Dead at First Sight

124 Friday 12 October

‘Mike Whisky One to Romeo One. For information, Southern Water official has now been inside target house for ten minutes.’

‘Romeo One to Mike Whisky One. Did you say he is inside house?’ The support officer sounded concerned.

‘Inside the house, yes yes.’

‘Mike Whisky One, Southern Water say that all water meters are external. There is no need for anyone to enter a property, other than to ask where the stopcock and meter are.’

Doug Riley was distracted by the sound of another vehicle turning into the drive. A dark-grey Mercedes coupe drove past him, travelling slowly on the bumpy track. Slowly enough to make out the identity of the driver through his binoculars.

‘Romeo One,’ Riley said, urgently. ‘A Mercedes coupe is approaching target house. Driver is a male IC3.’

‘A black man, Mike Whisky One?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Can you positively identify him as Jules de Copeland?’

‘I can’t positively.’

‘ARVs to carry out enforced stop,’ came the command.

The Mercedes suddenly stopped. Doug Riley, bits of shrubbery tumbling from his clothes and helmet, stood a short distance from the car, his Glock drawn and aimed. He was joined by his colleague, Lewis Hastings, also showering vegetation from his clothes, gun in his hand.

An instant later an ARV raced up behind the Mercedes. A second blocked the exit onto the road.

The first ARV officer stopped at the driver’s door, as his colleague reached the passenger side.

‘Police!’ the first one yelled. ‘Hands in the air! Show me your hands!’ The man behind the wheel, looking scared, raised his arms.

The officer yanked open the door. ‘Keep your hands up and get out!’ The driver tried to move but his seat belt restrained him.

Standing back, holding both hands on the gun, the officer yelled, ‘Unbuckle and get out, out, out!’

The man obeyed and climbed out, raising his arms as high as he could. He was short, wearing a hoodie, jeans and trainers.

Doug Riley instinctively felt something was wrong. That this was not his man. Not from his height, for sure. ‘What’s your name?’ he yelled.

‘Lucius Orji,’ the man said, with some reluctance.

Hastings came round, stood behind the man and frisked him thoroughly. Then he jerked his arms down behind his back and snapped on handcuffs, as Riley peered carefully into the empty rear of the car.

‘Where’s Jules de Copeland?’ Riley demanded as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the support van followed by the second ARV approaching at speed.

‘Who?’

‘Jules de Copeland. Don’t try playing innocent. Did he send you?’

‘I don’t know any Jules de Copeland.’

‘No? So what are you doing here? Taking a drive in the country? Admiring the autumn colours?’

Lucius Orji nodded. ‘Yeah, just taking a drive — must have took a wrong turning.’

From the look in the man’s eyes, Riley knew he was lying. ‘Are you sure? It wasn’t Jules de Copeland who asked you to come here tonight?’

‘I don’t know no one of that name,’ he said, sounding angry and insolent.

‘Really?’

‘Well, maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

The van and the car pulled up behind them. The support officers, also guns in hand, got out of the van. Two ARV officers, in vizors and full body armour, jumped out of the car, brandishing Heckler and Koch sub-machine guns, further covering the handcuffed man.

Riley conferred with the support officers, who then began searching the Mercedes. Glancing around, he suddenly saw that the driverless Southern Water van was rocking. He sprinted towards it.