Want You Dead (28 page)

They went inside. Father Martin, in his cassock with a white stole, gave Roy a firm handshake. ‘Remember what I told you, Roy? Relax and enjoy it!’

Grace could not remember ever feeling so nervous in his life. ‘I’m trying to!’

Then the clergyman turned to Glenn. ‘You’ve got the rings?’

There was a moment of panic on Branson’s face as he dug his hands in his pockets, patting himself down frantically before remembering they were in one of his waistcoat pockets. He gave a reassuring nod.

Then the two detectives walked down the aisle, Grace smiling in acknowledgement at several faces and occasionally raising his hand in a wave. They took their places on the front right-hand pew, and he gave a nervous smile to Cleo’s mother and her sister, and some of her other relatives he had met briefly before.

It seemed only a few moments later that ‘Pachelbel’s Canon’ began playing on the organ. He stood and turned, anxiously, and could see Cleo for the first time, looking utterly radiant in a stunning long cream dress, her hair up in a style he had never seen before, but which looked gorgeous. As she and her father slowly walked towards him, followed by three bridesmaids, he realized just how much he loved and adored this incredible person.

Finally he took her hand. ‘You look totally stunning,’ he whispered.

‘You’ve scrubbed up pretty well yourself!’ she replied.

As he stood, with Cleo to his left, facing Father Martin, he heard the clergyman’s words only intermittently.

The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ

The love of God

And the fellowship of the Holy Spirit

Be with you.

Then the congregation saying:

And also with you.

The next few minutes passed in a blur. He kept looking sideways at Cleo. Light seemed to be radiating from her.

Marriage is a gift of God in creation . . .

In the delight and tenderness of sexual union . . .

Marriage is a way of life made holy by God . . .

No one should enter it lightly or selfishly

But reverently and responsibly in the sight of almighty God.

Roy and Cleo are now to enter this way of life.

They will each give their consent to the other

And make solemn vows

And in token of this they will each give and receive a ring.

We pray with them that the Holy Spirit will guide and strengthen them

That they may fulfil God’s purposes . . .

For the whole of their earthly life together.

There was a long pause. Then he continued.

First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry to declare it now.

There was another long silence. Then a woman’s voice suddenly rang out loud and crystal clear from the rear of the church.

‘I do!’ she said. ‘Me. I’m married to him!’

Grace spun round in total shock and horror. And there, at the end of the aisle, was Sandy.

72

Friday, 1 November

Roy Grace snapped open his eyes and stared into darkness. He was gulping down air and shivering. His pillow felt sodden, his hair wet. His whole body was damp with perspiration and the sheet was soaked. He stared around, bewildered and panic-stricken, and had no idea where he was. His mouth was parched and he had a sharp, pounding headache.

Oh shit.

Where the hell was he? The bed was narrow, hard and too short. He was in Glenn’s house, he remembered now. He put out a hand for the light switch, struck something hard, and an instant later heard the sound of breaking glass and gurgling water.

Shit.

He found his phone and pushed the command button on it. In the meagre glow from it, he found the bedside light and turned that on, and saw the broken glass lying on its side, water pooling around his watch and soaking his handkerchief.

He was in a tiny room, with a row of teddy bears on the floor and a pink wardrobe. One of Glenn’s children’s rooms, he realized. The kids were staying over at Glenn’s sister’s house until Saturday. It was all coming back now.

They’d gone to a private room at the Bohemia bar in Brighton last night. All his team had been assembled there. Then all the blokes had gone on to a lap-dancing club on North Street called Grace. Drunken, shaven-headed cops shoving tenners and twenty-pound notes down the front of leggy girls’ panties. Leching and leering. Endless drinks. What the hell was it about the human psyche that told you if you had one more brandy, you’d feel less shit the next day than if you didn’t have it?

The clock on his phone told him it was 4.55 a.m.

He needed water. Paracetamols. A piss.

He wished he was home in bed with Cleo. He lay for some moments in the glow of the light, too tired to move, reflecting, feeling a deep sense of gloom. It had felt so real. Frighteningly real. Sandy standing there. What the hell was his mind trying to tell him?

It was Friday morning. He was getting married tomorrow. And suddenly he felt really scared. What if Sandy was still out there somewhere? What if she really did turn up at their wedding?

Come on, she’s been declared legally dead. She is dead.

He was shaking.

But the damned dream had felt so real.

He scrolled to the flashlight app on his iPhone and switched it on. Then he climbed out of bed, padded into the corridor and, using the beam, found the bathroom. He switched on the light, urinated, then opened a cabinet and lucked into a packet of paracetamol. He popped two of them, slung them into his mouth, ran the cold tap and lowered his face under the spout, gulping down the pills with the cold, fresh water. Then he padded back into the bedroom, opened the window with some difficulty, and lay down again, naked, feeling the cooling night air on his face and his body.

Before developing her interest in philosophy, Cleo had studied psychology, and a big part of that had been dream analysis. Shed told him a lot about that. That we all had unresolved problems presented to us in our dreams. That made sense to him. Sandy appearing at his wedding. Of course.

He pushed the dream aside, and all the phantom thoughts that accompanied it. A dangerous creep, alias Bryce Laurent, was out there, a very real threat to Red Westwood. How many sodding aliases did the man have?

Where was he now?

73

Friday, 1 November

Last night had not been a good idea, Roy Grace thought, staring at the sea of tired faces gathered around the conference room table for the 8.30 a.m. morning briefing for Operation Aardvark. Half his Major Enquiry Team out drinking and then fooling around in a lap-dancing club into the small hours, in the middle of a homicide investigation and manhunt.

Guy Batchelor, Jon Exton and Norman Potting all looked pretty bleary-eyed and useless this morning. The normally sharply dressed forensic podiatrist Haydn Kelly was looking like he’d slept the night in a hedge. The only two of his team who had stayed the course and who seemed remotely sparky today were Crime Scene Manager Dave Green and Glenn Branson; the latter, taking his best man duties seriously, had remained on soft drinks all night.

Shit, he hoped Nicola Roigard, the Police and Crime Commissioner, did not get to hear of this; he knew she had strong views on behaviour and commitment to duty. And pernicious Cassian Pewe, who took over responsibility as his boss as the new Assistant Chief Constable next Monday, would have a field day if he found out; but no one had done anything wrong, so far as he knew.

He looked at his watch. Nearly four hours since he had last taken two paracetamols, so it would be safe to take another couple now, he reckoned. He popped them from the blister pack, and gulped them down with a glass of water. Nothing so far was relieving his splitting headache. And he had a deep dread inside him, as if something terrible was about to happen at any moment. Not even the massive, greasy, sizzling fried egg and bacon bap from Trudie’s burger van parked a short distance away, which he had forced down, along with a Coke, which normally served as an instant hangover remedy, was having any effect – at least so far.

Christ, man, pull yourself together
, he thought.
You’re getting married tomorrow to the woman you love.

He stared down at his notes for the meeting and opened his policy book. A copy of today’s
Argus
newspaper lay beside them. The frontpage headline shouted,
MANHUNT FOR BRIGHTON ARSONIST.

Bryce Laurent’s photograph and the list of his known aliases were there on the front page, and the story had also appeared on the morning TV news apparently. Hopefully some member of the public would recognize him soon.

‘As I informed you yesterday, until I return from honeymoon at the end of next week, I’ve appointed DI Branson to temporarily take over as SIO on Operation Aardvark, and he will run today’s meeting.’ He nodded at his colleague.

Glenn Branson said, ‘Yeah, right, team, okay.’ He paused to look down at his notes. ‘Right, last night, following intelligence information from the High Tech Crime Unit, we executed a raid on premises in Westbourne Terrace, Hove, occupied by Bryce Laurent, which we have subsequently been informed he rented under one of his aliases. When we entered it became evident he had cleared out and left – I’m delegating the Outside Enquiry Team to talk to all residents in the area to see if they noticed anyone loading a vehicle either yesterday or any previous days. After making a death threat against Red Westwood’s parents, her family home burned down yesterday – it would seem very likely Laurent is the perpetrator. We have to find this man very quickly. Red Westwood is aware of the danger she is in, but is determined to carry on with her daily life. She’s refusing to let Bryce Laurent win, as she sees it. The one advantage of this from our standpoint is that by remaining visible, she is a magnet for Laurent. It may provide an opportunity to set a trap for him, but we will deal with that outside of this meeting. I don’t think it is remotely likely that Laurent has gone away, but it is possible he’s lying low for a bit. One thing is for sure, he has expensive tastes. Wherever he is hiding, he’ll be spending money on something. And if he’s using credit cards, he’ll be leaving a trail.’

He turned to the financial investigator, Gordon Graham. ‘Do you have anything to report, Gordon?’

‘Yes, I do, sir.’ Graham pointed up at the whiteboard showing photographs of both Red Westwood and Bryce Laurent, and the date of their separation in red ink. ‘Approximately two months later, Bryce Laurent began withdrawing large cash amounts from his bank account with HSBC in Ditchling Road, Brighton. This money had come from his mother’s estate – mostly from the sale of her house. The manager became alarmed and spoke to him about the withdrawals – a professional courtesy – to try to find out if he was being blackmailed or was the victim of a confidence trick, or perhaps a gambling addiction. Laurent told him to mind his own business. By 9 September, he had withdrawn a total of over seven hundred and fifty thousand quid, cleaning out the account, which he then closed down.’

‘Did he deposit this money anywhere else, do we know?’ Grace asked.

‘So far we haven’t found anything. We’ve been running checks on all banks, building societies and post offices across the UK to see which of them have received large cash deposits during this period – and after – and so far no dice.’

‘Why would someone withdraw that amount of cash?’ DS Batchelor asked, stifling a yawn. ‘If it came from his mother’s estate, it can’t be any form of money laundering.’

‘Drugs, sir?’ ventured DC Alec Davies.

‘Drugs, gambling, blackmail, smuggling it into some country where foreign currency is at a premium,’ Graham replied. ‘Or to be able to live and travel around without leaving a financial trail. Which so far Laurent seems to have done very successfully. I’ve been in contact with the City of London Police, who run the biggest financial database in the country, sir,’ he said. ‘I worked with their Commissioner, Adrian Leppard, when he was a chief officer in Kent. They’ve been given all Laurent’s aliases. All credit card purchases and cash withdrawals made in the name of any of his aliases are being investigated. But it’s a mammoth task. Almost all his aliases are common names.’

Dave Green raised his hand, and Glenn nodded at him. ‘If Laurent has left his accommodation, and is remaining local, then he has to be staying somewhere, boss.’

‘Quite right,’ Roy Grace said. ‘This morning we need to draft in more uniform officers to visit every hotel, boarding house and letting agency in the city and surrounding area with Laurent’s photograph and see if we get a hit on any of the aliases. I have this in hand – Superintendent Watson at John Street is on the case for us. But hearing what you’ve said, we need to also check out any residents who pay in cash.’

A mobile phone rang. The James Bond theme tune. Blushing, Norman Potting fumbled in his pocket and silenced it.

Then Roy Grace’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw it was the Control Room. ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered, as quietly as he could.

‘Sir, I have a member of the public urgently wanting to speak to someone about Operation Aardvark. He says he read about it in the
Argus
and may have some important information for you.’

Grace stepped away as she patched the caller through, and slipped out of the door, closing it behind him, speaking into the receiver.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace, I’m the Senior Investigating Officer. How can I help you?’

The man’s voice sounded confident, and a tad smug. ‘I know who your arsonist is, Detective Superintendent,’ he said.

‘You do?’ Roy Grace asked sceptically, not liking the man’s voice at all.

‘Trust me, I know.’

‘What is your name, sir?’

‘That doesn’t matter. I suggest you take a look at a firefighter at Worthing fire station. Matt Wainwright. He’s your man.’