‘Lucius Orji,’ the man said, with some reluctance.

  Hastings came round, stood behind the man and frisked him thoroughly. Then he jerked his arms down behind his back and snapped on handcuffs, as Riley peered carefully into the empty rear of the car.

  ‘Where’s Jules de Copeland?’ Riley demanded as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the support van followed by the second ARV approaching at speed.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jules de Copeland. Don’t try playing innocent. Did he send you?’

  ‘I don’t know any Jules de Copeland.’

  ‘No? So what are you doing here? Taking a drive in the country? Admiring the autumn colours?’

  Lucius Orji nodded. ‘Yeah, just taking a drive – must have took a wrong turning.’

  From the look in the man’s eyes, Riley knew he was lying. ‘Are you sure? It wasn’t Jules de Copeland who asked you to come here tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know no one of that name,’ he said, sounding angry and insolent.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  The van and the car pulled up behind them. The support officers, also guns in hand, got out of the van. Two ARV officers, in vizors and full body armour, jumped out of the car, brandishing Heckler and Koch sub-machine guns, further covering the handcuffed man.

  Riley conferred with the support officers, who then began searching the Mercedes. Glancing around, he suddenly saw that the driverless Southern Water van was rocking. He sprinted towards it.

  125

  Friday 12 October

  Jules de Copeland, for once in many years not wearing red shoes, stood in the woods, shielded by a tree, a short distance to the west of Primrose Farm Cottage, watching the unfolding events, the empty suitcase by his side. His car, which he had rented from a company twenty miles from Gatwick Airport, was concealed up a forest track fifteen minutes’ trek through the woods from here.

  Good man, Lucius!

  His most trusted senior employee had done exactly what he had planned – to flush out any cops that might be watching the house and distract them.

  Keep it going!

  Copeland was dressed, head to foot, in dark camouflage gear, black boots and a black balaclava over his head. For the past half-hour he’d worked his way steadily through the dense woods and even denser undergrowth. He was feeling pleased, and not a little smug, that his plan had worked out. The police officers he had suspected might be watching the house were now all occupied out front.

  Through a downstairs window he could see a woman, standing alone, looking out at the commotion. Dressed to kill.

  Lynda Merrill.

  With the £300,000 in cash for him!

  He had to trust that Lucius Orji would hold his nerve and stick to the script.

  Out of sight from everyone at the front of the house, a hunting knife in his hand, he sprinted the hundred yards to the flimsy-looking side door. Not wanting to take a chance on whether or not it was locked, he hurled his full weight against it, splintering it open and stumbling in.

  The woman spun towards him, shock and fear and bewilderment in her eyes. ‘Lynda! I have a message from your darling Richie!’ he said, reaching her in two fast steps and holding the blade out of sight. ‘Don’t be scared, my love. Just get the money, quick, quick, quick, and let’s go!’ He knelt and clicked open the suitcase. ‘Quick!’

  She pointed at a cupboard under the stairs. ‘It’s in there.’

  ‘Get it! I’m taking you away to Richie! He is waiting! Quick, quick!’

  Calmly, she walked over to the cupboard, opened the door and knelt. As she did, he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Freeze, you scammer bastard!’

  He spun round.

  A silver-haired man in his late fifties had appeared from seemingly nowhere, with a gun in his hand.

  Copeland’s mind went into overdrive.

  Had he walked, dumbly, into a trap? ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘You should know me, you and your friends have relieved me of over £400,000,’ Fordwater replied.

  Copeland looked at him, patronizingly. ‘Put the gun down, I’m sure we can sort something out.’

  ‘Really?’

  Suddenly, the old guy raised his aim, away from him, at something behind him.

  Copeland turned. He saw a short man, halfway down the stairs, crouched, holding a handgun in a double-grip, aiming straight at him. Then he heard what sounded like a gunshot from behind him. A chunk of plaster flew out of the wall beside the short man’s head. Followed by another gunshot. This time the man was flung backwards. Then another shot and he tumbled down the staircase, head first, spurting blood from his shoulder.

  Copeland, frozen in panic like a rabbit in headlights, smelled the pungent reek of cordite.

  Tooth disorientated, his brain swirling, aimed through the banisters and fired at Copeland. The bullet hit his thigh, sending him reeling back. Tooth fired again and the bullet went wide. Saw the blurry shape of the silver-haired man standing on the far side of the kitchen, aiming at him. Tooth fired again. Missed.

  Then all hell broke loose as the front door caved in, and with the warning shouts, ‘ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, DROP YOUR WEAPONS!’, he saw two vizored officers, sub-machine guns in hand, crash into the room, sweeping in every direction with their guns. They were followed by more officers wearing baseball hats marked, SUSSEX POLICE.

  It seemed to him, for an instant, that the pause button on a video had been pressed. The silver-haired guy dropped his gun. The woman and Copeland both froze. For an instant.

  Giving him the chance to finish his task. Against all his training, which was to shoot at the body because that made a bigger target, he aimed at the balaclava. He wanted to bring that big bastard down with a headshot. Finish the job he’d come here to do. Finish his career with one final success. It seemed, in this moment, that he had all the time in the world.

  ‘DROP YOUR GUN!’ someone shouted.

  Tooth fired. Shit. Fabric and blood flew from Copeland’s left arm and he lurched back. Instantaneously Tooth saw muzzle flashes in the periphery of his vision and heard a volley of shots. In the same instant, it seemed, he was kicked in the chest by what felt like the boots of an entire football team, slamming him back against the wall.

  The gun fell from his hand.

  His vision blurred. Light faded from his eyes as if a dimmer switch was being turned.

  He saw Yossarian. He was sitting on the prow of Long Shot as they skimmed across the azure Caribbean Sea, heading out of Turtle Cove Marina on Providenciales Island for a day of deep-sea fishing. Hoping his master might catch a yellowtail snapper or some other tasty morsel which he might throw his way.

  But the sun was already setting and he hadn’t yet put out his lines.

  Yossarian stared at him with disappointment showing in his two different-coloured eyes. Stared at him as the sun set and darkness fell.

  Tooth tried to mouth the word, ‘Sorry’. But the darkness struck first.

  126

  Friday 12 October

  Jules de Copeland, his thigh and arm stinging in agonizing pain, looked around, bewildered.

  Someone took hold of him, restraining his arms behind his back.

  He heard a voice radioing urgently for an ambulance. And overhead the thwock-thwock-thwock of a helicopter.

  Then a man in camouflage fatigues, wearing a helmet covered in netting with bits of greenery intertwined, faced him. ‘Tunde Oganjimi, alias Jules de Copeland, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Susan Adele Driver in Brighton and on suspicion of causing grievous bodily harm with intent to Toby Seward in Brighton. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?’

  Copeland grimaced in pain at him. ‘Can you and I talk in private for a moment, officer?’

  Lewis Hastings made a pretend show of switching off his radio’s microphone. ‘OK, we’re private now.’

  ‘I need more private than this.’

  Hastings looked around. The silver-haired man was handcuffed and covered by one police officer with an automatic pistol. Another was standing, protectively, by the scared-looking woman.

  ‘This is as private as it’s going to get, OK?’

  Copeland leaned forward and whispered into Hastings’s ear. ‘I’m a very rich man, officer. Name your price.’

  Hastings looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Mr Copeland, my price is beyond anything you can afford or ever will be able to afford. It’s called morality. That’s probably not a word in your limited lexicon.’

  127

  Friday 12 October

  Roy Grace, sitting in his car outside Primrose Farm Cottage, surrounded by police vehicles, two ambulances and the Coroner’s van, called Jack Roberts as he had promised.

  ‘Your clients are both safe,’ he informed him. ‘Major Fordwater has been arrested for illegal possession of a firearm and may face more serious charges. Copeland is currently in an ambulance, under arrest, being treated for gunshot wounds.’ He said nothing about the dead American contract killer.

  ‘That’s good to hear, Detective Superintendent,’ Roberts said. ‘I appreciate your updating me.’

  ‘There’s quite a lot to take in at this moment, as I’m sure you can understand, Mr Roberts,’ Grace continued. ‘But from what I know so far, I would say you’ve sailed pretty close to the wind. Fortunately we’ve had a result. It could have been a very different outcome.’

  ‘I’m taking that as a positive,’ Roberts replied.

  Grace pursed his lips, not wanting to give the PI any encouragement. ‘When we met in your office, you gave me the impression you are not too enamoured with the police. I hope this might help change your mind.’

  ‘I’ll reserve judgement on that,’ Roberts replied. ‘You might be scooping the glory, but you need to remember who teed it up for you.’

  As Grace ended the call, his phone rang. It was Cassian Pewe.

  ‘What’s going on, Roy?’ he demanded. ‘Where are you? Media Relations are being bombarded by the press for information on what’s happening. A caretaker’s been found dead in the apartment block you had under surveillance. Do you have anything I can tell them? Any bones I can throw for them to gnaw on?’

  ‘I was made aware of the caretaker just a couple of hours ago, sir.’

  ‘Well, really, I’m so pleased to know you are aware of something that’s happening in this county, where you are supposed to be the Head of Major Crime. Do we have any more dead bodies or is one enough for today?’

  ‘I’m afraid we have two more,’ Grace replied. ‘But I think you might be happy to know the second is the American, Tooth, who, as you know, has long been on our radar.’ He nearly added, Longer than need be, thanks to your intervention months back, but he held his tongue. ‘Tooth was shot by firearms officers and we will of course notify the Independent Office for Police Conduct.’

  There was a brief silence from Pewe. Then he said, sarcastically, ‘I’m sure the Chief Constable will be very pleased, Roy. Thrilled to bits, I would say, when I inform him.’

  ‘Talking of chiefs, sir, I had lunch with Alison Vosper.’

  ‘Alison Vosper, did you say?’ Pewe sounded thrown.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing her?’

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ Grace retorted, smugly. ‘I had an interesting conversation with her, in which she told me about all the major cases in Sussex that you’ve taken credit for. Maybe my memory is going, but I honestly don’t recall your involvement in quite a number of them.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Pewe said acidly. ‘So what was the purpose of this lunch?’

  ‘She offered me a job in London. It would put me on the same rank as you if I accepted.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘Well, if that’s what it takes, sir.’

  Ignoring the comment, Pewe said, ‘Be in my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Roy, quite correct. Saturday follows Friday in the Gregorian calendar. Although perhaps in the weird bubble you inhabit, you are still on the Julian calendar, which was started by Julius Caesar? In case you’re not up to date, we switched to the Gregorian calendar in this country in 1752, so we’ll go by that one, shall we?’ he said in his most patronizing tone.

  128

  Saturday 13 October

  Roy Grace drove up to the barrier at the entrance to the Police HQ a few minutes before 9 a.m. As he waited for it to rise, he noticed Cassian Pewe’s classic black Jaguar XJS sports car, which was usually as spick and span as the ACC himself, parked outside the handsome Queen Anne mansion that housed the offices of the Sussex Police top brass, and the East Sussex Fire and Rescue chiefs.

  Grace couldn’t help smiling as he noticed also that the Jaguar’s paintwork was splattered, like a patterned carpet, with messy white blobs. Clearly a passing flock of migrating birds held the same opinion of the man as he did.

  Five minutes later he knocked on the door of Pewe’s office and was summoned in. Despite it being the weekend, Pewe was attired in his full dress uniform. Grace hadn’t bothered to make the same effort himself. He was unshaven and he was dressed in a leather bomber jacket over a quilted gilet, T-shirt, jeans and trainers. His casual appearance had the desired effect, clearly throwing Pewe off his guard.

  ‘Very kind of you to make space in your valuable downtime to meet me, Roy,’ he said, briefly frowning disapproval at his appearance as he stood up and shook the Detective Superintendent’s hand, his signet ring glinting in the morning sunlight. He had a cold, damp and limp grip that always felt, to Roy Grace, like shaking hands with a corpse.

  ‘I see you’ve been attracting birds with your car, sir,’ Grace quipped.

  Pewe gave him a sickly look. Then, without replying, said, ‘I’m afraid my assistant and staff officer are both off today, but I could make you a coffee myself if you’d like one?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, sir.’ Grace sat in one of the two imposing chairs in front of his desk. To his surprise, Pewe was actually looking friendly, which put him even more on guard than usual.

  ‘So, Roy, quite a showdown yesterday, eh? Gunfight at the OK Corral!’

  Grace replied, hesitantly. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’

  ‘Well, it’s been quite a time, these past couple of weeks, Roy, for our supposed Head of Major Crime, hasn’t it? The murder of Mrs Susan Driver. The caretaker of the Marina Heights apartment complex. The murder of the Southern Water employee. And now the shooting of Mr Tooth. Not to mention the gunshot wounding of the – admittedly dubious character – Mr Jules de Copeland. And the brutal murder in custody of your prisoner, Mr Kofi Okonjo.’ Pewe was no longer smiling.

  ‘Meaning, sir?’

  ‘Meaning, Roy, that our Chief Constable and our Police and Crime Commissioner are not happy bunnies. Brighton got rid of its title of Murder Capital of Europe back in the 1930s. Under your watch it looks like it’s about to regain it.’

  ‘I hardly think so, sir, when you compare the number of murders in London this year, and you can hardly put all of these deaths at my door.’

  ‘You and I need to meet with Media Relations first thing Monday, Roy, and get a pretty reassuring press release out. What you have to think about is just how safe does all this mayhem make the citizens of our county feel?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can answer that. I have a job to do, which is to investigate crimes and to try to lock up the villains. I’m pretty satisfied, despite the tragic deaths of Mrs Driver and the caretaker of Marina Heights, that Operation Lisbon has succeeded. We’ve smashed a major internet romance network and we have its local ringleader and several of his minions in custody. A man we believe to be the major mastermind for a massive European internet romance fraud network is currently in custody in Jersey. On top of that we finally have the American hitman, Tooth, who has been responsible for at least two murders that we are aware of, as well as coming close to murdering DS Potting, no longer a threat.’

  ‘No longer a threat?’ Pewe’s lips formed an almost rictus smile. ‘But no thanks to you, Roy. And you are sure Tooth really is dead, are you?’

  Grace again resisted the temptation to remind the ACC it was his insistence of removing Tooth’s hospital guard that had enabled the contract killer to evade justice earlier in the year. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be coming back from the dead anytime soon.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure about that?’

  ‘The world wasn’t big enough for Alexander the Great,’ Grace retorted. ‘But a coffin was.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Juvenal.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A Roman poet of the first century AD. My wife’s doing a degree in philosophy at the Open University. Very apt for Tooth.’

  ‘What’s apt about that?’

  ‘Think about it, sir.’

  Pewe shook his head. ‘Roy, I’m your line manager. You don’t tell me what I should and should not think about. Do you understand?’

  ‘Actually, Cassian,’ he said, clocking Pewe’s startled expression as he used the familiarity of his first name, ‘last night, after speaking with the Chief Constable, I accepted Alison Vosper’s offer. For the next six months I’m going to be heading up a new initiative to tackle knife crime in London, set up by the Prime Minister, the Mayor of London and the Commissioner of the Met – the National Knife Crimes Task Force. My title will be Commander, initially on a temporary basis, which means I will be of the same rank as you, and I trust you will respect that.’

  There was a long silence. He saw Pewe’s face struggling to absorb this. Finally Pewe said, his tone very conciliatory, ‘Look, Roy, I – I know we’ve had our differences. But I would hate to lose you from Sussex Police. I mean – I – we – we can’t afford to lose you.’