Dead at First Sight

43 Monday 8 October

‘Fatso!’ Ray Packham called out. ‘HUDSON! FATSO!’ he shouted, even louder, the wind instantly whipping his voice away as he dutifully traipsed across the hilly fields behind his Woodingdean home, on his evening constitutional walk with the dog.

The disobedient, overweight beagle had lumbered off, in one of his eternally futile chases after a rabbit. The thing was so plump it would struggle to catch a tortoise, Packham thought. Although he was only too well aware that until recently he would have struggled to catch a tortoise, too.

In his late forties, mild-mannered and polite, Packham always dressed more corporately than the more-casual average tech guru. He was on the mend from a debilitating spinal condition that had caused him to take early retirement from the Sussex Police Digital Forensics Team. After years of crippling pain, he’d now been given a new, almost miraculous treatment, and on his doctor’s orders was walking five miles a day, recording them on his Fitbit.

He was revelling in his second career as an independent IT consultant, working with police forces and banking security advisors around the world, although tonight he was feeling a bit gloomy at the prospect of going back to an empty house. His wife, Jen, was on a Mediterranean cruise with her sister. It was one they should have been on together, but two days before departure an urgent job had come up from the City of London Economic Crimes Unit, currently his biggest paymaster, which he and Jen agreed he should not turn down.

‘FATSO!’

The blooming dog was nowhere to be seen in the rapidly deepening darkness. A few miles to the south he could see, intermittently, two pinpricks of light: a fishing boat or a container ship far out on the choppy water of the English Channel.

‘FATSO! HUDSON!’

He was wishing he’d worn a heavier coat tonight, the bitter wind freezing his nuts off. Suddenly the display of his phone lit up. An incoming call.

International was all the display revealed.

‘Ray Packham,’ he answered, tenting his head with his anorak to try to keep out the noise of the wind so he could hear.

There was a brief delay then he heard a very correct-sounding English voice. ‘Mr Packham? My name is Johnny Fordwater. I’ve been given your name by Detective Investigator Lanigan of the New York Police Department. An associate of his in the FBI — Bradley Warren — suggested you might be able to help me.’

‘Bradley Warren? I met him a few years ago at Quantico. He’s a good chap, how is he?’

‘I’ve not actually met him himself — he passed on the recommendation.’

‘Very good of him, I’d be happy to try. What can I do for you?’

Fordwater filled him in on his and Sorokin’s situation.

‘I’m sorry to hear this, Mr Fordwater.’

‘It’s Major, actually. Retired.’

‘Apologies, Major. Did I hear you say £400,000, Mr — Major — Fordwater?’

‘Correct — and change.’

Hudson came lumbering out of the gloom towards him.

‘Good boy!’ he praised.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry, I was talking to my dog!’

‘Ah. I’m getting a lot of roaring sounds, can hardly hear you — don’t think this is a very good line.’

‘I’m halfway up a hill and it’s blowing a hooley,’ Packham said. ‘Might be best if you call me in half an hour when I’m back home.’

‘Good plan.’

When he did call back, Johnny Fordwater related the whole story in detail. As he finished, from the sound of it Ray Packham was now scraping food into a dog bowl. There were several loud, deep barks. ‘Hudson, quiet!’ More clattering, then he said, ‘I’m afraid, Major Fordwater, yours is not a unique story. I have a whole caseload of similar tales. If you’re hoping I might be able to recover your money I’d like to save you any further time and costs right away. I’m sorry to tell you this bluntly, but there isn’t a hope in hell.’

‘I know that,’ the Englishman said, bleakly. ‘But myself and my chum, Matt Sorokin here, from the Hernando County Sheriff’s office in Florida, would like to use our experiences to at least warn others not to end up in the same situation as ourselves. And I... we...’ His voice tailed off.

‘Yes?’ Packham prompted.

‘We have a proposal we’d like to discuss with you. I’m flying back to London tonight. Can we meet — as soon as possible? Tomorrow morning, I could come straight to you from the airport.’

‘Are you sure you want to spend the money?’

‘Oh yes, very.’