he had the exact amount he required.
Next, he measured out and carefully weighed some of the aluminium powder from the art shop, and tipped it into another tumbler from the bathroom. Then, very carefully, he mixed the two compounds together.
When he was satisfied, he unscrewed one end of the steel tube and poured in the concoction.
Then he pushed in the end of the insulated wire with the bent metal of the coil spring, working it through the mixture until it was completely embedded, and secured it in place with the hot-glue stick. As an extra safety precaution, he carefully wound insulating tape round the two exposed wires at the other end of the cable, then pushed them into the tube, followed by the mercury tilt sensor and the Arduino relay, which fitted snugly. He replaced the screw-cap. It had been some years since he’d last made one of these, but the good thing today, he thought, was if you were unsure about anything you could always look it up on the internet.
He searched around for a suitable hiding place for his bomb and the timer that would detonate it. One secure place presented itself: the air-conditioning grille above the door. He removed his Swiss Army penknife from his suitcase, stood on a chair and undid the four screws holding it in place.
Five minutes later, the grille securely back in place, he climbed down off the chair, and then began to do some exercises on his legs. He had to get everything working again. He was on the mend, but he needed to be in a lot better shape before he attempted to complete his mission. And he knew what he had to do. He checked the temperature of the gel-pack, which he had placed in an ice bucket, wrapped it in a towel then pressed it against the worst bruise on his right leg.
To occupy himself for the ten minutes that he was going to hold it there, he opened his laptop and took a look at what was going on in Jodie Carmichael’s house.
99
Thursday 12 March
J. Paul Cornel, installed in his vast fourth-floor suite at the Grand Hotel shortly after 4 p.m., walked around exploring his plush new surroundings. He could fit his little flat about five times in here.
The suite, overlooking the English Channel, had a master bedroom with a huge ensuite bathroom, a second bedroom and a living room, which was decorated in Regency style with two large sofas beneath an ornate chandelier. The four large suitcases that had accompanied him, as part of his cover, lay unopened, two of them on the trestles which the porter had helpfully placed there for him. They were filled with clothes that had been purchased for him from an array of clothing stores around the city, as well as a classy washbag crammed with toiletries.
He put the iPhone he had been given on charge. It was loaded with hidden software, which relayed his position, down to six feet, to a round-the-clock monitored screen in an Intelligence Team office at police HQ, as well as a voice-activated sound recorder. He popped each of the cases open and unpacked, hanging up the jackets and trousers and putting the shirts and underwear away in the drawers. Many of the clothes bore American designer labels. An hour later he had truly moved in. The next step was to find this dangerous lady, Jodie Carmichael. Or, if his colleagues had laid the bait according to plan, to let her find him.
Shortly after 6 p.m., dressed in a dark blue suit, white, open-neck shirt and black suede Gucci loafers, he took the lift downstairs, then strode across to the bar, taking in all the people in the room. There were a few groups of what looked like businessmen and a couple drinking champagne. But no single women. Easing himself onto a seat, positioning himself so he could see anyone entering the room or walking past, Potting wondered what J. Paul Cornel would order in a cocktail bar.
A Martini, perhaps? Or a Manhattan?
He looked at the cocktail menu the barman gave him. Two businessmen in suits, with conference tags on their lapels, sat next to him, drinking pints of beer. A beer might be more sensible, he thought. He didn’t know how long he might have to wait. Another man in a suit, further along, was drinking what looked like a gin and tonic from a highball glass.
There was an assortment of cocktails he had never heard of. The barman placed a fresh bowl of peanuts in front of him, and Potting began to munch his way through them, spilling some. Would she show up? There was no telling. Whatever, he had a feeling it might be a long evening.
In his well-rehearsed Californian twang, he ordered a Perrier with a slice of lemon in a long glass. If she did show up, at least it would look like the gin and tonic he was craving at this moment.
The next hour passed slowly. He whiled away some of it by checking his iPhone. All the time he kept an eye on the door, ready to act if Jodie did appear. Then his thoughts went back, as they always did whenever he had time to think, to Bella.
His heart heaved and he felt sad.
She had been a genuinely good person. They had had such a wonderful future in front of them. After so much shit, he had finally found the love of his life. Then she had gone and done what any police officer would have done in those circumstances, whether on duty or off – and she had lost her life.
The barman interrupted his thoughts, asking if he needed another drink.
He did, badly. Instead he dutifully asked for the same again, consoling himself with the knowledge that he was having a better time this evening than the two poor Surveillance Team guys, in their car out in the darkness somewhere close by, doing their tedious twelve-hour shift guarding him. He supposed it was comforting to know that for the duration of his time undercover, there would always be two officers never more than seconds away if he needed them. All he had to do was push one button on his phone.
His drink arrived and he stared at it bleakly. Then he asked the barman to bring him a gin and tonic, and make the gin a double.
When it came he downed it in two gulps.
100
Thursday 12 March
Determined not to fall foul of another Walter Klein, Jodie Carmichael had spent the past two hours rigorously checking out J. Paul Cornel on the internet.
His Wikipedia tallied with what she had read in the paper. His humble origins growing up on the Whitehawk Estate. His education, first at Brighton’s Dorothy Stringer School, then winning a scholarship to study computer sciences at MIT – Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Followed by a five-year spell working under Dr Josef Kates, in Toronto, one the world’s first pioneers in computer time-sharing, and later in traffic systems. Then his move to Microsoft in California, before making his first fortune in his own Silicon Valley-based technology company developing facial-recognition systems for the US milita
ry, before funding a succession of highly successful tech start-ups. With his passion for classic cars, he had built up a highly valuable collection.
One thing that particularly excited her about him was his lack of heirs. In his only marriage he had produced two children, a son born with cystic fibrosis who had died at nineteen, and a daughter who had died in a TWA air disaster out of New York. His wife had died from cancer.
He had twice been thwarted in attempts to buy major US baseball teams, and during the past decade had given many millions to charities, including those for cystic fibrosis and genetic engineering research.
She actually found herself feeling sorry for Cornel.
And thanks to the newspaper interview, she had a strong clue where she might find him right now, here in Brighton.
She began to google images of Cornel’s wife. And as she did so, Jodie smiled. The wife had been slim and attractive, brunette and glamorous. With her new hairstyle, she would fit very nicely into that template.
Shortly after 6 p.m., she began to get ready.
Tooth sat at the desk in his hotel room, smoking a cigarette and drinking whisky, watching Jodie on the cameras he had concealed around her house. She was sitting in front of the dressing-table mirror in her bedroom, applying her make-up carefully. Her computer screen was not visible to any of his cameras. What had she been looking at on the internet? he wondered.
What was she dolling herself up for tonight? When did this woman stop? Her husband had only just died and she had brought him home to bury him. He had to admit to a sneaking admiration for her. She was a predator like himself.
He stood up and hobbled around the room. The discomfort in his ribs was lessening. The bruising in his right leg looked a little better now. In a few days he should be fit enough.
Shortly after half past six he watched – and heard – Jodie Carmichael order a taxi to take her to the Grand Hotel. She booked it in her alias, Judith Forshaw.
‘Have a nice evening, Judith,’ he said, quietly. ‘Stay out late. The later the better.’
The opportunity had come sooner than he had expected. But as he had been trained in sniper school, you always had to be ready for when a shot presented itself; you might not get a second opportunity.
He stood up and removed his clothes, and began to reapply his make-up. Afterwards, going over to the closet, he pulled out his dress, shoes, coat and wig.
Fifteen minutes later, Thelma Darby, with the aid of her walking stick, limped along the corridor, clutching her large handbag, took the lift down to the lobby, then headed out across the road to her rental car.
101
Thursday 12 March
The buzz of the gin had worn off and Norman Potting – or as he had to keep reminding himself, J. Paul Cornel – was contemplating ordering another. He was also wondering just how long he would have to stay here before declaring Jodie Carmichael a no-show.
The bar had filled up and although he had done his best to defend the seat next to him he’d finally had to concede it, and was now sandwiched between a large man, who sounded Scandinavian, engaged in loud conversation with a Brit beside him, about nuclear power, and a couple of gay guys talking affectionately to each other. He’d had the liberal policies of Sussex Police drummed into his head by Roy Grace, under pain of being kicked off the Major Crime Team, so he was doing his best to be more broad-minded. But he was in a world that had changed so much since he had first joined the police, and he found it increasingly hard to understand.
A stunning woman entered the bar. He’d been a copper long enough to tell the difference between someone casually glancing around and someone casing a joint.
She was casing the joint.
And her eyes alighted, fleetingly, on him.
She was in her mid-thirties, in a silky grey dress that clung to every contour of her slender body, and stopped short of her knees. Her legs were long and slender, and she wore glittering high heels. Her hair was long and dark, elegantly styled, and her neck and wrists were adorned with tasteful jewellery and a classy watch.
She gave him a second glance, and possibly a smile, before sitting a few places away, at the end of the bar.
Was that her?
And if it was, how did he make the next move? He had a dinner reservation for 8.00 p.m. An hour’s time. He was peckish and looking forward to a good meal, courtesy of Sussex Police.
Maybe, if he played it right, he could get her to join him. If it was Jodie Carmichael.
Whilst pretending to be texting on his iPhone, he leaned forward to catch her order to the barman. A glass of Chardonnay. Then, continuing his pretence of texting, he looked at the photographs he had been given of the woman.
It was her!
He drank another Perrier. The irritating Scandinavian and his pal, to his left, climbed down off their stools and walked away. Ten minutes later the two other couples between him and his target had also left.
Potting looked across and caught her eye again. He gave her a friendly smile, which was returned. He turned to the barman and in his best J. Paul Cornel accent asked him to offer the young lady at the end of the bar a glass of champagne, on him.
It had the desired effect. Minutes later, glass in hand, the young woman slid off her bar stool and sat down next to him. ‘Thank you! Drinking alone?’ she asked.
‘Drowning my sorrows.’ He smiled.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘that people who drink to drown their sorrows should be told that sorrow learns to swim.’
‘That right?’ Cornel said.
‘In my experience, uh-huh!’ She grinned.
‘I’ve buried two children and a wife,’ he said. ‘And I’ve never learned to swim.’
‘It’s never too late to learn anything.’
They clinked glasses. ‘Let’s hope not. So, to paraphrase one of my favourite movies, out of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, what brings a beautiful lady like you into mine?’
She smiled. ‘I could ask you that same question!’
‘Be my guest!’
‘So?’
He shook his head. ‘I’d like to give you a smart answer, but I don’t have one. I grew up in this city – well, it was a town back in my youth – and I’ve lived away for many years. Now I’m near the end of my life, and I decided to come back to my roots. You?’
She plucked an olive from a bowl in front of them. Then she sipped her champagne and ate another olive, giving him a seductive look. ‘I’m trying to get over the train crash that I call my life. This is the first night I’ve been out in a long while. I was meant to be meeting an old friend here, but he’s just stood me up – gave me a lame excuse about having a flat tyre.’ She shrugged. ‘Guess he had a better offer.’ Looking deliberately vulnerable, she twiddled with the chain of her locket.
‘A better offer than you?’
‘He’s an old flame. We’re just good mates now. But you know, men . . .’
He smiled. ‘Tell me about the train wreck.’
She shrugged. ‘You know, it’s very weird being here in this hotel.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, the thing is, I met my husband here. He died just after we were married – he was bitten by a snake, in India.’
‘That’s terrible,’ he said.
‘We were so in love.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s very sweet of you.’ Her eyes locked on his. They were mesmerizing eyes. He was aroused by her stare, and had to focus hard through the alcohol he had consumed.
He held out his hand. ‘Paul Cornel.’
Shaking it, she replied, ‘Jodie Carmichael.’
‘Good to meet you,’ he said.
She stared back into his eyes. ‘It’s good to meet you, too,’ she replied. ‘So tell me the real reason you’re in town?’
‘I’ve come home to die.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t die too soon – we’ve only just met. I think that would be rather impolite.’
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He laughed. ‘OK – I’ll try to last out the evening – but on one condition.’
She held out her glass. ‘And that is?’
He clinked his glass against hers. ‘That you join me for dinner here – if you’re free, that is?’
She gave him a faraway look. ‘Well, that puts me in a difficult position. I’ve got a lasagne-for-one defrosting in my fridge right now. So it’s a choice of that or dinner with you here. Hmmmn. Any other inducements?’
‘All the champagne you can drink.’
She spiralled her index finger, flirtatiously signalling, More?
‘The restaurant here, GB1, is meant to be one of the best in the city. Oysters, lobster, Dover sole.’
Again she spiralled her finger.
‘And they have a great wine list, I’m told.’
She spun her finger again.
‘A few hours of my scintillating company?’
She grinned and nodded. ‘OK, now you’re starting to convince me.’ She looked mischievously into his eyes.
‘I don’t like dining alone. You’d be doing an old man a big favour by joining me.’
Another spin of her finger.
‘I think you’re incredibly beautiful.’
‘You are too kind.’
‘No, really, you are!’ he said. ‘And I think your evening would be significantly improved by spending it with me.’
‘Oh, yeah? Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t drawn in by your charm.’
‘Now you’re talking bullshit!’
‘No, I always tell the truth. And I’m seriously in need of cheerful company. I’d be delighted to have dinner with you. But I do warn you, I have expensive tastes.’
Very fortunate Sussex Police have given me an almost unlimited budget, Potting thought. ‘Well, that makes two of us,’ he replied.
She dipped her finger into her glass and held it out to Cornel, touching his lips with it. He licked the champagne off the tip.