Want You Dead (43 page)

‘Good evening, Roy,’ he said.

‘Not looking good is it, Tony?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ve got more units on the way, but – ’ He shrugged.

‘Roy!’ Inspector Apps called out. ‘Eddie Naylor’s here now – the farmer!’

Grace turned. ‘Okay!’ He ducked back under the tape and walked up to the tall, grizzled-looking man, in a tweed cap, tattered Barbour over a chunky sweater, dungarees and work boots.

Apps said, ‘Mr Naylor, this is Detective Superintendent Grace, the Senior Investigating Officer.’

Grace shook the farmer’s massive, strong hand. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘I apologize for any disruption we’re causing you.’

‘No, none at all,’ he said affably, in a deep voice that was much posher than his appearance. ‘Dreadful thing, this.’

‘Can you tell me anything you saw this evening?’

‘Yes, well, those buildings over there, you see them?’ He jerked a finger at a distant cluster of farm buildings.

‘Yes.’

‘I rent them out, been a couple of years or so now, to a bit of a strange fellow. His name is Paul Riley.’

‘Paul Riley?’ Grace said, his interest piqued. Paul Riley was one of Bryce Laurent’s known aliases.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Well, to be honest, I haven’t seen him in a while. Pops the rent through my letterbox every three months, always well in advance of the due date. Quite a tall fellow – short dark hair, in his late thirties or early forties, I’d say. Quite well dressed – more of a city type than a countryman.’

‘What does he use the premises for?’

‘He told me he has a business making bespoke fireworks. He needed somewhere remote where he could experiment without bothering anyone. He’s been no trouble at all, apart from a few pretty big bangs every now and then, and the odd ball of flame that we can see from our house.’

‘How does he pay you?’

The farmer hesitated then gave an awkward smile. ‘Cash. It’s useful to have a bit of cash in hand, if you know what I mean.’

Grace detected the nervousness in his answer. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t work for the Revenue. I’m not interested in anything other than finding this man. Do you know what vehicle he drives?’

‘He’s had an old Land Rover most of the times I’ve seen him. But tonight I saw a white van. I was just going out rabbiting when I heard the helicopter, then the explosion. It was a few minutes after, this small white van went past at high speed, and out onto the road.’

‘Could you see what make it was?’

‘I’m pretty sure it was a Renault. I had one a while ago; it’s got a bit of a distinctive bonnet shape. I don’t know why, but something made me suspicious, so I tried to remember the licence plate. I wanted to write it down but my ruddy pen was out of ink. I ran inside, repeating it to myself, but to be honest I could only remember two numbers and two letters.’

‘What were they?’

He rummaged in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, then a torch which he switched on. He shone the beam onto the paper and held it out to Roy Grace.

‘Four Seven Charlie Papa,’ Grace read aloud. ‘You don’t remember any of the others?’

‘The third one might have been an N. But I can’t swear to that.’

‘Not CPN – Charlie Papa November?’ CPN, Grace knew, was a common Brighton registration number.

‘It’s possible, Detective Superintendent. But I’d be lying if I said I was sure. He went by very fast, and it was hard to see through the rain, in the dark.’

‘Of course. Can you remember as accurately as possible what time you saw this vehicle?’

Eddie Naylor looked pensive. Then he pulled up his sleeve and studied his wristwatch. ‘About half an hour ago. Twenty to eight, I would say.’

‘How certain are you?’

‘Give or take five minutes.’

‘Did you by chance get a glimpse of the driver? Could you positively identify that it was Paul Riley driving?’

‘I couldn’t say that for sure, no. It was too dark.’

‘Anyone else in the vehicle with him?’

‘I couldn’t say. I didn’t notice anyone, but really, it was too dark. Can you tell me what’s happened? Do you know why the helicopter came down?’

‘We don’t at this point, no, sir.’

‘I heard that there were three people on board.’

‘I’m afraid so, but I can’t give you any more information than that.’

‘Dangerous things, helicopters. A mate of mine was killed in one a few years ago. Went down in conditions like this.’

Grace thanked him, turned to Glenn and said, ‘Talk to anyone you can find here who might have seen that Renault and see if you can get more of the index – and a description of who was in it. Then meet me back at the car.’

As he hurried through the rain, he dialled the number for MIR-1. DS Exton answered.

‘Jon, good, just who I wanted to speak to. I need to know about small Renault vans. How many different models are sold in the UK? And get me a list of every one that has the digits and letters Four Seven Charlie Papa in the index.’

‘Yes, sir. I may not be able to find out the amount of vehicles sold, and the breakdown of those in Sussex, until office hours tomorrow, but I’ll see if I can find someone to talk to at the DVLA who can conduct some enquiries on the details we have, or else make enquiries to get you the information on the different models.’

‘Good man.’ Roy reached the car and climbed in, shut the door, and sat for a moment, doing some mental calculations. How far could someone drive in forty minutes? At an average speed of, say, fifty miles an hour. Forty-five miles easily, which could take them into another county. But if it was Bryce Laurent, where would he be going? Would he be fleeing?

He didn’t think so. He’d be looking for Red locally. Waiting for her somewhere in Brighton. Perhaps at her flat? More importantly at the moment, where was Red Westwood? The report from the helicopter was that a figure was shooting at someone. Bryce Laurent shooting at Red Westwood, who was running away? So if he hadn’t hit her, would he be letting her go?

No way.

But had she got away? If so, she was somewhere on foot out there in the dark. Unless she was lying wounded or dead out in the fields.

His phone rang. ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

‘Sir, it’s PC Spofford. I’ve just been contacted by one of our Neighbourhood Policing teams who are with Red Westwood. She was apparently kidnapped by Bryce Laurent earlier today, around lunchtime, and taken to a farm out near the Devil’s Dyke. She managed to escape and is now back at her home, with two officers attending, and a locksmith who is changing her locks. Apparently she’s in a pretty bad state emotionally, but she’s not seriously hurt.’

‘Thank God she’s safe,’ Grace said. He thanked Spofford and then rang Silver, updating him with the information he had been given.

‘I’ll put a twenty-four-hour police guard on her until further notice – a covert car outside her home – and make sure she is not left without a police presence nearby for one second. We can’t make her leave the flat, but we’ll do all we can.’

‘Yes, thanks,’ Grace replied. He ended the call and immediately called Andy Kille. ‘We’re looking for a small white van, possibly a Renault, with the following digits in its index: Four Seven Charlie Papa. We need to find this van urgently. We believe it was in the Tongdean Road area of the city around midday and more recently in the vicinity of Dyke Grange Farm near the Devil’s Dyke, up until forty-five minutes ago. I want an ANPR check and a careful study of all CCTV footage that would pick up a vehicle travelling between those two areas. And also run through the partials on PNC.’

‘Four Seven Charlie Papa?’ Kille repeated calmly.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘I’ve only got three RPU units available now, sir,’ Kille said. ‘I’ll see what Brighton Response have. And we have other county units making for Brighton.’

‘This has to have priority over everything, Andy.’

Grace ended the conversation and immediately called MIR-1. Norman Potting answered.

‘Norman, is Haydn Kelly still there by any chance?’

‘No, chief,’ he replied gloomily. ‘He went home.’

‘You should go home, too, Norman.’

‘I’d rather stay here, if it’s all right, sir?’ he asked plaintively.

‘Of course. Okay, I need you to get hold of Haydn and ask him to come out here to the Dyke right away. I need some footprint analysis done very fast.’

‘Leave it with me,’ Potting said.

There was a rap on the window. Grace looked up and saw Cassian Pewe’s face glaring in at him. He lowered the window.

‘Sheltering from the rain, are we, Roy? Nothing better to do?’

104

Monday, 4 November

The locksmith worked on each of Red’s front door locks in turn, using a long, thin spindle with what looked like a small square tooth at the end. Red and the two police officers stood back, watching as Mal Oxley wiggled his tool one way and then the other, his ear close to the door, listening.

Then, within a couple of minutes, he pushed the door open.

‘I thought these locks were meant to be unpickable?’ Red quizzed him, entering the hallway gratefully and switching on the light.

‘There are unpickable locks,’ he grinned. ‘People invent them all the time. Particularly the automotive industry. Lock yourself out of some modern cars and your only way back in is with a new key from the dealer. But most domestic residential locks are pickable – luckily for people like you who lock themselves out.’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘So how do I make my home secure?’

‘Put on the safety chain whenever you are in.’ He pointed to the one on the inside of her door. ‘That’s substantial; no one’s getting in here with that in place, without bolt-cutters. You can sleep tight with that.’

‘But I can’t stop someone who’s determined from getting in here when I’m out?’

‘You can make it so difficult for them that only a pro will get in. You’ll never keep a pro out, no one will.’

Red thought back to some of the findings of the private detective her mother had hired to look into Bryce’s background. Bryce had had a job, for a brief time, installing security systems in buildings. One of his magic acts was picking locks. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember that.’

‘What you have here are quality locks, both of them. You can’t do better. I’ll replace the cylinders.’

‘We are going to take a look around, Red,’ PC Susi Holiday said. ‘Check everything is in order.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

The two police officers walked down the hall, intermittent, muffled snatches of dialogue emitting from their radios. ‘Charlie Romeo Four,’ Red heard, then a moment later, ‘We have a report of a male acting suspiciously in Trafalgar Gate.’

She was starting to realize the enormity of what losing her bag, with her purse in it, meant. She now had no credit cards and no means of drawing out any cash, certainly not tonight anyway. She’d have to wait until the morning when the banks were open. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told the locksmith, ‘I can’t pay you tonight.’ She realized she was still holding his roll-up.

‘That’s all right,’ he said with a smile. ‘I know where you live.’ He gave her a light, then departed cheerily. ‘They’ll post you an invoice and some spare keys.’

‘I really appreciate your help,’ she said.

‘Anytime,’ he said with a grin. ‘For a fellow smoker!’

She let him out, then closed the door and walked towards the sitting room. She heard voices from the police radio coming from inside the safe room and went in. It was a small space, with a chair and a simple wooden table, with louvred doors to a toilet and tiny washbasin, fashioned out of what had originally been the spare bedroom. There were smoke and fireproof seals on the window and around the door frame. On the table sat a mobile phone, with the 999 number and PC Spofford’s number both programmed in on speed dial.

Susi Holiday ran her fingers along the edge of the six-inch-wide steel door, which was as thick as a bank vault, with a large round wheel-handle on the inside to double lock it. There was no handle on the outside. ‘This should make you feel pretty secure,’ she said.

‘It does,’ Red agreed.

‘What would happen if you passed out in here?’ PC Roberts asked her. ‘How would the emergency services get to you?’

‘Well, I think that’s the point of it,’ Red said. ‘Once I’m in here, no one can get in. The window is triple-glazed and sealed shut. There is a window lock key on the ledge above it.’ She pointed. ‘I guess in a worst-case scenario, if I did pass out, the fire brigade could get to me through this window.’

Susi Holiday peered through it. ‘What’s down below?’

‘It’s the alley at the rear of the building; there are some lock-up garages and the bin store.’

‘You don’t know where Bryce Laurent is currently?’ Holiday asked.

‘Last time I saw him was an hour and a half or so ago, maybe longer, firing a crossbow at me. I don’t know where he is now.’

‘I really think it would be better for you to come with us to Brighton police station, where you can be looked after.’

‘I’ve lost a whole afternoon,’ Red said. ‘I’m trying to build a new career as an estate agent, and I have a ton of work to do. I feel pretty safe here. If there’s anything I’m not happy about, I’ll lock myself in this room and phone you.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m not leaving here now. Please don’t force me.’

‘It’s okay, we can’t force you,’ PC Holiday said gently. ‘But could you at least let us have all your clothes so they can be forensically examined?’

‘Okay,’ Red said, ‘sure. I’ll go and change.’

Five minutes later she returned, in a dressing gown, with her clothes in the separate bags the police had provided her with.

‘We’re on lates tonight,’ Susi Holiday said. ‘We’re around until midnight. And there’s going to be a police car outside your front entrance all night. But we’ll also make sure we stay local to you. If there’s anything you are not happy about, just call 999. Anything at all – don’t worry how trivial you think it might be. We want to keep you safe, okay? Detectives are on their way to your flat now.’

Red nodded, feeling tears welling in her eyes again at the kindness of these officers. ‘Thank you,’ she said.