Love You Dead

by Peter James

  ‘How does it feel being back here?’ she asked.

  ‘Strange. Like – like nothing’s changed and yet so much has – there weren’t so many cars back then. Or satellite dishes.’ He gave a wistful smile and turned to her. ‘I keep seeing familiar things and it’s like . . .’ He shrugged and fell silent.

  ‘Like what?’

  He shook his head. ‘Maybe it was a mistake bringing you here. Maybe this is not the person I ought to be showing you.’

  ‘Of course it is. I find you fascinating. I want to know everything about you. I think what you’ve achieved in your life is incredible.’

  He reached forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Here! Stop! Stop!’ he said, excitedly. Then he turned to Jodie and pointed through her window at a small, semi-detached house perched on a rise above them. The garden was a complete junkyard, stacked with busted furniture, rotted doors, a supermarket trolley, a rusted car engine, several tyres, slabs of concrete and old bricks, all lying amid a tangle of weeds.

  ‘Interesting art,’ she said.

  ‘That house! That was where I grew up! My mum looked after that garden.’ He shook his head. ‘How – how does someone let it get like that?’ He looked balefully at the neat lawns and flower beds of the neighbouring houses. ‘Jeeez, I’m sorry, I guess I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come back.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you showed me. Nothing stays the same in life, don’t you think? It’s good to be sentimental sometimes.’

  He continued to stare, fixated. ‘I can’t believe what’s happened. My mum was so proud of it.’ He shook his head.

  ‘The past is another country, they do things differently there.’

  ‘Yep, it sure is. You know, I left here when I was eighteen. I wonder who lives here now.’

  ‘Want me to go and knock on the door and find out?’

  He smiled at her. ‘I’m not sure it’s gonna be anyone that you or I would want to have a conversation with. So why don’t you tell me more about yourself?’ he asked. ‘You said last night you were from Brighton – where was your family home?’

  Instantly he saw she looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Oh, yes, originally, but we moved a lot because of my dad’s work.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He worked for a bank and they moved him around the country. We were constantly uprooted – you know – it was tough as a kid, always changing schools. You just make a new set of friends, then you have to say goodbye to them and move on again.’

  ‘Where in the city were you born?’

  ‘In some maternity unit, I don’t honestly remember where it was.’

  ‘And what about your parents? Are they still alive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He told the driver to move on, to take them to the Dorothy Stringer School, where he was educated. All the while, as they drove, he kept up a running commentary about the places of his youth. And all the while he fed Jodie subtle questions, trying to get her to talk more about herself. But she fielded each question either with a lie or by telling him that it was too painful to delve into her past.

  By the time the limousine turned into the drive of her Roedean Crescent house, just after 6 p.m., he had gleaned virtually no more about her than he knew when they had started out.

  But he did know his handler would now see from the GPS tracker their exact location.

  ‘Nice home you have,’ he said, as the car pulled up by the front door. ‘I like the style. How would you define it – Tudor Revival?’

  She laughed. ‘Have you really been away from England for that long you’ve forgotten? The style is mock Tudor.’

  ‘Ah, right, sure, I get that. But your home seems more than just mock. Maybe that’s your natural beauty enhancing it,’ he said with a twinkle.

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. If you have time, I’ll give you the five-dollar tour.’

  ‘I’ll make the time! Hell, we have all evening.’

  ‘Cup of tea and some of my homemade cake when we get in?’ she asked.

  ‘It would be rude to refuse.’

  ‘It would be. Very rude. And you haven’t changed your mind about staying for dinner, have you?’

  ‘Well, I guess it would also be very rude to do that.’

  She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I like you,’ she said. ‘I like you a lot.’

  The driver opened the boot of the car and Cornel removed a heavy Butler’s Wine Cellar bag. Handing it to her, he said, ‘I got some champagne, red wine and white wine from this local wine store the concierge recommended earlier.’

  ‘So you figured out I like a drink?’

  ‘Judging by last night, and the amount of champagne we got through at lunch, I guessed.’ He smiled. ‘So what time should I tell my driver to come pick me up tonight?’

  She whispered in his ear, ‘How about around midday tomorrow?’

  108

  Friday 13 March

  ‘I have the address. Looks like 191 Roedean Crescent. Potting’s gone into her house, sir,’ the undercover monitor said to Roy Grace over the phone. ‘Cake and tea and then she’s cooking him dinner.’

  ‘Lucky sod,’ Grace replied. ‘Thanks for the update. So the address confirms the location we thought. No other information?’

  ‘Nothing significant, sir. He’s doing a convincing job, but she’s revealing nothing.’

  ‘Keep me updated.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir. I’m going off shift at 8 p.m., handing over to Andy Clarke.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll be back on at 8 a.m.’

  ‘Have a good evening.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It’s my husband’s birthday. I’ll be drinking orange juice.’

  ‘Enjoy!’

  ‘Huh.’

  Grace stood and looked at the map of Brighton and Hove, and located Roedean Crescent. He knew the area. So now Norman Potting was there, with the target. And it was likely Tooth would know it by now, too. He rang the ACC, advising him that the UC might be in increased danger. With the knowledge that there could well be venomous reptiles in the property, he told Pewe he would speak to Nick Sloan, to discuss round-the-clock Armed Response Unit surveillance. He also added that if they were to attempt an entry to the house to rescue him, should anything go wrong, they would additionally need an expert on venomous reptiles to be present, and that was in hand.

  ‘Roy,’ Pewe said, ‘you know how stretched we are. Do we have the resources to protect UC adequately? If not, you’ll need to consider pulling him out – if you don’t want anything that happens to him to be on your conscience.’

  ‘Sir, so far everything has gone according to plan, like clockwork. I think he’ll deliver. We just need to make him safe.’

  ‘Was going into her home part of our plan?’ Pewe questioned.

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  ‘You believe she might keep venomous reptiles there and you haven’t already arranged for an expert to be on hand? Do you realize the consequences for Sussex Police if he was bitten?’

  ‘I have arranged an expert, and I’ve a lot of faith in our officer.’

  ‘Good to hear that, Roy,’ he whined. ‘I’m glad somebody does.’

  Grace hung up. God, he hated that man. Why the hell hadn’t he let him fall to his death over Beachy Head? It was a question he had asked himself so many times. He’d saved his life, and this was his reward.

  One day Pewe would get his true comeuppance. But right now Roy’s priority was Potting’s safety, and arresting that bitch on murder charges that would stick. He vitally needed better evidence.

  He called DS Tanja Cale and asked her to confirm that Dr Rearden, the snake expert from London Zoo, was on his way down to Brighton for the pre-search planning meeting. He then rang the on-call Gold Commander, to brief him on the current deployment of a UC at No. 191 Roedean Crescent, and the possible need for an ARV unit to attend in an emergency.

&n
bsp; Grace was not pleased to hear that due to the shortage of man-power there might not be a surveillance unit available immediately. He knew that Potting should be able to take care of himself, and that he had a panic alert on his iPhone which would send a unit over at once, should he need it. The Gold Commander, Chief Superintendent Nev Kemp, told him he would talk to Silver and sort out the necessary resources.

  Grace ended the call and sat, frustrated. Five years ago, if he’d needed an armed surveillance unit to safeguard Potting, there would have been one at scene within thirty minutes, and a rota of units would have remained there for as long as it took. Now it would take some while to arrange.

  Great.

  Grace stared down at the files on his desk. Updates on Crisp, Jodie and Tooth.

  He glanced at his watch. 3.05 p.m. He frowned – it had to be later than that. Much later. He shook it and realized it had stopped. It was a chunky Swatch that Glenn Branson had made him buy some while ago when he had insisted on taking him fashion shopping for a makeover, when Grace had first begun to date Cleo. Probably needed a new battery. He glanced at his iPhone. 6.20 p.m. Then saw the date.

  It was Friday the 13th today. Paraskevidekatriaphobics & was the word for people who had a fear of this date. But it had never bothered him. The only superstition he had ever taken note of – if it could even be called a superstition – was a full moon. In his early days in the police, as a beat copper in Brighton, it always seemed there was a rise in violent incidents whenever there was a full moon. One of his colleagues, some years back, had actually made a study and had concluded that it was true.

  He felt at this moment like a juggler holding a whole bunch of spinning plates in the air. He had a female killer on the loose in Brighton; a fugitive serial killer somewhere in France, or Europe, or anywhere in the world by now; and an American killer for hire playing cat and mouse all over the city.

  And a boss who would give anything to blame him for failing to lock all three up.

  The only useful thing he had right now, thanks to Norman Potting, was Jodie Carmichael’s address, and some rather flimsy circumstantial evidence against her.

  He was relying heavily on Potting finding something with which they could nail her.

  Friday the 13th.

  Hell, it had to be a lucky day for someone.

  109

  Friday 13 March

  Tooth, munching a pulled-pork wrap and sipping a Coke in an almost-deserted golf course car park half a mile away, watched the afternoon progress into evening. Lemon cake and tea gave way to champagne and canapés. Oh, Jodie, he thought with grudging admiration, you are a true pro.

  The tubby American was revelling in her attentions. Right now he was lounging on a sofa, stroking a cat and holding a freshly refilled glass of bubbly.

  Meanwhile she was busy in the kitchen, swigging his champagne as she cooked.

  She wasn’t going to be driving that Merc anywhere tonight.

  But the one bit of good news was that she seemed to have persuaded him to cancel his limousine for tomorrow, and to let her take him on a further drive around the Sussex of his youth in her car, instead.

  Tooth decided he might as well abandon his vigil for tonight and go find a hotel within easy striking distance, but outside of Grace’s likely search area. He googled and found several in the vicinity of Gatwick Airport, where he’d stayed on his last visit.

  There was a Hilton at Gatwick. Hiltons were pretty anonymous places. He checked online and booked himself a room.

  Erotic flashes of Jodie Carmichael naked in front of her mirror returned to his mind. There’d be plenty of hookers he could find online who’d be willing to come to an airport hotel like the Hilton. The thought cheered him up.

  But not as much as the thought of Jodie Carmichael driving herself and her fat boyfriend out of the garage tomorrow morning did.

  110

  Friday 13 March

  J. Paul Cornel stifled a yawn, enjoying the aroma of the massive Armagnac that Jodie had poured him, then puffed on the last few inches of the fat Cohiba cigar. Patting his belly contentedly, he said, ‘Jeez, you spoiled me tonight. What a meal. Divine scallops and the most perfectly cooked steak – you know, I can’t remember ever eating a better steak.’

  Actually, he could. It was full of gristle and she’d overcooked it. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. The high-backed Perspex chair at the glass dining table was cripplingly uncomfortable, but he wasn’t about to tell her that either.

  ‘You’re a true genius as a chef . Apple crumble and custard – my favourite dessert.’

  ‘Nothing’s too good for you. I’m loving your company.’

  ‘And me yours.’ He yawned. ‘Look at the time. Almost midnight – where did the evening go?’

  ‘I had no idea it was so late.’ she said. ‘It’s been such fun.’

  ‘It has. Think I’m pretty much ready to hit the sack. I’m afraid my medication has that effect on me.’

  ‘Your room’s all made up.’

  ‘A few years back and I’d have made love to you all night.’ He raised his glass. ‘My lovely Jodie, where have you been all my life?’

  She raised her Drambuie.

  ‘God, how I wish I’d met you sooner. I wonder how different my life might have been,’ he said.

  ‘It’s never too late. Is it?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He drained his glass, stubbed out the remainder of his cigar and stood up, unsteadily. ‘I don’t have a toothbrush.’

  ‘I’ve got a spare one.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘True.’ she said.

  They both smiled.

  ‘I wish– you know– that I could make love to you,’ he said.

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

  ‘Good plan.’

  ‘What would you like for breakfast?’

  ‘You!’ he said.

  ‘I think I can arrange that!’

  Ten minutes later she led him upstairs. Cornel noticed her cat scratching a wall at the end of the corridor.

  ‘What’s he after?’ he quizzed her.

  ‘I think he’s mousing. He keeps doing that – maybe there’s a mouse in the cavity wall. Tyson!’ she shouted. The cat shot off along the landing and down the stairs.

  There seemed to be a lot of scratches at the bottom of the wall, as well as a few shallow grooves. What, he wondered, was the other side of it? Her snakes? He would try to take a discreet closer look when he had the opportunity.

  A few minutes later, with J. Paul Cornel safely installed in the guest bedroom with ensuite bathroom, Jodie went back downstairs to clear up. She was feeling pretty good about how the day had gone but, she knew, she needed to deepen the bond between them. He seemed to be a bit guarded, and she needed to break that down.

  How?

  He had confessed his impotence due to a prostate operation. Maybe, if she could arouse him despite what he had said, that would do the trick? Perhaps later she would slip into his bed, naked, and try.

  She topped up her Drambuie, lit another cigarette and sat at the kitchen table. She liked him. Which was as well, she thought, if she was intending to marry him.

  A copy of the Argus newspaper lay there. As she sipped her liqueur and smoked, idly flipping through the pages, her eyes were suddenly drawn to a story.

  SUSSEX POLICE OFFICER TO RECEIVE POSTHUMOUS QUEEN’S GALLANTRY MEDAL

  It wasn’t so much the headline that caught her eye, but the photograph below.

  DS Bella Moy with her Sussex Police officer fiancé, DS Norman Potting.

  An attractive brunette in her mid-thirties, with her arm round a large man of indeterminate age, mid-to late-fifties, at least.

  She read through the article. The two detectives were engaged to be married. Then tragically, whilst off duty, Potting’s fiancée had bravely entered a burning house to rescue a child and dog trapped inside. The child and her dog had got out, but DS Bella Moy had failed to
emerge. Her body was recovered some hours later.

  And now she remembered something that Paul had said to her over dinner last night.

  I lost my soulmate in a house fire.

  His whole expression had changed after he had uttered those words. Last night she had taken it as someone very private revealing too much about himself.

  She stared back at the photograph, concentrating hard on the man. The shape of his face. The slightly bulbous nose. The thinning hair in a comb-over. The short bull neck.

  Feeling a prickle of unease, she opened the lid of her laptop and googled ‘Sussex Police – Norman Potting – Images’.

  A whole raft of photographs appeared. Some were of total strangers. But others looked remarkably like a shabbier version of J. Paul Cornel.

  Was she imagining it? Was he just a lookalike? Was she being too cautious after the Walt Klein fiasco?

  There was one way she might find out.

  She googled J. Paul Cornel and started to sift through his images, taking screen-shots of each.

  111

  Friday 13 March

  Norman Potting was in danger and there was no one immediately available to protect him.

  Cleo was feeding Noah, and Grace sat up with her, thinking hard. Should he break with all the rules, drive down to Roedean Crescent and be on hand for Norman? He had confided the UC’s identity to Cleo, which he knew she would keep secret.

  Half an hour later, just approaching midnight, Noah was sound asleep and Cleo collapsed, exhausted, into bed.

  ‘Try to sleep, darling,’ she said. ‘You won’t be any use to Norman if you’re too tired.’

  He yawned. ‘You’re right.’ He reached out and turned off his bedside light, but then after a few moments switched it back on. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave him exposed like this. I’ve got to go and check he’s OK.’

  ‘Do what you’ve got to do. Just be careful and get back as soon as you can, you have to have some sleep.’