Dead at First Sight

98 Friday 12 October

At 4.30 a.m., dressed and heavily sprayed with cologne, Jules de Copeland peered down through the window at the parking area. The Polo was still there. The windscreen was wet and misted. Was that someone at the wheel?

Wait on, bro, Copeland thought.

He took the lift down to the underground car park, carrying two bags with him, one containing his passport and a few belongings, the other empty, big enough, he had calculated, for the cash Lynda Merrill was going to give him.

His plan was to leave here under the cover of darkness and head towards the rendezvous, then park up somewhere remote. En route he would buy a massive bunch of flowers, an impressive box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne.

He could imagine the look on her face. She would be expecting a handsome Richie Griffiths. Not him.

He had the spiel all prepared. ‘Hi, Mrs Merrill, Richie got delayed, he sent me ahead to present you with these little gifts!’

Then, depending how she reacted, he’d either knock her unconscious or more likely break the stupid bitch’s neck.

The doors opened. He stepped out and walked across the silent, dimly lit car park, looking around warily while he made his way towards the dark-blue Kia, checking every shadow the way he used to as a kid during jungle warfare. As he approached, he pulled the key out of his pocket and pressed the unlock button. The indicators flashed and he heard the clunk.

Then he saw the front right tyre. Completely flat.

Shit, shit, shit.

This was so not part of the plan.

Putting the bags down on the ground, he opened the boot and peered inside for a toolkit and spare wheel. There wasn’t one — instead he saw a bag labelled ‘Tyre Inflation Kit’. He opened it and studied the instructions. He removed the cylinder, knelt and removed the dust cap from the valve. Then he screwed in the nozzle and pressed the trigger.

There was a sharp hiss and to his relief the tyre began inflating. Then, as the gas in the cylinder ran out, he heard a further hiss. Coming from another part of the tyre.

In front of his eyes, it fully deflated again in seconds. He swore, feeling a flash of panic.

Opening the passenger door, he flipped down the lid of the glovebox, pulled out the rental document and scanned it, looking for an emergency contact number. He found it and dialled. It was answered after a few rings. He explained the problem to a polite, weary-sounding male. He would get a breakdown vehicle to him as soon as possible, he assured Copeland. But it might take a while because it was the middle of the night.

Copeland locked the bags in the boot of the car and went back up to his flat. Over two hours later, his phone rang. A chirpy-sounding man from the breakdown company told him he was five minutes away with a spare tyre for him in case the puncture could not be fixed; could he let him into the underground car park?

Copeland hurried back down.