Dead at First Sight

89 Thursday 11 October

Jules de Copeland sat, dwarfing the small desk in the flat, his two large forefingers typing clumsily on the small keypad.

As he finished the email, checked it through and sent it, the 6 p.m. news came on Radio Sussex. He always listened, as often as he could throughout the day. The first item was another scandal the US President was glossing over, and the second was the recent royal visit to Brighton of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

The third jolted him.

‘A spokesman for Lewes Prison has just confirmed that a prisoner was found dead from apparent stab wounds earlier today. His identity has been withheld but we understand the dead man was in the First Night Centre, where recently admitted prisoners spend their first few days. We will bring you more news on this story as it comes in.’

Copeland switched off the radio. Thinking. The First Night Centre.

Kofi would have been there.

It could, of course, be another prisoner. But he had a bad feeling about this.

Real bad.

He walked over to the window and looked down at the parking bays below. No sign of the man or the Polo. The alert of an incoming email distracted him and he hurried over to his computer.

He replied, distractedly.

Kofi? Was he the man whose name had not been released? Stabbed? Dead? His crazy bro? His heart heaved as he thought fleetingly about all that Kofi Okonjo had meant to him throughout their entwined lives. More than any friend. His bro. The closest he’d ever been with any human before his wife and son.

Shit, bro, are you OK?

But he wasn’t OK. He knew it. Stabbed.

Was he taking too much of a risk staying here another day? Cut and run now? Forget Lynda Merrill and her £300k? Kofi had screwed up everything. Plus he had no idea what he might have said to the police when he was arrested. The police weren’t stupid, either, they’d be piecing together connections. England. Germany. Ghana.

Someone had already pieced together connections ahead of the police. And he had a pretty shrewd idea who, too.

Someone angry enough to want Kofi dead. And himself. Someone powerful and connected enough to make it happen. There was only one person. When they’d split from him, he’d sworn to track them down and kill them both. Told them no one screwed him and lived.

Now it seemed his ugly threat was real. Steve Barrey.

If it was Kofi, he’d never get to see his girl, Julia, again. Nor his cars. The thought alarmed him. His own wife, Ama, and son, Bobo, living in their farmhouse near Munich. Waiting for his return. If Barrey had someone inside the prison, he could not risk being arrested.

Ama. Sweet Ama. He looked at her photograph now and kissed her pretty face. Then he kissed Bobo’s too. There were tears in his eyes. Maybe he’d been stupid. Driven by greed. Maybe Barrey was right and they weren’t smart enough to survive on their own. Kofi was too much of a wild card. And now he was dead?

He had to get back to Germany. Where she was waiting, patiently, trustingly, and lonely. She knew no one. Had no friends. He’d warned her against talking to people. Just her and Bobo isolated in the house in a foreign land, with a language she did not speak or understand. Waiting for him to take her back home to Ghana to all her family and friends. And not to have to go through another damp, cold, bitter winter, where she constantly felt like she was freezing to death. He’d made her that promise. Now it was October and winter was coming.

What if he got caught here? It would be years in jail — if he could even survive. What should he do? Cut and run now while he could? While he still, at least, had a chance?

From the back of the desk’s bottom drawer he removed a thick brown envelope and shook out the contents: a Dutch passport and driving licence. Both carried his photograph. His name on the documents was Kees Vandegraff. He swapped them over with the British ones he currently carried in his pocket, put them in the envelope and pushed it to the back of the drawer. Closing it, he walked back over to the window. No sign of the man watching him.

That worried him. Where was he?

He heard the alert from another incoming email and went back over to his computer. It was from Lynda. The address and directions for tomorrow. Punctuated with exclamation marks and kisses.

He scrawled it down on a Post-it pad on his desk, then dutifully sent her a bunch of kisses back. Wondering how much of a fight she might put up. The cottage sounded really remote, no neighbours. The owners not returning until Monday. He needed enough time to get to Germany, and it would be too risky to take the cash on an airplane, with the sniffer dogs they had at airports. Which meant driving. A late Eurostar crossing tomorrow and he’d be in Munich by early Saturday morning. Visit the dealer who traded his cash for Bitcoins, then scoop up his family and get a flight to Accra.

Ama wouldn’t be pleased she was going to have to pack in a rush and leave most of her stuff behind. But she would be happy that she was going home. That would outweigh everything. The look on her sweet face when he told her. He could barely wait to see her, to hold her. And Bobo.

He did some mental calculations. They should be safely back in Ghana by Sunday evening. Lynda Merrill’s friends were not due back until Monday. It gave him a margin, but not a huge one in case of a delayed or cancelled flight. He didn’t want to kill her, but he realized it might be the better option. If he tied her up, when her friends released her she would be able to give the police — Interpol or Europol or whatever they were — his description. Killing her would buy him more time.

He played out the scenario in his mind. Arms around her neck.

Snap.