Love You Dead (44 page)

For the cost of a taxi, it wasn’t worth the risk, she decided. She went back into the house and called Streamline.

Tooth watched her in impotent fury. Testing her breath? Over the goddam alcohol limit? Ordering a taxi? You bitch! Think you are being clever? I’ll show you what
clever
is.
Get back in that goddam car!

Tooth had to wait nearly four hours for Jodie Carmichael to return. The neighbourhood was quiet. A few cars pulled out from driveways and returned a while later. He saw a man
emerge in Lycra, on a racing bike, and pedal off. A red post van stopped at each of the houses in turn, the driver keying in gate codes and then running in with the day’s mail. Around 11 a.m.
he saw a vehicle that didn’t fit, an old, beat-up-looking Volkswagen Golf driving slowly, the driver wearing a baseball cap low over his face.

With a stab of anxiety he wondered, for a moment, if it was an undercover police surveillance officer. But from the slow speed the car was travelling at, and the way he drove past his car
without paying him any attention, he ruled that out. A burglar casing the area? he wondered.

Finally, shortly before 11.30 a.m., a taxi pulled up at the top of Jodie’s drive. When she emerged, holding several grocery store bags, he noticed she’d had her hair done. Tooth
followed her on the cameras as she entered the house. She emptied the bags, putting most of the stuff, including a bottle of champagne and a bottle of wine, into the fridge, then went up to the
bedroom, dialled and ordered another taxi for 12.15 p.m. Then she began to take off her clothes.

Another taxi?

Drive your car, lady, drive your goddam car!

How long was he going to have to wait here before she drove anywhere?

Seething with anger and frustration, he watched her slip off her underwear. At least she was giving him a show. She had a good body. He’d had no sex for weeks and he was starting to feel
aroused. Long, slender legs, a flat stomach, large but firm breasts.

She sat down naked, provocatively, theatrically, in front of her white dressing table. She was behaving almost as if aware she had an audience, and was deliberately flaunting herself.

His arousal was deepening. Rays of sunshine lay across her white flesh. He looked at his watch. 11.40 a.m. The last flight today out of this freezing shithole country and back to the US was in
just under five hours. If he left soon he could make that flight. He could slip in through the front door now, up the stairs, fuck her, break her neck and be gone in ten minutes. In plenty of time
to make the flight.

The bang on his window sounded like a gunshot.

He turned his head, startled, his body instantly coiled for action, his laptop sliding on his dress and wedging against the steering wheel.

Peering in through the window he saw a severe-looking elderly lady in a tweed coat and a Tyrolean hat. He snapped shut the computer lid and hit the button to lower the window. She leaned in and
said in a booming voice, ‘I’ve seen you’ve been here for a while. You haven’t noticed a small black and white dog – with pointy ears – have you?’

Tooth, gathering his composure, gave a sweet, Thelma Darby old-lady smile and shook her head.

‘His name’s Bonzo and he’s a rascal. Just a puppy, you see. Must have got out of the hole in our fence – I’ve been on at my husband to fix it for ages.’ The
woman was looking at him oddly. Had he missed something with his make-up,? he wondered.

He gave her another sweet Thelma Darby smile.

‘No, well, thanks anyway!’ she said.

As he raised the window, there was another sudden sharp rap on it. He lowered it once more and she peered in again. ‘By the way, I’m the local Neighbourhood Watch coordinator.
I’ve had a few calls from people who have noticed you. It’s a free world, of course, but we like to keep an eye on strangers. Just so you know.’

She walked on. As he raised the window once more he heard her call out, loudly, ‘Bonzo! Bonzo! Come along! Bonzo!’

Angry at himself for being so careless, for not noticing her approaching and allowing himself to be startled like that, Tooth started the car and drove for several minutes before stopping again,
this time in a lay-by on the main seafront road. He was angry that he’d fucked up.

He didn’t do fuck-ups.

A few minutes after the time they had agreed, 12.30 p.m., Jodie Carmichael stepped out of her taxi in front of the Grand Hotel into the bright sunshine and strong breeze.

She had been back home for less than an hour. It had given her time to shower and dress appropriately for a tour of Brighton with, potentially, her next victim, and she was in a good mood. Her
hang-over was gone after the workout in the gym, shopping for dinner tonight was complete and her worries about Silas were temporarily parked. Her hair had been done exactly as she liked it, her
fingernails and toenails were manicured and varnished, and she was dressed elegantly in a leopard-skin coat over a grey sweater, leggings and high-heeled ankle boots. She looked great, she knew.
She’d decided not to drive as she had a feeling that lunch and the afternoon with J. Paul Cornel might well involve more alcohol.

‘Wow!’ he said, striding along the lobby towards her. ‘Wow!’

She smiled and stared into his eyes. ‘And right back at you!’

He was dressed in a mandarin-collared black shirt, buttoned up to the neck, a beautifully tailored charcoal suit and expensive-looking black loafers.

‘I think I just won the lottery!’ he said.

She grinned. ‘Me too.’

‘I thought we’d have a light lunch here – I’ve a bottle of Moët on ice and two lobster salads up in my suite. How does that sound?’

‘That sounds rather lovely,’ she replied with a warm smile. ‘You wouldn’t be planning to seduce me by any chance, would you?’

‘If my old wedding tackle was up to it, absolutely I would be doing just that, my dear. But I’m afraid my days of seduction are long behind me. So you are in safe hands!’

‘Isn’t that just too bad?’ She grinned. ‘But I’m sure there are other ways.’

An hour and a half later the silver Bentley threaded its way through the network of hilly, narrow residential streets. Brighton’s Whitehawk Estate, on the north-east of
the city, lined with post-war semis and bungalows, had some fine views to the south and east.

Jodie and Paul lounged back in the rear seats, her right arm linked inside his.

‘So this is where you grew up?’ she asked.

‘Yep, it was pretty rough back then,’ he drawled. ‘There were plenty of good, decent folk living here, like my mother. But it was a haven for villains in those days, too, in
the fifties. Cops wouldn’t leave a car unattended here, because if they did, they’d find it jacked up on blocks with its wheels stolen!’

‘But it looks nice now,’ she said.

‘Uh-huh.’ He was peering intently through the window. ‘Make a right here, please, driver,’ he said. Then a few moments later he said, ‘If I’m right –
and it was a long time back – make a second left.’

‘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?’

‘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.’