Dead at First Sight

66 Wednesday 10 October

Tooth remembered a decent all-night café on Brighton seafront, called Buddies. To his irritation, it appeared the crew of a police patrol car, which was parked a short distance along, also liked it. He could see through the window two officers standing inside.

Although he’d changed his appearance from the last time he had been in this city, letting his hair grow back instead of shaving his head, wearing arty glasses and an ear stud, he didn’t want to chance it. He was aware too many police here would have his description, which was circulated not that many months ago. It had also appeared in the local Argus newspaper in a photo parade of faces of the most wanted in the county.

He parked a couple of cars back and waited. The two officers seemed to be chatting with a man behind the counter. All jovial. Chatting. Chatting. Laughing, making small talk.

He continued watching. Waiting. The nodding heads. More laughter. He was anxious about being away from the apartment block in case Copeland slipped off. He checked his phone. The blue dot was still at the address, the car hadn’t moved. Not that he was expecting it to.

Finally the officers came out into the street, holding their dinner — or early breakfast — packages. Hopefully they wouldn’t sit and eat them in their car, just here.

He was in luck. Within seconds of climbing in, they must have received a call.

They shot off at speed on blue lights.

Five minutes later, relieved that no more police had come in, he hurried out with his cheeseburger, fries and coffee, back to his car. He sat there in darkness to eat his meal and prised the plastic lid off his coffee cup. As soon as he had finished, he left and headed towards Withdean Road. On the way he pulled into a filling station in Dyke Road, went into the shop and loaded up with sandwiches, chocolate bars and bottles of water. Five minutes later he was out and heading on up the road in his car.

After half a mile he made a right turn, then a left into Withdean Road. The affluent area, lined with tall trees, felt more rural than urban, and it was, despite the street lighting, fairly dark. That had suited him well earlier, and it would suit his purposes even better now.

Most of the large, detached houses were partially or completely secluded behind tall hedges and walls, and those he could see were in darkness at this hour. He cruised along slowly until he reached the one, on his left, somewhere behind the high brick wall and wrought-iron gates. Withdean Place.

He carried on past, looking for somewhere to park. This end of the road was narrow and twisty. But it was late and no one was around. He put two wheels onto the pavement, secured the car, then walked back towards the house, looking up at the wall as he approached for any possible access point. He switched on his phone torch and ran the beam up the wall. Saw the glints of glass shards along the top.

He reached the gates and debated whether to scale them. No question they’d be covered by infra-red cameras on motion sensor. He switched the phone torch off and studied the Google Earth map on his screen. There was no rear access to the property because to the south was another house. That one fronted onto Dyke Road Avenue.

Maybe he could access this house from there?

He checked Maps on his phone. A short distance ahead was a side road that would take him to Dyke Road Avenue, and then another right turn would put him behind Withdean Place.

As he walked along, the street suddenly lit up with approaching headlights. He stepped behind a thick tree and watched a small, dark car with two people in it drive past, slowly.

Too slowly.

Two people inside. Looking for something? An address?

Midweek, mid-October, this was not party season. They sure weren’t looking for a party — nor a rave. All his instincts pinned them as cops.

Were they simply patrolling the city’s Nob Hill? In an unmarked car? Or, more likely, looking for something — or someone?

As he walked on, light built up behind him. A car.

The same car. Coming back.

It passed him as he stood, invisible, behind another tree. Had someone tipped them off?

What were they looking for? Him?

They’d have spotted his car for sure. Checked it out. Found it was a rental.

And hopefully left it at that.

Would they?

Or would they be wondering what a little rental Polo was doing parked half on the sidewalk, in the middle of the night?

He abandoned any thoughts of breaking into the grounds of Withdean Place and walked as fast as he could, trying not to look obvious to any CCTV camera that might be clocking him, back to his car.

He set off, driving sedately, keeping carefully to the speed limits, and headed into a maze of residential streets, looking specifically for something. A Volkswagen Polo identical to his own.

After ten minutes, he found it, down a smart side street in Hove. A dark Polo, parked on the driveway of a detached house, which had clearly been there for some while, judging from its misted-up windows.

It took him less than five minutes to swap number plates.

When he arrived back outside Marina Heights, twenty minutes later, to further avoid possible detection by police cameras, he made a second number-plate swap, this time with the dusty one he had seen in the underground car park.