Dead at First Sight

94 Friday 12 October

One lesson Tooth had learned during his many years in his chosen profession was how to remain invisible. In plain sight was often the best way.

Like wearing a yellow high-viz tabard. You were even more invisible if, wearing one, you carried a clipboard, and even more so if you held a surveyor’s scope. You were invisible, too, if you drove a taxi — cabs could be anywhere, at any hour, without arousing suspicion. But you couldn’t park up a taxi any place for too long.

A van was different.

You could park a van for hours and no one would take any notice. Which was why, at 3.02 a.m., Tooth was stationed across the road in a lay-by, two hundred metres east of Marina Heights, in a small white Renault van he had rented from a local company. He had a clear view of the garage entrance.

According to his phone, sunrise would be at 6.51 a.m. It had taken him less than an hour last night to cab it to the company’s depot, rent the vehicle and return. Not enough time, for sure, for Copeland to have had his tyre fixed and depart.

During the long hours of the night, no one came in or out of the building — not through the front door, nor out of the garage.

He nibbled through a series of chocolate bars to give him energy, and they helped to quell the constant rising queasiness inside him. His temperature rose and fell between boiling hot and icy cold.

He needed a doctor. He needed to get back to Munich to see him. But that was not an option. Not right now.

What snake or scorpion or spider venom was still coursing through his system all these months on, he wondered, shaking a Lucky Strike out of the crumpled pack in his pocket and clicking his lighter, shielding the flame with his hand. Sucking in the smoke made him feel a little better.

Rain fell and then stopped. Wind blew for a while, rocking the car. An ambulance screamed past.

Tooth stared through the windscreen, occasionally switching on the wipers to clear his view. He was fine waiting. He’d waited days in way more hostile environments than this. At least no insects were biting him here, there were no landmines to be wary of and no enemies with AK-47s lurking. The cab of this Renault was close to luxury by comparison.

Five floors above, unable to sleep, Jules de Copeland peered through the blinds and down through the window towards the weakly lit parking bays. The Polo was still there. The darkness, rain and coating of salt on the window made it hard to see clearly. Was that the shape of the short man behind the wheel or just a shadow from one of the parking area lights?

Should he make his run for it now under the cover of darkness, he wondered? Hole up somewhere and wait until tomorrow afternoon, before heading towards Primrose Farm Cottage?

Or just stay put?

He checked his watch: 3.30 a.m. Maybe wait an hour or so till 4.30 a.m. That was the witching hour. He’d recently watched a television documentary about the human body clock. It seemed this was the time when people were at their lowest ebb. When sick people were most likely to die. Maybe the man in the Polo would be asleep then.

He made a list of what he needed to take with him, set his alarm and lay down on his bed, closed his eyes and tried to sleep.