Dead at First Sight

109 Friday 12 October

Closing the door of Flat 507 behind him, Tooth stood in a wide, luxuriously appointed hallway. As a precaution, he called out, ‘Hello! Caretaker!’

There was no response.

He called out again louder, to make sure, then walked along the hallway and into a large, open-plan living-dining area. Picture windows gave panoramic views to the east and south, all with full-length blinds, fully lowered and opened at an angle that would allow the occupant to look out but not be seen.

It was some pad. Clearly Jules de Copeland didn’t stint himself, lavishing some of the money he conned from his internet dating scam business on a nice lifestyle. Smart, modern furnishings, with a fancy Bang and Olufsen hi-fi and a vast flat-screen television.

He walked across thick, white broadloom to the south-facing windows and peered down at the road. The fire brigade were in attendance now, applying heavy cutting gear to the Mini, the driver still inside. There were three ambulances. Police everywhere. His van was still parked across the road in the bus stop, no one seemingly paying it any attention.

He turned away and looked around. Somewhere in here, he hoped he’d find a clue as to where Copeland might be heading.

And if he didn’t?

Tough shit, Steven Barrey. This was his last contract. For the first time since he had started his business he decided to throw his principles to the wind. Take his chances on the burnt-face bastard ever tracking him down in South America.

Over against the far wall, where there was no window, was a fancy walnut desk and white leather chair. He went over to it. There was a Mac charging cable, a phone charger and a mouse. He looked around more carefully. In the waste-paper basket he saw a screwed-up yellow Post-it note that had some scribble on it. Curious, he retrieved it and opened out the small yellow square of paper. The words were barely legible.

Lynda. Primrose Farm Cottage. Forest Row. 6.30 pm. 300K

He pocketed it, then left the apartment, making his way back down the stairwell. There was a non-alarmed fire-escape door out onto the street at the back of the building. He took it. Too risky to return to his van, he decided. No doubt it would be clamped or towed sometime later this morning. But with all the chaos happening in the street in front of it, he doubted anyone would be paying it too much attention for some while. With luck it would be removed to a car pound and, long before anyone started looking for the man who had rented it, he would be out of the country.

A light drizzle was falling again. He walked along the street, with an underpass to the left and the gasometer beyond, thinking, planning. Feeling very much better, suddenly, although he knew that would not last. Sometime soon again the nausea would return.

When he was a fair distance away from the seafront road he stopped and did a Google search for van rental companies in the area. In his search yesterday, he’d found several. He pressed the link for the phone number of the one that had been second on his list, and dialled the firm. They had a vehicle which suited his purposes fine. He told them he would be with them within the next two hours.

Perfect. He still had two unused identities on him — passports and driving licences in different names. He would collect the rental, drive to his hotel near Gatwick, pick up his bag, then head over towards Primrose Farm Cottage, Forest Row. Copeland and his beloved Lynda were due to rendezvous at 6.30 p.m. He would get there nice and early. Later he would drive to Ashford and catch a late Eurostar to Paris with his one remaining identity.

He was thinking about the lyrics of one of the few musicians he liked listening to, John Lennon, and one of his favourite tracks, ‘Beautiful Boy’ — ‘Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.’

Oh yes.

Jules de Copeland, think about that. It’s not going to happen.