Want You Dead (44 page)

‘Charlie Romeo Zero Two?’ the voice from Susi Holiday’s radio said.

She tilted her head and spoke into it, ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Two.’

‘Charlie Romeo Zero Two, an alarm’s gone off at the Big Beach Cafe on the Hove Lagoon. There’s a report of two intruders on the premises. Are you free to investigate?’

‘No,’ she replied, and explained why not. She turned back to Red. ‘We’ll be close by all evening.’

Red thanked her. She closed the door, pushed home the safety chain and the top and bottom bolts. Then she went into the kitchen, took a bottle of Albarino out of the fridge, poured herself a large glass of the white wine, and picked her ashtray up off the draining board. She went through into the sitting room, sat down on the sofa, took a large gulp of wine, and relit the roll-up which had gone out again. Then she stared out of the window at the darkness and the lights of the apartment block across the courtyard and picked up the television remote.

Her hand was shaking. Shaking so much she was unable to push the green power button. She put the remote back down, dragged on her cigarette and drained her glass. Then she got up and went through to the kitchen to pour herself a refill, and carried the bottle back into the sitting room.

The wine was calming her down. She drank some more, then used her landline to dial her mother’s mobile phone, her hand a little calmer now, and was relieved to hear her answer after two rings.

‘Darling, are you all right?’ Her mother sounded desperately anxious.

‘Yes, I’m home, I’m safe, the police are just outside. What about you and Dad?’

‘We’re safe as well, and we just heard the news. A police helicopter has crashed just outside Brighton, and apparently three people are feared dead. A nice police officer outside in the corridor who is guarding us said that this was an incident involving you. Your father and I have been worried out of our wits.’

‘I’m fine, I’m safe. God, where are you?’

Her mother sounded hesitant suddenly and her voice lowered to almost a whisper. ‘Well, the thing is, darling, we’re not allowed to tell anyone. They’ve moved us from the hotel, but I can’t tell you where in case – it sounds ridiculous, I know – but in case Bryce is listening. But you’re okay? You are safe?’

‘Yes. I have police guards outside the flat. I’m safe.’

‘Keep in touch, darling. Phone us every hour until you go to bed, all right?’

Red promised she would, ended the call and then phoned Raquel Evans’s mobile.

It went to voicemail. ‘Hi, this is Raquel. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

‘Hi Raq,’ Red said. ‘It’s me. Give me a call when you get this if not too late.’

She poured herself another glass of wine, then lit another cigarette, a Silk Cut. It tasted feeble after the strong tobacco of the locksmith’s roll-up. She stubbed it out, picked up her glass, walked through into her bedroom and stripped off, then went into the bathroom, turned on the shower and waited for it to warm up. The police had asked her not to shower because of potential forensic evidence on her body, but she had refused; she just felt dirty and was beyond caring.

She stepped inside and despite the stinging of her wounds, stayed a long time, luxuriating in the hot jets of water and, helped by the wine, finally relaxing a little. Yet her fear remained.

Images of the film
Psycho
played in her mind. The knife blade ripping through the shower curtain.

What if Bryce had let himself in somehow? She’d never hear him with the water running.

Feeling far too vulnerable, she stepped out again, shivering with cold and fear, dried herself tenderly, dabbed some antiseptic on the worst cuts and grazes, then pulled on her towelling dressing gown and padded along the corridor, past the safe room and up to the front door. Everything seemed to be as she had left it. The safety chain was securely in place. She peered through the spyhole, and all she could see was the dimly lit, silent landing outside.

Her phone was ringing. She hurried back into her sitting room and saw the caller was Raquel Evans. She snatched the receiver off the cradle.

‘Hi!’ she said.

‘Red, you okay?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘What’s going on? Paul and I are so worried.’

‘It’s been a bit shit today, to be honest. But what about you?’

‘We’ve been told we have to have a police guard, that Bryce is out there somewhere trying to hurt people close to you. I just went out to collect a takeaway curry and had a police officer come with me in the car. Do you want to come over here and stay with us?’

‘I’m so sorry to put you and Paul through this, Raq.’

‘Don’t worry about us. It’s you we’re worried about. Do you want me to come over and pick you up?’

‘No, I’m okay. I’m fine, honest.’

‘You don’t sound at all fine.’

‘I’ve just had the locks changed and I have a police car outside. I’ve had one hell of a day and I’m shattered. I just want to try to calm down and get some sleep. I’m okay, really, thanks.’

‘Do you want me to come over and stay with you?’

‘No, I’m good, honestly.’

‘What a bastard. Unbelievable. I never liked him. But, you know, you seemed happy and it was good seeing you like that, so I didn’t say too much. But, shit . . .’

‘They’ll catch him soon. The whole of Sussex Police is hunting for him. They’ll find him, and then all this will be over, Raq. I feel confident about it.’

‘I’m here for you, at the end of the phone, all night. Call anytime. Doesn’t matter how late, okay?’

‘Love you,’ Red said.

‘Love you too.’

105

Monday, 4 November

And I love you, too, both of you
, Bryce Laurent said silently, listening to the conversation in his van.
I love you to death. So sweet, Raquel, so sweet, Red. I’ll deal with you later, Raquel, and your smug little husband, Paul. I know you never liked me. Well, you want to know a secret? I never liked you, either. But hey, what’s a little hatred between friends? Eh, Raq?

So you love Red? Did you ever love her the way I loved her and she loved me? Did she ever send you a text like this?
He looked down at his iPhone, at the texts he had been scrolling through for the past twenty minutes, until he came to one of his favourites. One of the fantasies that he and Red used to text each other constantly.
This one, Raquel?

So we hire out a cute cottage in the Cotswolds which we are driving to. You are driving. We’ve got some music on and you have your hand on me all the time you can. I pick up your arm and begin to kiss it; I suck your fingers and lick the back of your hand before placing it on my chest, smiling. You start to stroke my breasts and squeeze my nipples, which gets me so horny. I look over and down; I can see how hard you are and I put my hand on you. You are pulsing with excitement and are telling me that you are going to have to stop the car. You pull in at the next opportunity and lustfully take my face in your hands and kiss me passionately while your hand slips down into my knickers and you press your fingers inside me, working me to a mind-blowing orgasm and making me crazily hungry for you.

Did you get a text like this from her, Raquel? I don’t think so. But me, I did, daily. Sometimes several times a day.

Until her bitch mother intervened and ruined it all.

Perhaps I should send you the whole list of her texts and then you might begin to understand the feelings we once had for each other. The deepest love two human beings could have.

Then you might be able to understand why I’m just a tiny bit unhappy.

Actually, I’m lying. I’m really more than a tiny bit unhappy. As Red is going to find out very soon now.

He pulled out of his pocket a pay-as-you-go mobile phone he had bought some days ago and dialled 999. When the operator answered, asking which service he required, he said, ‘Police, please. It’s very urgent!’

106

Monday, 4 November

All thoughts of his honeymoon had long been gone from his mind. Shortly after 9.30 p.m., when he should have been in Venice with Cleo, Roy Grace sat in the windowless CCTV room on the third floor of John Street police station, with Glenn Branson, Cassian Pewe and Nev Kemp, the Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove Police. In front of them was a bank of CCTV monitors, and each of them was focusing intently on one screen.

There were currently four hundred and three cameras covering the city of Brighton and Hove. Most of them were concentrated on the downtown areas, where the majority of the city’s problems occurred, but the outlying areas were also covered, particularly the exit routes from the city.

A civilian controller, Jon Pumfrey, a neatly dressed and quietly efficient man, was operating the playbacks for them. He was fast-forwarding, on the four monitors in front of them, footage from cameras that were located in the Tongdean and Dyke Road Avenue areas from midday until early evening today. So far there had been no sighting of a van answering the description of the one they were looking for.

Pumfrey took a swig of coffee from a thermos, then unwrapped a sandwich, all the time eyeing the screens. The synchronized time clock on them reached 19.32.

‘Can you freeze them, please,’ Grace asked, suddenly.

Pumfrey leaned forward and tapped some keys on the large control panel in front of him.

Roy knew he could have delegated this task, but he wanted to see for himself this CCTV footage whilst the search for Bryce Laurent continued.

Camera Three was showing the top of Dyke Road Avenue. ‘That’s the obvious way Laurent would have gone to the Dyke from Tongdean Avenue,’ Grace said.

‘Yes,’ Pumfrey concurred.

‘The less obvious route would have been to detour via the A23 London Road,’ Grace said. ‘Let’s see the footage from that.’

‘I’ll put it up on Camera Three, sir.’

Roy Grace’s phone rang. It was an operator from the control room. ‘Detective Superintendent, I’ve a man on the line who insists he speak to you. He says he gave a lift to someone answering Red Westwood’s description earlier this evening.’

‘Put him through.’

Moments later, he heard a voice that sounded a little the worse for wear from drink. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’

‘Yes, who am I speaking to?’

‘I . . . my name’s Marcus Cunningham, detective. Listen, I gave a lift to a lady – on my way back, near the Dyke. She – she stepped out in front of me, looking in a pretty bad state. You know?’

‘I don’t know. Tell me?’

‘Just driving home from the Dyke . . . Golf Club. She flagged me down, needing a lift. She was covered – just covered – in mud and blood. She asked me to drive her home to the bottom of Westbourne Terrace. I took her there. She said she’d be fine. Then I went home and saw the news. I decided to come back down here and see if she’s all right.’

‘Where are you now, sir?’ Grace asked, sounding more patient than he felt.

‘Well, the thing is, I popped back down here . . . ’coz I felt a bit bad ‘bout leaving her on the street. But no sign of her. So I thought I should phone the police. Make sure she’s okay.’

‘Are you near her residence, sir?’

‘Where I dropped her off. Down Westbourne Terrace.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Just before eight o’clock. I would have stayed, you see, but my wife . . . had supper ready . . . promised her I’d be home by seven. But then we were watching Sky News Live, and there was her photograph. I thought you might want to know.’

‘Very much,’ Grace said. ‘I’m very grateful to you. You say you are in Westbourne Terrace now?’

‘Yes. I did escort her to the front door of her building, to make sure she got home safe.’

‘And you’re aware from the news that she had been abducted?’

‘Yes, saw on the television. But she’s safe now?’

‘She’s safe, sir, thank you. Out of interest, can you tell me what you can see from where you are?’

‘Yes. A police car pulling out of a side street. Blue lights on. Just whizzing up Westbourne Terrace now. In a bit of a hurry. Oh, and it said on the news that you are looking for a small white Renault van?’

‘Yes, we are.’

‘If it’s of interest, I just passed one on my way here. Parked near the top of Westbourne Terrace.’

107

Monday, 4 November

Red was awoken, confused, by a sharp ringing sound. The doorbell? Where the hell was she?

The ringing continued.

On the television she saw the youthful figure of the Secretary of State for Health, talking defensively about cuts in health benefits to visitors to the UK. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa, she realized. It was the phone ringing. She lunged forward and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’ She felt leadenly tired.

‘Red Westwood?’

She recognized the friendly male voice, but could not immediately place it.

‘Yes, who is this?’

‘Detective Inspector Glenn Branson. How are you doing?’

Her head felt muzzy, as if she wasn’t quite together yet. She saw the empty bottle of wine on the coffee table, and the equally empty glass beside it, and the ashtray studded with butts. Shit, had she drunk the entire bottle? And smoked all of those? ‘Yes, I’m okay, thanks,’ she said.

‘Listen, Red, I don’t want to panic you, but we’ve just had a report that a van that might belong to Bryce Laurent has been seen in your road.’

She broke out into goosebumps. ‘I – I thought you – you were protecting me all night?’

‘Don’t worry, we are. But for your protection, we’d like you to lock yourself in your safe room for a little while. Just until we’ve had a chance to investigate the van and search the area. Can you do that?’

Suddenly, she was thinking clearly again. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Is it really necessary? The locks have been changed, and I’m pretty secure.’

‘I’d feel happier if you did,’ he said. ‘It won’t be for long. Just until we know you are safe. Hopefully we are close to arresting him.’