Want You Dead (25 page)

Her parents were on that boat. They might irritate her at times, but she loved them dearly, and was far closer to them than she was to her sister. They were, effectively, all she had in the world. And now they were on board a floating bomb – if indeed they were still alive – and unaware.

Shit. She felt a wrench in her heart. This was all her fault. She’d brought this monster into her family, and he was now destroying them. If only she’d never placed that damned advertisement. If only she had listened to her mother sooner, and never let the relationship with Bryce get as far as it had. Rain lashed the pavement outside. So much for the forecast being good for their sail, she thought, watching an old lady with a wheeled shopping cart, encased in a see-through plastic mac, head bowed beneath a red umbrella, walking grimly past.

You sick bloody bastard, Bryce,
she thought to herself as she peeled off her coat and sat down at her desk. She had a stack of particulars on new instructions to mail out to clients, and she had an appointment to go out later this morning to measure up a new property, a small flat in Poet’s Corner that was coming on the market. Two viewings this afternoon. But she was in no mood to do anything. She just wanted to sit and wait for her phone to ring. For news from Constable Spofford.

As soon as she was out of the meeting, she logged on and checked her email, scanning through and deleting the endless stream of spam that, as ever, had got through the company’s filters and checking for anything that might be from Bryce. To her small relief, there was nothing from him. But really all she could think about was her parents.

Her parents. Her lovely mum and sweet old dad. A hazard to shipping? Just by doing what they loved. Enjoying their retirement.

A floating bomb?

Suddenly, she rushed out of the room, into the ladies’ toilet, pushed the door shut, shoved up the seat, and vomited violently into the bowl. Then she stood up, rinsed out her mouth in the basin, splashed cold water on her face, dried it, then headed back to her desk and rummaged in her bag for some chewing gum. As she did so, her mobile phone rang.

‘Yes?’ she answered instantly, and almost breathlessly.

It was Constable Spofford, and he was sounding sombre. ‘Red, I’ve just heard from DI Branson that your parents’ yacht has been found and its identity confirmed.’

‘Fantastic!’ she said, relief washing through her.

‘Well,’ he said, not sounding as if he shared any of her enthusiasm, ‘I’m afraid there’s a problem.’

63

Thursday, 31 October

The Strawberry Fields bed and breakfast was a narrow, bow-fronted Regency building in a terraced square, with communal gardens in the centre, off the Kemp Town seafront. There was a sign beside the bright red front door bearing a picture of a large strawberry, and inside the theme of vivid red and white ran through the communal areas and each of the small, elegant bedrooms.

Most of the guests were overnighters or weekenders. Either discerning tourists on a budget, who wanted something a cut above the traditional seaside bed and breakfast joint, or lovers down in Brighton for a romantic – and frequently illicit – night; there was also a regular stream of honeymoon couples. But there were a few regulars and a handful of long-stay guests, mostly business people, and these were popular with the owners, Jeremy Ogden and Sharon Callaghan, particularly the ones who remained during the thin winter months. And the longest-stay guest of all, the reclusive Paul Millet, had been there for over four months.

Mr Millet – he kept things on a strictly formal basis – came and went at all hours. Sometimes he stayed in his room for days without emerging. On other occasions he would be away for days, and sometimes weeks. But he was punctilious about his payments – always a month in advance. Neither of the owners, nor the Strawberry Fields manager, knew anything about their mysterious but pleasant-natured guest, other than what they saw. They saw a good-looking man in his late thirties, tall, with short black gelled hair, who could have passed as George Clooney’s younger brother. He dressed expensively, greeted any of them with a big smile, displaying flawless white teeth, but never engaged in any conversation. And unlike some of their other single guests, to their knowledge, he had never brought anyone home for a night. One thing was for sure, he was obsessively tidy, making his own bed and washing up his mug and glass each day.

They assumed he was conducting business of some kind in the town – whether legitimate or otherwise, they had no idea, but so long as he continued to be polite, to keep his room immaculately tidy, and to pay, they were not unduly concerned. Brighton was Brighton. They’d seen it all in the years they’d owned this place and, to date, he’d done nothing to alarm them.

He was here today, closeted silently in his room, as normal.

Paul Millet sat at the small desk, the horizontal slats of the Venetian blind making him invisible to anyone outside. But from behind them, he had a clear view across the lawn in the centre of the square and down towards the grey water of the English Channel.

Red’s parents were on that yacht. Mr and Mrs Westwood. Jeremy and Camilla.
Boom!

He grinned.
Stand on the riverbank for long enough and the bodies of all your enemies will float past.
Oh yes, Sun Tzu, that old Chinese warrior, knew a thing or two. Well, this wasn’t exactly a riverbank but it was the next best thing.

Boom!

He grinned, then peered out and down through the slats again. Checking the street directly below him, he had a clear view of anyone who might enter the front door. He had his escape route planned months ago, the day he had first arrived and gone exploring. Up the back staircase, out through the roof hatch, and down the fire escape to the rear of the building.

On the wooden table to his right was a cute little vanity suitcase, printed with strawberries, the lid open, the interior containing two mugs with cupcakes as a motif, an assortment of teabags and coffee sachets, sugar, sweeteners. It was 9.30 a.m. He stood up, filled the jug kettle and then switched it on. As it heated up, he sat back at the desk and opened an email that had just come in from the private detective agency he had engaged. It had been necessary to do this, because there was too much going on now for him to keep track of it all. And he did not want to miss a thing.

No way. Not on such a glorious day as this! It might be overcast outside today, but not in his heart! Today his heart was filled with sunshine. And hang the cost of the agency. What did money matter? In these last few days of his life? Hell, you couldn’t take it with you, so you might as well spend, spend, spend. Have a good time. Enjoy!

Boom!

08.33: Subject leaves property on foot and turns left up Westbourne Terrace towards New Church Road.

08.41: Subject turns right, east, onto New Church Road, south side.

08.53: Subject crosses road and enters Tesco superstore. Purchases a tuna sandwich and an apple, paying £4.10 in cash.

09.03: Subject crosses road and enters offices of estate agents Mishon Mackay.

Paul Millet smiled.
Just an ordinary day, babe. But not so ordinary, hey?

He listened, through his headset, hearing the anxiety in her voice. And he liked that. Oh yes, he liked that a lot!

‘A problem?’ he heard Red ask.

‘A Coastguard helicopter has made radio contact with your parents.’

‘They’re okay? They’re safe?’

‘We’ve located them, Red, but we have a problem getting them off the boat. Because of the risk of an explosion, the helicopter cannot get permission to hover overhead to lower a winch. They need your parents to abandon the boat either in a life raft, or to jump overboard and swim clear, then they can winch them to safety. So far they’re refusing to do either. They are not sure whether your parents are being stubborn or are just too scared.’

‘My mother’s always been scared of water – particularly the sea,’ Red replied. ‘Shit.’

‘But she sails?’ Spofford said.

‘Because my dad loves it, she goes along with it. She always has done.’

‘Red,’ Spofford said, his voice deadly serious. ‘They might die if they stay on the boat. Would she listen to you?’

Red was silent, trying to imagine the scenario. Her parents on the yacht, the helicopter hovering close by. ‘She’s going to bloody have to,’ she said.

Moments later, through a crackly ship-to-shore radio link, Paul Millet heard her mother’s hateful voice. He grinned again.

Boom!

64

Thursday, 31 October

She paid the taxi driver the fare from Heathrow Airport, gave him a generous tip, and climbed out onto the pavement, followed by her ten-year-old son who was neatly dressed in a herringbone overcoat. The driver removed her large overnight bag and her son’s backpack from the boot, carried them to the foot of the steps up to the front door, and asked her if she needed help up the steps with them. But she told him she was fine, and he drove off.

In truth, she needed some moments to adjust to being back here. She breathed in the smell of the sea air, and so many memories flooded in. She felt a tug inside her heart. Her son pulled on her arm. ‘Mama!’ He pointed at a seagull hovering only yards above them. She smiled distantly, then closed her eyes, listening to the cry of the gull and the roar of the traffic.

She was an attractive woman in her late thirties, the fringe of her short black hair visible beneath her peaked leather cap, the collar of her coat turned up, and her eyes concealed behind fashionably large dark glasses, which she was wearing despite the grey morning. Then she opened her eyes again. There was a black railing balustrade to her left, attractive black metal coach lamps, and a large red strawberry on a white background was fixed to the wall like an old-fashioned pub sign. She couldn’t see the actual name of the guest house, but this had to be it, she thought, and she liked the elegant look of the place.

She hauled her bag up the steps, pushed the door open, and, followed by her son lugging his backpack, continued through a white door which had a black-and-white sign on it saying
Vacancies,
and then on up the steep, red-carpeted stair treads to the reception desk, hearing the
thump-thump-thump
of her son’s bag behind her. A pleasant-looking young woman in a pink blouse greeted them both with a warm smile. ‘Hello, do you have a reservation?’

‘We do.’

‘And what name would that be under?’

‘Lohmann,’ the woman said.

The receptionist frowned, fingering her way down a printed list. ‘Ah, yes! Frau Lohmann and your son, yes?’

‘Ja.’ After so many years, she responded in German instinctively.

The reception manager handed her the registration book. ‘If you could just fill this in and sign it, please.’

The woman studied the required information. First name. Last name.

In the first-name column she wrote,
Sandy.

65

Thursday, 31 October

I’ve caused this
, was all Red kept thinking, despondently, as she sat in the back of the marked police car beside Detective Inspector Branson. It was being driven at high speed by Tony Omotoso, an officer from the Road Policing Unit, siren wailing, bullying his way through the heavy traffic along past Shoreham Harbour. Branson had assured her the best way to remain covert was to be in a marked car, because no one took much notice of a marked police car travelling on blues and twos.

‘Good news that they’re safe, yeah?’ Glenn Branson said to her.

She nodded gloomily. But the cheery nature of the burly black detective comforted her a little.

‘With luck they won’t have to blow the yacht up. The Navy have a ship close by keeping all shipping well away from it. Your ex will have calculated the voyage time to be around six hours. So if it gets past twelve hours without a bomb detonating, they may take a view on it and put a line on it to tow it somewhere safe where they can keep an eye on it for a couple of days, and then board to check it. Might all just be a hoax, mightn’t it?’

She nodded, but privately did not think so. Bryce delighted in scaring her, but his threats were rarely idle. It was more likely that something had gone wrong with the timer or detonator. She looked at the detective; he made her feel safe, as if nothing bad could happen to her or her family in his presence. ‘They love the boat so much. It’s been part of our family life for as long as I can remember. That and gardening are the two passions my parents have.’

‘You know what I think?’ he said.

‘No?’ She held her breath as they overtook a line of traffic, heading straight towards a massive oncoming tanker. Their driver seemed totally oblivious to its presence, as if somehow the car’s siren gave them immunity to death. They squeezed through a gap that simply wasn’t there, and she breathed again. Then he pulled back out into the oncoming traffic. She was dimly aware of the power station stack to her left, across the harbour, then the locks, and a row of warehouses. Massive white refinery tanks. Then they were in Shoreham, blasting through a red temporary roadworks light, cars swerving to get out of their way.

They reached a roundabout where Shoreham’s Ropetackle Arts Centre was sited, and she remembered past visits there to talks and to a Sunday morning jazz concert given by Herbie Flowers that Bryce had taken her to in happier times. A minute later they were racing under the tunnel into Shoreham Airport. As they emerged on the far side, passing a row of warehouses and hangars, Red saw a massive red and white liveried helicopter descending.

‘That looks like them!’ Branson said.

A few hundred yards further, the driver veered the car off the narrow road and pulled up. From a distance, they watched the helicopter touch down, its rotors still spinning, its doors closed. After what seemed an eternity, a rear door opened and a gangway lowered. Then she saw her father’s face, above a bulky red lifejacket. But he wasn’t looking relieved.