Dead at First Sight

49 Tuesday 9 October

Johnny Fordwater could not have made that trip to New York a year ago, he reflected. Not while Nero, his Labrador, had still been alive. He would never have left the elderly, arthritic creature home alone for almost two days, and he could never bear the thought of incarcerating him in kennels; he loved that damned, loyal creature too much. In addition, Nero had been a kind of a link between him and his late wife, Elaine. She’d adored that dog, too. During those last months when she was bedridden, before she had moved into the hospice, the dog would spend hours at a time by her side.

Some miles after leaving Heathrow Airport, he turned his fourteen-year-old Mercedes E-Class south off the M25. Until just a few weeks ago he’d been planning to replace it with a more recent model, but now he knew, sadly, he never would.

He yawned, the bright, low sun shining straight through the windscreen, hurting his eyes which were raw from lack of sleep on the transatlantic flight. He’d tried a few stiff drinks to knock him out, but all they’d done was make him thirsty and drink a lot of water. As a result he’d had to clamber, several times, over the legs of two increasingly irate passengers between himself and the aisle to make his way to the toilet. He’d tried watching a movie, but couldn’t concentrate. All he could think about was the mission he was now on, and trying to make a budget for his future. Something he dreaded most was the humiliating thought that he might need to turn to the Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen’s charity for help.

The angry blast of a horn behind shook him; he realized with a start he was drifting across into the fast lane. He swerved back as a van travelling fast shot by, inches from his door. He should pull over somewhere, get some shut-eye for half an hour, he knew. But he didn’t have the luxury of time to do that. The flight had been over two hours late arriving, due to delays at JFK, and then they were stacked for half an hour over Heathrow. His plans to go home first, shower and change were out of the window, because he did not want to miss his appointment.

After an hour, the soft green hills of the South Downs loomed ahead — the sight of which always lifted his spirits. A further twenty minutes later, entering the hilly Brighton suburb of Woodingdean, his satnav announced, ‘You have arrived!’ He halted on a steep residential street, outside a sprawling modern house with a sporty-looking black Audi under the car port.

Five minutes later he was seated in a snug room, surrounded on all sides by books, a veritable library of military history. He had a mug of tea in his hand, a plate of plain digestive biscuits on the low table in front of him and an overweight beagle at his feet looking up at him expectantly. Suddenly the dog jumped up at him.

‘Fatso, down! Down! DOWN!’ Ray Packham said.

Reluctantly the beagle lowered its paws, then gave his master a baleful look. ‘Sorry about him, I didn’t ask — are you OK with dogs, Major?’

‘Love them. And please — call me Johnny.’

‘OK. So, Johnny,’ the IT consultant said, ‘I understand you have a bit of a problem?’

‘You could say that.’

‘How would you like me to help you?’

‘How long do you have?’

‘As long as you need.’

Johnny repeated the whole story, from the start, bringing in Sorokin’s plight, too. When he had finished, he handed Packham his laptop and guided him to the site where he had met Ingrid Ostermann.

‘A very nice-looking lady,’ Packham conceded, looking at her photograph. ‘Whoever she really is.’

Fordwater gave a wan nod.

‘I’m afraid you’ve joined a very big club, Major — Johnny.’

‘So I realize,’ he said glumly, feeling his chin. Feeling the growth of stubble and aware he probably didn’t smell that great.

‘Let me ask you a direct question. What are your expectations from me, or anyone else you’re approaching for help?’

Johnny shrugged. ‘At best, to recover my money, which I know isn’t going to happen. At worst, for my American chum and I to at least nail the bastards who did this and stop them from destroying any more lives.’

Ray Packham looked at him sympathetically. ‘I appreciate your sentiments. I’d love to help you for free, but since leaving the police I have to make a living — I’ve a mortgage over my head — so I do have to charge for my services. But the thing is, I don’t want you throwing good money after bad. To be very blunt, in my experience your chances of recovering a single penny are remote, as I think you understand. The scammers could be anywhere in the world — most likely Ghana, Nigeria or somewhere in Eastern Europe — Romania, Albania. My honest advice to you is to treat this as a life-lesson, bite the bullet, try to forget all about it and move on. Don’t let it destroy the rest of your life.’

‘I can’t do that, Mr Packham, I’m afraid that’s not in my DNA. What is it they say — you can take the man out of the army, but you can’t take the army out of the man? I’m a soldier through and through. One of the reasons I joined the army was because I wanted to correct injustices. These bastards have suckered me out of just about every penny I have. What’s left in the kitty is yours. I’m happy to pay you. I want revenge on these bastards. I need you to understand that.’

‘Revenge? That’s your driver?’

‘Yes.’

Packham looked hard at him. ‘Can I just remind you of the words of Confucius, a very wise man: Before you seek revenge, first dig two graves.’

‘I’m comfortable with that. I’m wiped out, my beloved wife is dead, my eldest child lives in Canada and I’m buggered if I’m going to go and live there, sponging off him until I die. I have nothing to live for. If any good can come out of this appalling mess, I’m happy to dig two graves — and pay for them up front. At least I’ll have one certainty to look forward to.’ Johnny gave him a wistful look, then stood and reached up to one of the bookshelves for a volume he’d spotted. Sun Tzu’s The Art Of War. He pulled it out and handed it to Packham. ‘Ever read this?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Stand by the riverbank for long enough, and the bodies of all your enemies will float past,’ Johnny recited.

There was a brief reflective silence by both men, before Johnny continued.

‘Do you have any idea how it feels to be such a mug as I’ve been, Mr Packham? I’ve served my country to the best of my abilities, always tried to do the decent thing, always treated people fairly, and always put a little bit aside for a rainy day. Now I’m faced with losing my home and every bean I have in the world — and going cap in hand to charity. Shall I tell you what my future holds?’

Packham looked at him expectantly.

‘At my age I have no chance of building up any kind of nest egg again. I’m wiped out. I face a future of living on benefits, in council accommodation. Then at some point in the future, I’ll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they can’t find a defibrillator. That’s the future I face. Not a great prospect, is it? All because of my own stupidity.’ He shrugged. ‘Look, I’m not blaming anyone. I was lucky, I didn’t take a bullet or lose my limbs in the desert. I suppose sooner or later everyone’s luck runs out. I’d just rather mine had run out when I was a younger man, at an age when I could have started over and rebuilt my life. Now I’m an old fart. The best I can hope for, to supplement my meagre income, is a job on a supermarket checkout.’

Packham scribbled a note on a pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Fordwater. ‘I don’t want to take your money, there’s no charge for today’s session. This is who you should go and talk to, he knows more about this field than anyone. Save your money for him.’

Johnny Fordwater looked down at the sheet.

On it was written a name — Jack Roberts, Private Investigator — and a phone number.

‘If he likes you, Mr Fordwater, he’s your man.’

‘How do I get him to like me?’

Ray Packham shrugged. ‘Can’t help you on that one, mate. But good luck.’