Love You Dead (39 page)

‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

‘All these disappearing acts, Roy,’ Pewe said, his voice sounding more whiney and snide than ever. ‘Jodie Bentley, Dr Crisp and now Mr Tooth. Perhaps you need the help of a
magician to un-disappear them all?’

‘It’s beginning to feel that way, sir,’ Grace said, holding his temper with difficulty.

‘I have to warn you that our new Chief Constable is not impressed. Perhaps you’re becoming too distracted by the latest developments with your missing wife, Sandy? Would you like
some compassionate leave?’

Grace took a moment to gather his thoughts before replying. ‘Sir, with respect, if it hadn’t been for my relationship with Detective Investigator Lanigan of the NYPD we
wouldn’t even know that Tooth was in this country. Crisp was out of our jurisdiction when he absconded from custody. And I believe we are closing the net on Jodie Bentley.’

‘I’m happy for your sanity that you’re having that fantasy, Roy, but I’m less happy for the citizens of this county we’re here to serve and protect. Because at this
moment you’re not serving or protecting them.’

Before Grace could reply he heard a click. The ACC had ended the call.

Roy sat, smarting with anger and said, aloud, ‘You tosser.’

He left his office and walked back through into MIR-1, and stared at the whiteboards, which had been returned from the Conference Room after the 2 p.m. briefing. He looked at the photographs of
Christopher Bentley, Walt Klein, Rollo Carmichael.

Three dead lovers.

Three, at least, that they knew about.

Would she take the bait of number four?

Would he get to her before Tooth did?

What – if anything – was he overlooking? One thing he had not informed Pewe of was the danger to any undercover operative from Tooth. Should he pull the operation on the grounds of
it being too risky?

It was at times like this that he felt lonely. All major crime investigations were teamwork. But the one at the head of the team shouldered the ultimate& responsibility. Decisions& made
by& the Senior Investigating Officer could make the difference between life and death. As so many times before, the buck stopped with him. This dangerous bitch was out there, undoubtedly
planning, scheming. And, if Pat Lanigan was right, so was Tooth. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of thinking how simple it would be to just let Tooth carry right on and take her out. In
his job, moral judgements too often needed to be put to one side. His job was to enforce the law. And however unsavoury the target of a professional hitman in Brighton might be, he could not let
that hit happen.

An email appeared in his inbox that was a salutary reminder of the potential dangers all police officers faced every day, throughout their careers, whether they were front line or off-duty and
acting out of civic responsibility. It was from the Chief Constable’s staff officer.

He checked his diary, knowing it had been pretty much cleared by his assistant for the first crucial weeks of the Operation Spider investigation. Then he typed a reply saying that he would be
honoured to attend, copying in Lesley so she could log it in his diary.

He arrived home shortly after 6 p.m., to be greeted by Humphrey holding a squeaky, furry, toy rodent in his mouth. Cleo was spark-out asleep on the sofa, her Open University
coursework spread out around her, and the nanny was on the floor playing with Noah. Marlon was on his eternal, eager quest around his new tank, in search of what? Grace wondered often. An escape
route? A female mate?

He took the dog for a walk around the neighbourhood, thinking hard, refreshed by the cold evening air. If Tooth really was in town – and he trusted Pat Lanigan’s information, plus
his own possible sighting – where the hell was he? If they could find him, would he lead them to this woman?

He arrived back at the house to the appetizing smell of hot food. Kaitlynn, who had been asked to stay on this evening, was cooking a lasagne that Cleo had left out. He sat on the sofa, eating
it in front of the television, with a glass of red wine, while Cleo continued to sleep beside him. There was a cop drama playing, but he didn’t engage with it. Too often when such shows were
on he found himself shouting at the screen about all the inaccuracies. And this one looked even worse than most. A crime-scene tent had been erected over the body of a dead boy on a beach, who had
seemingly fallen from a cliff. Quite correctly, several SOCOs emerged in their protective clothing. Then the SIO walked out in mackintosh and brogue shoes. Hadn’t anyone on this production
done their basic research? He would never have been allowed inside this crime scene without wearing protective clothing to prevent him from contaminating it.

‘What?’ Grace hissed furiously. ‘You arsehole!’

‘Uh?’ Cleo stirred.

Grace kissed her forehead. ‘Sorry, darling.’

Grace travelled to Worthing to meet the undercover officer and his handler. They had chosen a small discreet café, the Old Bakehouse in Tarring village, well away from
police premises. A stocky, shaven-headed man with grey, neatly trimmed stubble, in an expensive-looking suit and dark glasses, was seated at a table, absorbed in his iPhone. Sitting alongside him
was a slim woman with short, chestnut hair. There were cups and a steaming teapot on the table in front of them.

‘Roy! Good to meet you! I’m DI Kate Tate from the City of London Financial Crimes Unit, and I’ll be acting as the Cover Officer on this operation.’

He shook her hand warmly.

‘And this is UC 2431, Roy,’ Tate continued. ‘Julius Cornel – better known as J. Paul Cornel!’

‘Good to meet you!’ Grace leaned forward and shook his hand.

‘Well, you know, it’s very good to meet you too, Detective Superintendent!’

The man’s accent was deep BBC English, tinged with a mid-Atlantic drawl. Perfect for an Englishman who had spent the past forty years in California. But not quite perfect enough. Grace
stared hard at him in disbelief. Stared at the elegant suit, the tailored white shirt, the silk tie, the shiny black Gucci loafers, the shaven head, the designer stubble. Oh yes, he looked the part
all right. And no doubt he could fool a lot of people.

But he wasn’t fooling him.

Did he blow his cover now or go along with it? He decided, to test him, to go along with it for the moment. ‘Congratulations, Mr Cornel. Great to see a Brit do so well overseas! I’ve
read of your success on the internet, with great admiration.’

‘Well, that’s pretty generous of you, Detective Superintendent. Guess I’ve been lucky, you know. Someone up there likes me! Well, until recently, anyhows.’

‘I was sorry to read about the death of your wife.’

Cornel shrugged. Then, keeping up the accent perfectly, he replied, ‘Jackie and I had thirty-two happy years together. How many couples can say that?’

‘Not many,’ Grace said. He shook his head and grinned and Cornel grinned, too. Both men knew it was game over.

‘Bloody hell!’ Grace said. ‘You’re good, Norman!’

Potting removed his dark glasses, beaming. ‘You think so?’

‘I never knew you were a trained UC.’

‘Have been for years, chief. It’s part of our brief that no one else in the force must ever know. We’re sort of like those sleeper spies in the John le Carré stories.
Never knowing if or when we might be called into service. Tell you the truth, I thought I was past it, entering the sad old gits’ club, and I’d never be called on. Then this opportunity
came along – had to volunteer for it!’

‘Norman’s perfect, you see, Roy,’ Tate said. Then, with exquisite lack of tact, she continued, ‘And of course we can’t allow any UC to have sex with their target,
so Norman will be able to tell her, with only a little white lie, that he has prostate cancer, leaving him impotent.’

‘How does DS Potting feel about that?’ Grace quizzed her. ‘Have you asked?’

‘Let’s hold it here for a moment, Roy, and let Norman speak,’ Tate said, holding up her hand.

‘I’m good, Roy,’ Norman Potting assured him. ‘I’m OK playing along with that. I was the one who actually raised it with Kate.’

‘Norman, I don’t know how well you’ve been briefed, but there’s a couple of things I need to warn you about,’ Grace said. ‘The first is that Jodie Carmichael
is an extremely cunning and manipulative lady. If the information we have so far is correct, she has been responsible for the death of at least three men – and possibly more. The second is
that I have good evidence there may be a contract on her life from a New York-based Russian organized-crime gang. They’ve sent the man we previously knew only as Tooth, who is currently
travelling under different names including John Daniels and Mike Hinton. As you’re well aware, this man is very clever and dangerous. What you are doing may put your life in extreme
jeopardy.’

Potting – and it was hard to accept it was Norman Potting and not the billionaire persona he now had – peered up at him. ‘Roy, you need to understand that the day Bella died,
some part of me died too. I’ve got cancer. If I can do some good things with the rest of my life, then I’ll go out with a smile on my face, whenever that might be. OK?’

Grace smiled at him. Potting was ever the rugged old bugger. ‘OK, Norman. But take care. We’re putting every possible protection in place to look after you.’

‘Won’t need ’em, Roy. I can take care of myself. I’m a survivor!’

‘You’d bloody better be! I want you surviving this bitch and your cancer, OK?’

Potting grinned and then, in the accent he had pitch-perfect, replied, ‘You got it, buddy!’

As Roy Grace sat back down in his office, he was in a quandary. Was he exposing Norman to too much danger?

But if he pulled him from the operation, without doubt someone else would be in danger. The black widow’s next victim. If they got it right, Potting would lead them to this woman, and they
could keep a visual on him and protect him. But he needed that protection.

Grace phoned his ACC and updated him on the latest information, and his concerns.

‘Roy,’ Pewe replied after some moments, ‘you’re the SIO on this case, and you have to make the decisions here, including the cost implications – so long as you
continue to be the SIO.’

As he ended the call, Grace was fuming again.
So long as you continue to be the SIO. Great
, he thought.
Yeah, right
. If it all worked out well, ACC Pewe would take the credit.
And if it all went tits up, Pewe would be dumping the blame squarely at his feet and using it as the excuse he dearly sought to ease him out.

And he knew exactly what Pewe would be thinking at this moment.

Please, God, have Roy Grace screw up.

What was crucial now was connecting Norman Potting with Jodie. That needed very careful handling of the local media. Any inkling that J. Paul Cornel was a set-up and it was game over for that
plan.

But he had to admit to himself, with a wry smile, good old Norman, with a makeover including teeth whitening, made a very convincing elderly billionaire.

Would she take the bait? That was something he would be discussing in detail with Detective Superintendent Nick Sloan, the Force Authorizing Officer, who was managing the operation.

But, more importantly, how did he protect Potting?

The mildly eccentric-looking lady, her face heavily made-up, dressed in a calf-length coat, woollen hat and old-fashioned glasses, looked every inch the elderly bohemian
artist. She hobbled slowly through the door in the white facade of the corner store premises of Lawrence Art Supplies in Hove’s Portland Road, supported by her silver-topped walking
stick.

She made her way to the counter and politely requested a large tub of aluminium powder and a hot-glue gun. She paid for them with an American Express card in the name of Mrs Thelma Darby. Five
minutes later she emerged with her purchases in a carrier bag and approached the waiting taxi. The driver helped her in, passing her the stick and carrier bag after she was seated.

Then, as instructed, he took her to a nearby aquarium store
.
Thelma again asked him to wait, then entered the store. She came out a short while later with two carrier bags, containing
four boxes of oxygenating tablets and a frozen white mouse.

Climbing back into the taxi, she asked the driver to take her to the plumbing supplies store on a nearby industrial estate, where she bought an eighteen-inch length of malleable steel pipe with
screw-ends. Then, as a precaution, she changed taxis and ordered the next one to take her to an electrical store on London Road.

There she bought a mini Arduino relay that was just half an inch across, a mercury tilt switch and an assortment of USB memory sticks. The assistant behind the counter gave her an odd look, as
if wondering how on earth a batty-looking old lady like this even knew what these things were, let alone what to do with them.

Carrying her purchases, she stepped out and turned right, walking along London Road, stopping at a chemist to buy a cold gel-pack, then at a hardware store where she purchased a short length of
heavy-duty insulated wire, a roll of insulating tape and a pair of pliers. She hailed another taxi and instructed the driver to take her to a kitchenware shop in Western Road, where she made her
final purchases of a small set of digital kitchen scales and a coffee grinder.

She then asked the driver to take her to the Jurys Inn Hotel, opposite Brighton Station.

As she made her way across the hotel foyer towards the lifts, leaning on her stick with grim determination, she was looking forward to getting down to work. Her shopping trip was complete and
one hundred per cent satisfactory, no problems at all.