Love You Dead

100 Thursday 12 March

Determined not to fall foul of another Walter Klein, Jodie Carmichael had spent the past two hours rigorously checking out J. Paul Cornel on the internet.

His Wikipedia tallied with what she had read in the paper. His humble origins growing up on the Whitehawk Estate. His education, first at Brighton’s Dorothy Stringer School, then winning a scholarship to study computer sciences at MIT — Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Followed by a five-year spell working under Dr Josef Kates, in Toronto, one the world’s first pioneers in computer time-sharing, and later in traffic systems. Then his move to Microsoft in California, before making his first fortune in his own Silicon Valley-based technology company developing facial-recognition systems for the US military, before funding a succession of highly successful tech start-ups. With his passion for classic cars, he had built up a highly valuable collection.

One thing that particularly excited her about him was his lack of heirs. In his only marriage he had produced two children, a son born with cystic fibrosis who had died at nineteen, and a daughter who had died in a TWA air disaster out of New York. His wife had died from cancer.

He had twice been thwarted in attempts to buy major US baseball teams, and during the past decade had given many millions to charities, including those for cystic fibrosis and genetic engineering research.

She actually found herself feeling sorry for Cornel.

And thanks to the newspaper interview, she had a strong clue where she might find him right now, here in Brighton.

She began to google images of Cornel’s wife. And as she did so, Jodie smiled. The wife had been slim and attractive, brunette and glamorous. With her new hairstyle, she would fit very nicely into that template.

Shortly after 6 p.m., she began to get ready.

Tooth sat at the desk in his hotel room, smoking a cigarette and drinking whisky, watching Jodie on the cameras he had concealed around her house. She was sitting in front of the dressing-table mirror in her bedroom, applying her make-up carefully. Her computer screen was not visible to any of his cameras. What had she been looking at on the internet? he wondered.

What was she dolling herself up for tonight? When did this woman stop? Her husband had only just died and she had brought him home to bury him. He had to admit to a sneaking admiration for her. She was a predator like himself.

He stood up and hobbled around the room. The discomfort in his ribs was lessening. The bruising in his right leg looked a little better now. In a few days he should be fit enough.

Shortly after half past six he watched — and heard — Jodie Carmichael order a taxi to take her to the Grand Hotel. She booked it in her alias, Judith Forshaw.

‘Have a nice evening, Judith,’ he said, quietly. ‘Stay out late. The later the better.’

The opportunity had come sooner than he had expected. But as he had been trained in sniper school, you always had to be ready for when a shot presented itself; you might not get a second opportunity.

He stood up and removed his clothes, and began to reapply his make-up. Afterwards, going over to the closet, he pulled out his dress, shoes, coat and wig.

Fifteen minutes later, Thelma Darby, with the aid of her walking stick, limped along the corridor, clutching her large handbag, took the lift down to the lobby, then headed out across the road to her rental car.