Dead at First Sight

46 Tuesday 9 October

There wasn’t much about being back in Brighton that pleased Tooth, but the heavy rain did. Rain was always good for surveillance — it distracted people, making them less alert to their surroundings, less aware. The rain was obligingly misting up the windows of the little rental Hyundai, four cars in front, further obscuring the rear view of the two men inside it. Although in Tooth’s opinion, what was mostly obscuring the view was their combined lack of intelligence. They ignored speed limits, pinging camera after camera they passed. What were they doing inside that little shitbox ahead of him? Playing a game of pass-the-brain-cell?

He had the radio tuned in to the local station, BBC Sussex. Over the years he’d learned that local radio gave you stuff that could be useful, and he was curious to hear any news reports about Suzy Driver. And he had been right to tune in. A man, whose name he hadn’t caught, was talking in a mellifluous voice, by sheer coincidence about how his identity had been used in attempted romance frauds on eleven victims. One of whom was Suzy Driver.

Tooth had flown into Shoreham yesterday morning, one of his alias passports at the ready in case he was challenged, but no one from Border Control was around. Then he’d been dropped off, by a driver Steve Barrey had arranged, at a car rental place at Gatwick where he’d hired this Volkswagen, turning down the offer of a free upgrade. He told the surprised Budget reception guy that if he’d wanted a bigger car he’d have rented a bigger car. He wanted small.

And inconspicuous.

Wary of spending too much time in the city itself, he’d checked into a Ramada at Gatwick Airport. Tomorrow, he’d switch to another hotel in the area. For security reasons, he never liked to spend more than one night in the same location. And as yet he didn’t have the firearm Barrey had assured him he was fixing for him. As soon as he got it, he’d do a double-tap on Jules de Copeland and Dunstan Ogwang and be on a plane, back out of Shoreham Airport.

The Hyundai Getz shot an amber light and he pulled up his little Polo for the red. Didn’t matter he wouldn’t lose them. Earlier this morning, after they’d emerged from the gates of their fortress-like residence, he’d followed them into Brighton where they’d parked in a multistorey, giving him plenty of time to place a magnetic tracking bug under the rear of the car.

And at least his employer had finally come to his senses. He no longer had the lame instruction to frighten. He had an updated order from Barrey.

Eliminate.

It was like he’d been walking around for days with a limp dick, and now he’d been given a shot of Viagra. He’d checked the money was in his account.

He was going after them. On it.

Where were the dopeheads going? He looked at the blue dot on his phone. They had turned right, east.

The interview with the man, Toby Seward, ended and the midday news came on.

When the lights turned green, he accelerated hard.