Love You Dead (35 page)

‘Yeah. So what’s the French for the stuff we’re in now –
deep doo-doo
?’

Having woken full of excitement, Grace now felt totally deflated. Edward Crisp, the big prize he had been expecting Glenn and Norman to escort home, had vanished. Now they were
flying home alone. He was increasingly fretting about the reaction he would get from his ACC.

He phoned the mobile number of their Interpol case officer in London and got his voicemail. He left a message, informing him of the disastrous developments in Lyon, and asking the officer to
call him back urgently.

Five minutes later, mug of coffee in his hand, he sat down at his desk deep in troubled thought. He called Cassian Pewe’s mobile but it went to voicemail. Was nobody bloody answering their
phones this morning? He left a message.

He briefly checked what had happened overnight on his computer but there was nothing of significance to him – just the usual muggings, robberies, fights, vehicle thefts – a Mercedes
and a BMW – mispers, break-ins and RTCs.

Next he checked his emails and saw one from his NYPD detective friend, Pat Lanigan.

The email had been sent at 10 p.m. last night, Eastern time.

Grace did a quick mental calculation. New York was five hours behind the UK. 6.30 a.m. here; 1.30 a.m. in New York. He’d wait a few hours before ringing him back. Instead he made a phone
call to someone for whom he had great respect.

It was answered by the eager-sounding voice of Ray Packham, who had recently retired, on health grounds, from the High Tech Crime Unit.

‘Ray, it’s Roy Grace. I’m sorry it’s so early, but I have something I need to run by you. Are you OK to talk?’

‘Roy! Good to hear from you. I’ve been up for ages, bored out of my mind, if you want to know the truth. How can I help you?’

Grace told him. When he had finished the conversation, feeling very upbeat about his plan, he sat still, reflecting. Crisp had escaped from his cell somewhere between lock-up at 9 p.m., French
time, last night and 7 a.m. their time this morning. All his possessions would have been taken from him, surely, when he had been booked into custody there? He would only have had the prison
officer’s uniform and gun. Enough to have enabled him to hijack a car and flee the country. He could be in Switzerland or Italy or Germany by now. Or Austria, he thought, looking at the map
of Europe on his wall.

God, they’d had the evil bastard. How the hell had he done it? How the hell had he pulled off his escape again? No doubt with the same cunning and planning he’d used to escape from
his underground hideout in Brighton back in December. Now he was playing international hide and seek. One certainty, he knew, was that Sussex Police did not have the resources, however heinous
Crisp’s crimes, to embark on an international manhunt. They would have to rely on Europol and Interpol for that.

Right now he had to focus on Operation Spider. If there really was a ‘black widow’ operating in the city, and the evidence pointed to it, he needed to stop her before another victim
died. But the plan he had concocted during the night seemed fraught with problems. In a different era he could just have gone ahead with it on his own initiative. Now he had to seek permission, and
jump through a whole bunch of potentially hostile hoops.

Which might have fatal consequences.

He needed to strengthen his evidence in every way that he could, and one thought had been going through his mind during the night on how he might possibly do that.

He googled ‘saw-scaled viper’, then leaned forward, peering closely at his screen as he scrolled through a wide range of information and links about the snake and its genus,
Echis.
He was looking for one very specific thing. Something that Jodie might have slipped up on. It was just a hunch, a long shot, but worth a few minutes of his time.

As he read what came up, he felt a beat of excitement. ‘Yes!’ he said, punching the air. He read it carefully again, then phoned Guy Batchelor, who was acting as the office manager
for Operation Spider. ‘Guy, the venomous reptile expert from London Zoo who came down to accompany the team that searched Shelby Stonor’s home, Dr Rearden right?’

‘Yes, boss, he said if someone was needed to advise on the snake bite, we should contact the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine, who are world-renowned experts.’

‘Liverpool, bugger, that’s quite a distance. Can you contact them as soon as you can and see if there’s anyone who could get down here today?’

As he ended the call, his phone rang. It was ACC Pewe. Grace took a deep breath.

Pewe was not as angry as he had expected, but he guessed the reason why. This was something Pewe would be able to bank and hold against him at a later date, however much it had not been his
fault.

‘What a bloody mess, Roy,’ he whined down the phone.

‘Crisp? Yes, sir, I agree with you. But not Operation Spider. I have a strategy – I’d like to come and talk it through with you. Do you have any time free today?’

‘I’m free now,’ his boss replied. ‘I’ve one hour.’

At a few minutes before 7 a.m., the security guard at the barrier of Malling House, the sprawling Sussex Police Headquarters where Major Crimes was soon going to be housed,
waved to Roy Grace as he passed through.

He drove his unmarked Mondeo up the steep hill, passing the car park to his right for the Road Policing Unit and the Call Centre, and pulled up at the entrance to the visitor car park. He held
his access pass up against the electronic reader and the barrier rose.

He reversed into a bay in the almost empty car park, then went into the reception area of the prefab building and exchanged pleasantries with the duty receptionist, whom he had known for
years.

He sent a text to Guy Batchelor telling him to delay the morning briefing until 9 a.m., then made his way through the back entrance into the grand Queen Anne building that housed the senior
staff of Sussex Police. He greeted his old friend, Acting Superintendent Steve Curry, then switching his phone to silent, went up the stairs and into Cassian Pewe’s majestic office, with its
view across the trim lawn below and one of the modern housing estates of the county town of Lewes beyond.

The ACC rose from behind his large desk to greet him. Dressed in immaculate uniform, he extended a delicate hand.

‘Good to see you, Roy,’ he said. He indicated a leather chair in front of the desk.

As Grace sat down, Pewe asked, ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Black coffee would be good, sir, thank you.’

‘I see, a heavy night?’

‘No, sir,’ he said, always aware of Pewe’s hidden agenda in every question he asked. ‘An early night, actually, but that’s hard with a young baby.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Pewe spoke into his phone, ordering the coffee, then looked across the desk at Grace. ‘How is little Noah?’

‘Getting feistier by the day – and night.’

Pewe gave him a patronizing smile. ‘And do I understand you went to Munich for a couple of days?’

‘No, sir, just the one day. Sandy has surfaced, after ten bloody years. She’d been involved in a traffic accident out there – hit by a taxi.’

Pewe avoided eye contact. ‘She’s alive?’

‘Badly injured.’

He was dying to say to Pewe,
So she wasn’t buried in my back garden after all, was she?
Perhaps that was why the ACC wouldn’t meet his eye.

‘Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. And where does that leave you, Roy?’

‘I’ve moved on, sir. But I had to go and see her.’

‘Of course you had to.’

‘There’ll be a lot of legalities to resolve, but that’s for another day.’

There was an awkward silence for some moments. Pewe finally broke it. ‘So, Roy – you mentioned a strategy?’

The assistant brought in the coffee and a plate of shortbread biscuits.

‘Yes.’ He sipped the scalding coffee, waited until she had left the room, closing the door behind her, then talked the ACC through it.

When he had finished, Cassian Pewe stared at him in total silence, his expression impossible to read. Then he said, ‘This is insane, Roy.’

‘It’s a risk, sir, I agree with that.’

‘Have you thought about all the different ways it could backfire on us?’

‘Yes, I have. But in my view we are dealing with a monster potentially every bit as evil as Edward Crisp. It’s looking like she might have murdered three men, and we have no way of
telling, at this moment, if there are any others before Bentley she may have killed. We’re currently searching the UK and internationally for potential matches. This might be a way to flush
her out.’

‘Or to get one of our officers killed?’

‘Not if we risk assess it properly, sir.’

‘You mean the way Crisp’s confinement in the Lyon jail was risk assessed?’

‘That was out of our jurisdiction.’

‘Luckily for your career, Roy. What you’re proposing now isn’t. Before you even start to go there you need the Crown Prosecution Service on board. You’re putting an awful
lot on a rather shaky assumption, don’t you think?’

‘Shaky? I have a suspect who appears to be using different identities, and targets rich older men. There are three that we know of and there could be more. Her first husband died after
being bitten by a venomous snake – and I accept that he was an expert who worked with these creatures, so was at a higher risk than anyone else. Her most recent fiancé skied over a
cliff in France.’

‘Yes, Roy,’ Pewe interrupted him. ‘Walter Klein, a fraudster who knew the game was up. All the evidence points to suicide.’

‘With respect, sir, there is no evidence.’

‘Leaving that aside, you’re trying to link the death of a small-time burglar in Brighton with the death of her second husband in India?’

‘Second husband that we know about – I’m trying to get more on that, sir. I’ve already briefed and prepared a plan with the Force Authorizing Officer, Detective
Superintendent Nick Sloan, whose job it will be to manage and supervise the operation. I’ve also made contact with Wayne Gumbrell at the Crown Prosecution Service, who’s on board. We
all agree that this is the only option available at the moment to prevent this woman targeting and killing another victim. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up for you to sign as it needs y our
written authority.’

‘OK, Roy, but screw this one up and I’ll have you writing out parking tickets for the rest of your career. Do I make myself clear?’

Clear as merde
, Grace said, under his breath.

As he went back down to his car, Roy Grace played a voicemail from Guy Batchelor on his phone. He was in luck – an expert from the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine
was attending a conference in London and could be with them by midday.

He phoned Guy and told him to delay the briefing further, to 2 p.m., then he phoned Wayne Gumbrell, left a message on his voicemail updating him on his conversation with Pewe, and returned to
Sussex House. He wanted to spend a quiet hour alone, reviewing everything, checking for anything he might have overlooked, and writing up his policy book.

Stopping by the tiny kitchenette, he switched on the kettle, then spooned some coffee into a mug with the only available implement, the handle of a bent fork, then carried the coffee through
into his office. A while later, Pat Lanigan rang. Grace glanced at his watch. 9.25 a.m. It was 4.25 a.m. in New York. During the past couple of weeks he’d been in regular communication with
the New York detective, sharing information.

‘Hey, pal, how you doooin’?’ Lanigan said in his nasally Brooklyn accent.

‘Yep, good. I was going to call you in a bit. You’re up early!’

‘Always! Look, I’ve got something maybe of interest. Remember a while back you had a character name of Tooth visiting your city?’

‘Only too well,’ Grace said, putting his phone on loudspeaker on his desk, along with the mug, then peeling off his jacket. ‘We thought he was dead, but then again, we thought
Crisp was dead, too.’ He remembered how Tooth, a professional hitman, had disappeared from Sussex Police’s clutches, presumed drowned in Shoreham Harbour, after a fight with Glenn
Branson at the edge of a dock.

‘Yep, so you told me,’ said Lanigan. ‘We got some intel on him from undercover operations. One of his aliases, John Daniels, just got flagged up on our radar. Seems he’s
very much alive and might be headed back your way. There’s a link with our friend Jodie.’

‘Tooth still alive, a connection with Jodie, heading back to Brighton? Bloody hell. That’s a bit of a bombshell, Pat. This has suddenly got very, very interesting. Tell me
more.’

‘We believe he travelled to the UK, using the name Mike Hinton, to recover a memory stick from Jodie.’

Grace remembered DS Batchelor’s report from Tuesday about the poste-restante and internet café at 23A Western Road, Brighton.

I was told by the manager there that a strange guy turned up on the morning of Sunday March 1st, around eleven o’clock, enquiring about Jodie – an American, who was quite bolshy.
He was rude to her, then went away.

‘What more do you have, Pat?’

‘Hinton flew to England the weekend before last. I don’t have any more information at this stage, but I can get you the flight number. I thought you’d want to do some
checking.’

‘Right away, Pat. Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it, pal. We gonna see you and your bride over here anytime soon? Francene and I’ll take you to dinner.’

‘Cleo’s keen to see New York at Christmas.’

‘My favourite time of year in this city! Come over, we’ll go to the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. Then we’ll take you to dinner at the best Italian in the world. OK,
buddy?’

‘If we can, it’s a date!’

Grace hung up then sat, thinking, for some moments. Tooth. So he had survived? And was back here? Under the name of Mike Hinton?

Tooth was suspected of the revenge killing of a lorry driver who had been in a fatal road accident. He was also suspected of murdering the van driver involved. And he had come close to murdering
the young son of another person also in that same accident. Shoreham Harbour had been searched by trained divers who knew the waters, the tides and the currents. Nothing had been found. It was
concluded at the time that it was possible, however unlikely, that Tooth might have survived. And now he was back?