Dead at First Sight

91 Thursday 11 October

Ever since his confrontation with the irate caretaker of Marina Heights last night, Tooth had kept his distance, parked up behind another block of flats a few hundred metres to the east of the building, watching through night-vision binoculars.

Throughout the long hours of darkness and the whole of today, during which he’d fought his tiredness and nausea, he was certain that Copeland’s Kia had not emerged from the building. Nor had anyone remotely resembling Copeland left the building on foot or in a taxi. It was almost dark again now. Good cover.

He wasn’t comfortable that he’d remained in the same spot for almost twenty-four hours. Plenty of people had walked by him during this time, some with dogs, some just going or coming. A few he recognized for the second or third time. There was always the risk of someone like a Neighbourhood Watch coordinator, perhaps, phoning the police to report a suspicious person in a car. It was time to move.

He started the car and drove along, through the entrance marked with a large IN sign, past the warning notice, PRIVATE PROPERTY, that threatened dire consequence for any unauthorized parking, and found a bay close to the one he had occupied before, with a clear view of the front door to the block. He reversed into it.

Needing some energy, he forced himself to eat a dried-up vegetable wrap, knowing it was food that wouldn’t go off as quickly as meat, fish or cheese, drank some water, then relieved his bladder by peeing into an empty litre water bottle. When he’d finished he opened the door, emptied the contents onto the ground and replaced the cap.

On the 6 p.m. news he’d heard an item about an inmate who had been found stabbed to death in the local prison, Lewes. The work of Steve Barrey, he immediately wondered? His mind went back to their phone conversation yesterday.

He won’t get as far as that hearing, Mr Tooth. As I’ve told you, don’t worry about him. Just do your job and eliminate Copeland before he gets arrested, too, and starts squealing to save his bacon. Understand me?

Tooth swallowed a couple of uppers from the pill box in his pocket. They would see him through the night and well into tomorrow morning.

Nausea swelled up inside him again. He took deep breaths. Lowered his window and breathed in the cold, damp air. Felt better. Just a little.

A taxi pulled up at the door. An elderly couple got in and the car drove off.

Jules de Copeland could not stay in his flat forever. At some point he had to emerge. In his rental car, most likely. Angry about the flat tyre. Distracted by his anger.

Then even more angry and distracted when it stopped a short distance away. Tooth glanced at the glovebox. At the gun it contained. A double-tap to Copeland’s head. Then away.

But one thought nagged him. He’d been driving this Polo for too long. Much too long — it was dumb. Shit, what’s the matter with me?

He’d lost it, he knew. I used to be the best. The very best. I was a legend. Pull yourself together.

Even with the change of number plates yet again, he wasn’t safe. The police in this county, he knew from past experience, were smart. They might just start looking for dark-coloured VW Polos and checking them out regardless of their licence plates.

He had an idea, which had been simmering for some hours now. He had time. Copeland would not be able to fix the flat tyre, he’d have to call for assistance. At the very least he had an hour and, in all reality, longer than that.

Pulling out his phone, he did a Google search, trawled through a number of names, then picked one, a small local company, that offered a twenty-four-hour service.