Dead at First Sight

115 Friday 12 October

Roy Grace, at his desk, looked at his watch. Under four hours to the rendezvous. The Armed Response and the Local Support Team officers would be in situ by 4.30 p.m., with all vehicles removed from the immediate area.

His adrenaline was surging. He was excited, but nervous. Troubled by one constant thought: where did the wild card, Tooth, fit into all of this?

The Outside Enquiry Team had reported that Tooth’s rental Polo, which had been found in the car park of the apartment block along the street from Marina Heights, appeared to have been abandoned. Further, a small van, illegally parked in a bus stop lay-by across the street from Marina Heights, also appeared to have been abandoned. An alert traffic officer had connected the dots, tracing the van to a local rental company. The name it had been rented under meant nothing, but the description of the hirer fitted Tooth, although they had no CCTV to verify this.

So, Grace speculated, had wily Tooth left the car as a false trail, then rented the van? Then, realizing he was unable to move the van, because of the road being sealed off after the accident, abandoned that vehicle, too?

Had he rented another? He leaned back, closing his eyes, thinking. Why had Tooth been watching the building? For Copeland? It was the obvious link to why Tooth had been in Withdean Road in the early hours of Wednesday morning, outside the property where Copeland had been operating from.

Someone coughed in front of him as if to get his attention. He opened his eyes and saw Glenn Branson peering at him. ‘Having an old person’s nap, are you?’

‘Yeah, yeah. You know what? I’m doing something you’ve never done in your entire life. I’m thinking.’

‘It’s worn you out, obviously.’

‘So have you just woken me up to piss me off?’

‘No, as your mate I was getting pretty worried about your score on the Glasgow Coma Scale. I was about to put you down for a One.’

‘A One?’

‘Yeah. Does not open eyes. Makes no sounds. Makes no movements. I was wondering whether to call an undertaker.’

‘Do you have anything useful to say — or can I go back to my old person’s nap?’

‘Actually, I do. No one’s been able to get hold of the Marina Heights caretaker all day, but EJ contacted the managing agents for the building and got a list of all tenants — none so far match Copeland.’

‘How many flats are there in the building?’

‘Eighty-six.’

‘Send as many Outside Enquiry officers in to start door-to-door as you can muster. Copeland’s a distinctive-looking fellow — if he’s been staying there someone will have seen him. We need to find which flat and have it searched.’

As Branson returned to his desk, Grace’s phone rang. It was the new duty Silver Commander, Helene Scott.

‘Roy,’ she said. ‘CROPS officer Mike Whisky One has just called in a man arriving by taxi at Primrose Farm Cottage. He appears to be a key holder.’

‘What’s his description?’

‘IC1, about six foot tall, grey hair, well dressed, age approximately late fifties.’ Grace frowned. The description fitted neither Jules de Copeland nor Tooth.

‘Any idea who he is or what he’s doing at the property?’

‘No, just that he entered and closed the front door. The taxi left. The CROPS wonders if we can ID him. He’s emailing photographs but he’s in a rubbish reception area, with a poor signal. Hopefully they’ll come through in a few minutes.’

‘Can you send them to me as soon as you get them, please,’ Grace said.

Ending the call, he again lapsed into thought. Who was this man who’d gone into the cottage? Something felt seriously off-kilter here.

Recapping on his intel, Lynda Merrill had set up what she believed would be a romantic weekend in an isolated cottage she had been loaned with the man she had been conned into believing was her soulmate. And she was about to be in for a rude shock.

His phone rang. It was Silver, telling him she’d just sent him a few photographs.

Grace immediately looked at the email which came through. Opening the files, he saw a series of images of the man he was pretty sure he recognized from his photographs as Johnny Fordwater, approaching the house and looking around as if surveying the surroundings.

‘Norman!’ he called out. ‘Can you come here a sec.’

Potting ambled over and stopped beside him. He looked at the screen, then peered closer. ‘That’s Johnny Fordwater,’ he said.

‘I thought it was. You’re sure that’s him?’

Potting peered closer. ‘Absolutely. No question.’

‘Remind me what we know about him.’

‘He’s a widower. Some months ago he joined the German internet dating agency, ZweitesMal.de, and met a woman — or so he thought — who gave her name as Ingrid — um — Ingrid Ostermann. They had an online romance for several months, during which time he became deeply infatuated with her — whoever she really was. He paid out over four hundred grand, most of which was for what turned out to be a bogus property purchase. Where are these pictures from?’

‘Taken just now by a CROPS officer outside the house where a woman’s about to meet this guy who’s been romancing her on PerfectPartners.net, and hand over three hundred grand in folding to him.’

Potting frowned. ‘So what is Major Fordwater doing there?’

‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me.’

Potting shook his head. ‘I’m baffled, chief.’

Roy Grace’s phone rang. Signalling an apology to the DS, he answered it. ‘Detective Superintendent Roy Grace.’

He instantly recognized the Brooklyn accent of his old friend New York Detective Investigator Pat Lanigan.

‘Hey, pal, it’s been a while!’ Lanigan said. ‘How you doing?’

‘Busy, Pat. Thanks to the ceaseless ingenuity of villains and human gullibility. You? How’s Francene?’

‘She’s great. Cleo good?’

‘She is, thanks.’

‘Meant to call you a few days back, but likewise, it’s been a crazy time here. This may not be your bag, but I thought you ought to know, as the guy involved is on your patch. And he’s pretty angry, know what I mean — dangerously angry?’

Covering the mouthpiece, Grace told Potting he’d catch up with him in a few minutes. As the DS returned to his workstation, Grace said, ‘Dangerously angry?’

‘Well, here’s the thing, pal. One of my old work buddies, Matthew Sorokin — remember Matt?’

‘Of course, very well. How is he?’

‘He took retirement and now lives in Florida — went back to work again because he got bored — he’s now with a county sheriff’s office down there. Here’s the thing, pal. Matt has a bit of a train wreck of a love life. He recently joined an online dating agency, on the recommendation of an old buddy, name of Gerald — or Gerry — Ronson, and ended up getting conned out of a shedload of money.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Well, seems like Gerry and Matt met soon after Gerry had left the military and joined the New York Fire Brigade — on the morning of 9/11. They kind of bonded in the aftermath of the hell that it was and kept in touch. Gerry moved to Minnesota and met — and married — a lady through an internet dating agency.’

‘And recommended the agency to Matt?’ Grace checked.

‘Uh-huh. Gerry raved about it to him. At the time, Matt was lonely and morose. So he joined. This where you come in. Gerry has another buddy, a Brit he met out in Iraq, called Johnny Fordwater — who got promoted to major. The way I understand it is that Johnny’s wife died and he spent several lonely years. Until Gerry talked him into online dating.’

‘And he joined ZweitesMal.de, right?’

‘Yep,’ Lanigan said. ‘You should be a detective!’

Grace suppressed a grin. Then a cold chill rippled through him. He looked back at his screen. At the image on it. The former major, who had been conned out of over £400,000. Just what was he doing entering Primrose Farm Cottage, and with a key? This was beyond a coincidence.

Who had given him a key?

‘You still there, pal?’ Lanigan said, breaking into his thoughts.

‘I am. Your call is very timely, Pat.’ What was Fordwater up to?

‘Timely?’ Lanigan quizzed.

‘Tell me what you know about this character, Major Johnny Fordwater, Pat?’

‘Sure, that’s why I was calling you. Johnny Fordwater flew over from London to see me this week. I met with him and Matt Sorokin in my office. Fordwater’s a nice guy, I felt kind of sorry for him, you know. He recognized he didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of recovering a cent, but he wanted to find some way of hitting back at the bastards who’d rinsed him. Both guys asked if I could use any of my contacts here in the NYPD or the FBI or the Secret Service Homeland Security teams.’

Grace felt a prickle of anxiety at what he was hearing. ‘Were you able to, Pat?’

‘I told them I’d been doing some digging around and it seemed the ringleaders are almost all based either out of Africa or Eastern Europe. I gave them a name I’d been given, of someone on your patch, Roy. Someone the FBI cybercrime unit has worked with in the past. This is one smart guy — he’s been an advisor to both Apple and Microsoft on cybersecurity. Recently retired from the Sussex Police Digital Forensics Team due to a health issue. Set himself up as an independent consultant investigating internet fraud. I’m told he’s the man.’

‘That’s Ray Packham!’

‘You’re kidding! You know him?’

‘I’ve used him many times — he’s been a huge help in a number of my investigations. We’ll get in contact with him right away. I really appreciate your help, Pat.’

‘No worries, pal. Any plans to be in New York?’

‘Well, actually Cleo did say a while back she’d love to go Christmas shopping there this year, if we had the time — and I have a load of annual leave owing. So maybe.’

‘Just let me know. I’ll pick you guys up from the airport, show you around, give you a great time.’

‘For sure!’

‘You got it.’

The moment he ended the call, Roy Grace opened the address book on his phone and looked for Packham’s number, thinking that the last thing he needed was a vigilante.