Dead at First Sight

107 Friday 12 October

There was a tradition within the Sussex Police Major Crime Unit of a member of an operation team anonymously sticking a cartoon, relevant to the enquiry, on the inside of the Incident Room door. Despite their collaboration some while back now with Surrey Police Major Crime Team, the tradition still held good.

Roy Grace, hunched over his workstation, stared with amusement at the one that had appeared overnight. It had been clipped from a newspaper. The headline above said,

and below was an image of a cash register spewing out money like a fruit machine.

Serious again, he focused back on his task of trying to piece together everything he currently had on Operation Lisbon. He read through his notes, carefully, on the pad in front of him, beside his Policy Book.

Lena Welch. Suzy Driver. Marina Heights. Lynda Merrill. Jules de Copeland/Tunde Oganjimi bringing £300,000 to Primrose Farm Cottage, Forest Row? Tooth. Ghana — Sakawa. Dunstan Ogwang/Kofi Okonjo (deceased — murdered?). Two CROPS in situ at Forest Row. To the list he added the latest development of the breakdown truck attending the vehicle and subsequently being stopped and searched. And the driver’s description of the man who had rented the Kia car he had attended, the tyre of which he had replaced.

A call came through from an officer at the Silver command office. ‘Sir, the CROPS officers have sent through images of the front- and rear-door locks. Two covert surveillance officers are on their way to the house to install listening devices.’

Grace thanked her, asking her to inform him as soon as the listening devices were in place and live. As he ended the call, Arnie Crown came over. ‘Sir, intel back from Daniel Salter at Digital Forensics on the phone number used to call the Avis breakdown service. They’ve traced it to Marina Heights, Kemp Town. But they’re not able to pinpoint the address any closer.’

‘Good work, Arnie.’

The information didn’t take Roy Grace any further.

Moments later, Norman Potting hurried over. ‘Chief, just in from Oscar-1. There’s been a three-vehicle crash outside Marina Heights. One of them is a Kia car, rented from Avis at Gatwick on Tuesday, October 9th. Witnesses reported that a tall black man, who they say was driving the Kia, fled the scene carrying two suitcases after assaulting the driver of the van that hit his car. One witness reported he was wearing red shoes.’

‘Sounds like Fancy Boy,’ Grace said. ‘That’s a top-end building, expensive flats, a good chance they’ll have outward-facing CCTV. Have someone check and also the city’s TV.’

‘I will, but there’s more, chief,’ Potting said, looking pleased as Punch. ‘I just ran the Kia’s licence plate against ANPR records. It pinged the same ones, just a few seconds ahead of the ones that clocked Tooth’s suspected car shortly after 11.30 p.m. on Tuesday. The last one that clocked it was on Marine Parade, when both vehicles headed east and were not picked up on ANPR.’

Grace processed this. ‘Which means...?’

‘That either Tooth and Copeland are working together. Or—’

‘That Tooth is following him,’ Grace said. ‘With the intention of killing him. I think that’s the more likely scenario.’

‘Yes, chief, I agree.’

‘Good work, Norman. What we know so far is that Copeland is due to rendezvous at Primrose Farm Cottage, Forest Row, early this evening. Now his plans will be in disarray after the accident. He’s done a runner — where? And where is Tooth in all this? Still in his car close to Marina Heights?’

Yet again he privately cursed Cassian Pewe for lifting the guard on Tooth all those months back, allowing him to escape. Which Tooth had done very neatly and was now back to haunt them.

‘I don’t know, chief,’ Potting replied.

‘OK. Copeland’s gone AWOL. Have the ARV go to Tooth’s car, and if he’s in it, nick him. He’s no further use to us — we know where Copeland’s going to show up later today, let’s focus on that now. And if Copeland’s been staying in that building, we need to find out which flat and get it searched. Hopefully the caretaker will know, if he’s back in his flat.’

As Potting went back to his workstation, Grace again studied his notepad. To make a conviction stick, they needed to catch Copeland red-handed. Which meant letting him meet with Lynda Merrill for their planned love-in.

But that was dangerous.

Under current guidelines, some of which were overcautious in Roy Grace’s view, there needed to be a risk assessment prior to any action. These guidelines were created by civil servants with little comprehension of what frontline policing was about, and who were primarily concerned with protecting the police from expensive lawsuits.

He’d always tended to take the view that it was easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission.

But he did need to be pragmatic, however much that went against the grain. He had to weigh up Copeland’s known and suspected history of violence against the risk of him harming the woman. And it didn’t look good on the scales.

Pewe would have a field day if it went wrong. The ACC would have his guts for garters for allowing a member of the public to put her life on the line. He knew what the ACC would say. Pewe was only interested in protecting his backside, keeping his nose clean for the next step up, God forbid, his career ambition to be a Chief Constable — and beyond.

And it would be putting his own career on the line, too.

But, equally, Copeland and his team needed to be stopped in their tracks before they ruined even more people’s lives. And he had a golden opportunity to catch this nasty criminal red-handed.

Could he take the risk that Lynda Merrill might be harmed?

One option was to pull her out and replace her with a decoy. But that could create all kinds of problems down the line. He could imagine a smart brief, like that arrogant twat, Carrington, claiming entrapment.

It was a massive risk. But he did have Alison Vosper’s offer from yesterday, however unattractive it might be — and uncertain — as a potential backstop, if it all went tits up.

Throughout his career he’d taken risks. Always in the interests of what he believed to be justice. One time it had nearly got his best friend, Glenn Branson, killed — he had been shot and wounded in a raid. But wasn’t that part of being a police officer? The risk of injury or death was one all officers knew they were taking on when they signed up. In the words of a former Chief of the Metropolitan Police, ‘When everyone else is running away from danger, we — and the other emergency services — are the ones running towards it.’

Could he live with himself if Lynda Merrill got harmed? On the other hand, could he live with the knowledge he’d failed to arrest an internet fraud mastermind, who had destroyed countless lives, because he’d been too scared of the possible consequences?

He stood up and walked over to Potting. ‘Know what this whole thing is, Norman?’ he said. ‘It’s a ball of shit dipped in wasps.’