Love You Dead (45 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.’

He dressed, pulled on a warm coat, made himself a quick espresso and calmed Humphrey, who seemed to think it was morning. He wiped the mist off the Alfa’s windows, started the engine and
drove fast towards Brighton.

Fifteen minutes later he turned into Roedean Crescent and slowed, looking at the house numbers in the dark street. The odd numbers were on the left-hand side. He put the window down and shone
his torch, driving slowly, passing a few parked cars with misted windows, indicating they had been there for some while, until he reached No. 191. He carried on. A cat shot across the road a short
distance in front of him.

He cruised the area, turning down all the side streets, looking for any suspicious vehicle where Tooth might be lurking. Although it was quite possible that the hitman was having the same
difficulties as they’d had in locating Jodie Carmichael’s real residence, until Potting had established it. He drove back along Roedean Crescent, halted a good hundred yards from the
entrance to the drive, switched his lights off, climbed out and walked back.

In case Jodie had night vision CCTV cameras, something he wouldn’t have put past her, considering her form, he just ambled slowly past like any man out taking a late stroll, glancing down
the driveway as he passed. He could see the silhouette of the house directly below, which appeared to be in complete darkness. Norman Potting was in there, somewhere, asleep, according to the
latest update.

Grace crossed the road, and walked back along the other side, barely glancing at the driveway this time, then crossed over again and got back into his car, still looking around and thinking,
wondering. Just what was going on in that house right now?

According to the duty handler, who was listening to every word that was exchanged between Potting and Jodie Carmichael, not much. Potting had gone to bed. Alone.

He looked at his watch. It was coming up to 1 a.m. Despite the espresso he felt leaden, and thought back to Cleo’s words, that he’d be no use to Norman if he was too tired. He felt
exhausted.

He drove home.

Jodie, wide awake, sat up in bed staring at her laptop, her room lit only by the dimmed headboard spots and the glow from her screen. For the past hour she’d been saving
the few photographs of Cornel that she could find on Google and on other search engines onto her computer, as well as all the photographs she could find of Detective Sergeant Norman Potting.

When she had finished, she double-clicked on one image of Cornel. A window appeared, with a request for her to enter his name. She did so and instantly all seven newspaper and online photographs
of Norman Potting showed up as a potential match, each with a blue tick against them, giving her the opportunity to confirm or reject any.

She stared at the faces. The computer confirmed her increasing suspicions that they were a match. That J. Paul Cornel and Detective Sergeant Norman Potting were the same person. But how the hell
could they be? Cornel had a long history on the internet, a trail of stuff going back twenty years or more. Were there just uncanny facial similarities between the two men?

I lost my soulmate in a house fire.

Was Cornel perhaps talking about a girlfriend way back in the past who had died?