Want You Dead (27 page)

‘Evening. Right, so which is Ms Westwood’s flat?’

Grace and Spofford walked around the corner and down a cobbled alley into a courtyard off the mews, but remained hidden from view from any of the upstairs windows. Spofford pointed at the small mansion block on the north side of the mews. ‘That window on the second floor is her living room.’

Grace stared up. There were lights in some of the other windows, on the other floors, mostly with curtains or blinds drawn. ‘Okay.’ He looked at Ray Packham. ‘How closely can you pinpoint where the photograph of the cartoon was taken?’

He was aware that digital photographs are encoded with the coordinates of the location where they are taken, unless this feature is disabled on cameras and on phone cameras. The cartoon had been photographed and sent as a JPEG, which Packham said was probably the sender’s mistaken attempt to mask its origins, because in doing so it had given him another clue: he had obtained the digital coordinates from it.

‘Within roughly fifty yards in any direction from where we are standing, boss.’

Grace looked up and around at the dark buildings. Fifty yards covered a mansion block to their left as well as the two buildings to their right, and beyond. ‘Can we get more precise, Ray?’

Packham unfolded the Google Earth map he had printed off, and shone a torch beam on it for Grace to see. There was a red circle drawn around one section of it, which encompassed the buildings.

Grace looked up at the buildings pensively. In particular he studied the windows of the block opposite Red’s. He was thinking back to a case that involved a massive police operation two years back, when a female doctor had been stalked by a former lover, who had rented an apartment overlooking hers to spy on her. Had Bryce Laurent done the same? he wondered. It seemed from all he had been told that Bryce Laurent had constant close knowledge of Red Westwood’s activities. And he could have got that only two ways – by either bugging her flat, or keeping it under surveillance. Or both. A flat overlooking hers would make more sense than trying to spy on it from a car.

The team stayed in the shadows, while Grace walked across to the front entrance and looked at the names on the bell panels; several were blank. He pressed the one for Flat 3, marked
R. Fleuve.
Almost immediately he heard a broken English voice. ‘Yes, who is this?’

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir. This is the police. What floor are you on, please?’

‘The second.’

‘How many flats on your floor?’

‘Two, there are two on each floor.’

‘Which way do you face?’

‘Across the mews.’

‘What number is the other flat on your floor?’

‘Four. Do you need to come in?’

‘Thank you.’

There was a click and a rasping sound, and Grace pushed the front door open. He turned and signalled to the three detectives, as well as Spofford and the woman police officer, who were hidden, to follow him. They would normally have used a different ruse to enter the building, but they needed the information about the layouts of the flats as this was all happening in fast time.

Then he entered a musty-smelling, dimly lit corridor, the floor littered with flyers from local home delivery pizza, Chinese and Thai restaurants, walked past two padlocked bicycles and pushed a timer button on the wall at the bottom of a narrow staircase. A weak light came on. He climbed the treads, and as he reached the second floor a door opened to his left. A thin young man, with a flop of fair hair and round tortoiseshell glasses, giving him an intellectual air, peered out. He was dressed in a grubby T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, and was barefoot.

‘Mr Fleuve?’ Grace asked.

‘Oui, yes.’

Grace showed him his warrant card. ‘Can you tell me who lives above you on this side of the building?’

He thought for a moment. ‘There are two – how do you call? – ladies together in Flat 6.’

‘Lezzies?’ prompted Norman Potting.

Grace shot him an irritated look.

‘Yes, I would say so,’ said the Frenchman.

Then Grace asked, ‘Can you tell me who lives in Flat 5?’

‘I don’t see him very much. A man; I think he is on his own. He seems to be away a lot.’

‘And above him?’

‘Quite an old couple – they are Turkish. And also in Flat 8 is a single lady in her thirties; she works for American Express. She’s very nice.’

Grace pulled out his iPhone and showed him a photograph of Bryce Laurent. ‘Might this be the man in Flat 5?’

He nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, that is him.’

‘Flat 5, you are sure?’

‘I think so. Flat 5.’

Grace thanked him, then almost sprinted up the stairs, followed by the others, and rapped hard on the door. Two Local Support Team officers, heavily equipped and wearing visors, stood beside him.

There was no answer.

Grace considered his options. He could force an entry now, but his gut feeling was that Bryce Laurent wasn’t in the flat. He decided watching and waiting was his best option. Then he radioed the control centre to find out who was the on-call magistrate. It was Juliet Smith, who lived locally. He dispatched Norman Potting to obtain a search warrant. Then, using a paper wedge to keep the front door open, they returned to their vehicles and kept watch on the building, in the hope that Bryce Laurent returned.

It was 8.30 p.m. when Norman Potting came back, triumphantly waving the signed warrant. Grace went over to the van and briefed the Local Support Team. They clambered out, in their blue suits and body armour, one holding the bosher – or the ‘big yellow key’ as it was called – and another the hydraulic door ram, for stretching the frame on reinforced doors.

Then with two of the members of the LST dispatched to cover the rear fire escape exit of the building, Roy Grace, followed by the others, climbed the staircase behind the other six LST members.

The woman leader of the team rapped hard on the door. ‘Mr Laurent, are you in?’ she shouted.

As expected, there was no answer.

She stepped aside and a male colleague, gripping the heavy steel

battering ram with both hands, turned to his colleagues. Then, bellowing, ‘POLICE!’ he swung it back, before hurling it with full force at the door lock. With a loud
blam
and a splintering sound, the door flew open. They all burst in, again shouting, ‘POLICE! POLICE!’ and criss-crossing the darkness with powerful flashlight beams.

Roy Grace, following behind, found a light switch and pressed it.

A bulb, shaded by a paper globe, came on. It revealed a completely empty and almost totally bare room, with cheap-looking, closed curtains. There was an old wheeled typist’s chair, a small desk, and one wall was riddled with holes, as if shelves or brackets had been removed. A small breakfast bar led off from the kitchen, which comprised of a sink, work surface, fridge, gas oven and hob, and an ancient microwave, all immaculately clean.

Grace pulled on gloves, then opened the fridge door. The interior was bare. Nothing there at all. ‘Shit,’ he said.

Even the interior had been cleaned, spotlessly.

He went back out into the living area, and pulled open a shuttered door to reveal a small bedroom, almost filled by a double bed. All the bedding had been removed, leaving a bare, lumpy-looking mattress.

His heart sinking, he went back into the living area, and peered out through a chink in the curtains. One floor below, across the mews and courtyard, he saw Red Westwood pacing around, cigarette and glass of white wine in her hand, talking to someone on the phone.

Who?

70

Thursday, 31 October

Paul Millet, seated at his desk in the Strawberry Fields guest house, knew exactly who. Red’s bitch best friend, Raquel Evans.

He was forced to listen to that bitch, Raquel, dishing the dirt on him. All her pent-up feelings about how much she had disliked him the first time they’d met. Disliked him from the get-go.

Really?

So why did you put your arm around me, Raquel, and tell me how good I was for Red? How happy I made her feel?

You damned bitch.

He listened through a microphone he had left behind that they would never find, as Detective Superintendent Roy Grace ordered a forensic team to take the flat apart. There had to be some evidence that Bryce Laurent had been here, he demanded. A fingerprint. A clothing fibre. DNA.

But you won’t find anything, Detective Superintendent. I’m always going to be one step ahead of you. Trust me!

Soon after 9 p.m., the voice he recognized as belonging to the black Detective Inspector Glenn Branson said, ‘Okay, old timer, we are out of here. Your stag night is now officially beginning. Guy Batchelor, Bella Moy, and all the rest are waiting for you at Bohemia.’

‘I’m honestly not in the mood for partying,’ Roy Grace replied.

‘You think you have an option? Forget it.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Saturday you are marrying the woman of your dreams. Remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘So, chill!’

‘I wasn’t planning to be running a murder enquiry.’

Branson smiled. ‘Didn’t John Lennon say that life is what happens to you when you are busy making other plans?’

‘Something like that.’

‘So don’t let it.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’m serious. I can run this enquiry until you are back.’

Quietly, so the others couldn’t hear, Grace said, ‘Am I mistaken, or are you a bit sweet on Ms Westwood?’

Branson looked coy suddenly. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘The way you were looking at her in our interview with her.’

‘She’s nice to look at.’

Grace grinned. He was still grinning as he went back down the stairs, followed by Branson, but then stopped as he walked through the front door to find his path blocked by an attractive fair-haired woman with a reporter’s notepad.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace? I’m Siobhan Sheldrake from the
Argus
. I wonder if you could tell me about this operation here?’

Grace thought for a moment, then the grin returned. ‘This is my colleague, DI Branson. He’ll talk to you.’

Then he stepped aside and watched his friend bumble his way through answers to her questions. But in the end he managed to get the right message across. Help from the public was urgently needed to find Bryce Laurent. Full details would be given out at a press conference in the morning. It would be helpful if the paper published his photograph, his name and known aliases, the incident room number and the anonymous Crimestoppers number.

When he had finished and they climbed back into the car, Glenn Branson turned to Grace and said, ‘Right, we’re off duty. We’re now going to take you out and get you nicely pissed.’

Grace decided not to argue. There was nothing he and his immediate team could do now and they could all start again early in the morning. And in truth, he could use a drink; he was starting to feel nervous about the wedding. He loved Cleo very deeply, but felt he was coming to it with so much unresolved baggage. It seemed to him that however happy you might be in life, there was always going to be a dark cloud hovering somewhere above you. And he was scared that the incredible happiness he felt, and had felt for many months with Cleo and now with his son, might too be damaged by something.

71

It all seemed surreal, Roy Grace thought, as he stood next to Glenn Branson outside the entrance porch of Rottingdean church. The bells were ringing loudly above them, and the early afternoon sun was blazing down from a brilliant blue sky, feeling as hot as if it was a summer’s day, not late autumn. It was as though someone had turned up a rheostat, making everything feel more intense. Even the flint walls of the Saxon church itself seemed to be glistening with light. Its golden clock shone in the sunlight like an orb. And Grace was trembling with excitement.

Both of them were dressed in top hats and grey morning suits, as the guests streamed up the asphalt path through the graveyard, couples and singles, nodding greetings and then entering the church, and being handed Order of Service sheets by the two ushers, Guy Batchelor and Norman Potting, also in morning suits. ‘Bride or groom?’ Grace heard each of them asking.

He did not recognize half the guests – family and friends of Cleo. There seemed an impossible number of people attending. Surely they had not invited all of these? He felt a stab of panic over whether they would all fit inside.

Glenn gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘You bearing up, old timer?’

‘Yep.’ Grace gave him a nervous smile. Shit, he was shaking all over.

‘Feels like we’re on the set of
Four Weddings and a Funeral
,’ Branson said.

‘We can do without the funeral,’ he replied with a grin, glad of his mate’s support.

Suddenly the Chief Constable, Tom Martinson, resplendent in his dress uniform, and his elegant wife, her outfit topped with an asymmetric grey straw hat with a short veil, were standing right in front of him. Martinson shook his hand. ‘Congratulations, Roy. Big day! You’ve got the weather for it – the gods must be smiling on you!’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ Then he turned to Mrs Martinson. ‘That’s a wonderful outfit, if I may say so!’

Then ACC Rigg, in tails, accompanied by his taller, blonde wife, appeared. ‘Good stuff, Roy,’ he said chirpily. ‘Got a glorious day for it!’ Then he smiled at Glenn Branson. ‘So you’re minding the shop for the next week.’

‘I am, sir, yes. I’m sorry that you’re leaving, but congratulations on your promotion.’

‘Well, thank you. I’m sure that ACC Cassian Pewe will prove himself very able,’ he replied, studiously avoiding Roy’s eyes.

Grace’s brand-new white shirt, which Glenn had chosen for him from a shop in the Lanes, felt stiff and uncomfortable, and he cursed himself for not having worn it a couple of times already to soften it a little.

After a few minutes, during which several male and female police officers and support staff who he was sure he had not invited, filed past, each of them thanking him for their invite, Glenn put an arm around his shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. ‘Your bride’ll be here in a minute. Time to rock ’n’ roll.’