Dead at First Sight

65 Wednesday 10 October

Roy Grace drove in through the barrier of the Sussex Police headquarters shortly after midnight, feeling more awake now, having gulped a quick double espresso before leaving home.

Walking along the deserted corridor towards the Major Incident suite, he smelled the unappetizing aromas of microwaved ready-meals that were the all-too-familiar staple gastronomic delights of late-night investigations. He entered the room to see Simon, EJ, Alec, Arnie, Velvet and Vivi, the analyst, at their workstations. Norman was perched on a desktop, holding a foil container, spooning something lurid out of it into his mouth at high speed.

As soon as he saw him Potting jumped up and hurried over to him like an eager puppy, orange stains around his lips. ‘Thanks for coming in, chief. I think we’re making progress. I’ll show you.’

Grace went over to Potting’s workstation. On the screen was a Google Earth aerial map of part of Withdean Road. ‘There seem to be four houses where the call might have been made from,’ Potting said. ‘The analyst has identified, from an internet search, the occupants of three of them. One is owned by a female property developer, who has no previous with us. Another, an elderly widow, whose husband ran a building society. The third is a well-respected Brighton businessman, Ian Steel, a big charity benefactor.’ He stabbed a finger at the screen, at a property between the last two, which appeared to Grace to be isolated in substantial grounds. ‘This is the one that might be of interest to us, chief,’ he said.

Grace peered closely at the part of the screen Potting’s bitten fingernail was tapping. A substantial house, in a very large garden with a tennis court and pool.

‘Apparently it’s owned by a Swiss company, chief. We’re unable tonight to find out more about them. But the managing agents are a Brighton firm called Rand and Co., who have been very helpful. We’ve phoned their office and got an out-of-hours emergency number. A short while ago DC Davies spoke to the proprietor, Graham Rand, who told him that the property was on a twelve-month rental. Mr Rand then rang the sales executive who handled the leasing and said it was a tall gentleman, a Jules de Copeland, he believed of African origin, currently domiciled in Germany. He said Mr Copeland paid twelve months in advance and had impeccable references. Then he added something that might be of real significance.’

‘Yes?’

‘Apparently he wore very shiny red shoes.’

Roy Grace stared back at him. ‘Bingo!’

‘That’s what I thought, too, chief.’ Potting beamed.

Grace immediately dialled the on-call Oscar-1 and requested an unmarked car to go straight to Withdean Road and take a discreet look around the vicinity of a property called Withdean Place.

When he had finished, he made a second call which gave him a great deal of pleasure. It was to Cassian Pewe’s job phone. And hopefully it would wake him up.

It did.

‘Apologies for calling so late, sir,’ Grace said, breezily.

‘This had better be good,’ Pewe said, sounding bleary, as Roy Grace had hoped.

‘I need a surveillance team, urgently,’ Grace replied and quickly explained why. Whether Pewe was in the process of getting laid or trying to get a night’s sleep, Roy Grace didn’t give a monkey’s. He just needed his boss’s approval for the additional expenditure, as he’d been instructed.

He got it.