Love You Dead

108 Friday 13 March

‘I have the address. Looks like 191 Roedean Crescent. Potting’s gone into her house, sir,’ the undercover monitor said to Roy Grace over the phone. ‘Cake and tea and then she’s cooking him dinner.’

‘Lucky sod,’ Grace replied. ‘Thanks for the update. So the address confirms the location we thought. No other information?’

‘Nothing significant, sir. He’s doing a convincing job, but she’s revealing nothing.’

‘Keep me updated.’

‘Yes, of course, sir. I’m going off shift at 8 p.m., handing over to Andy Clarke.’

‘OK, thanks.’

‘I’ll be back on at 8 a.m.’

‘Have a good evening.’

‘Thank you, sir. It’s my husband’s birthday. I’ll be drinking orange juice.’

‘Enjoy!’

‘Huh.’

Grace stood and looked at the map of Brighton and Hove, and located Roedean Crescent. He knew the area. So now Norman Potting was there, with the target. And it was likely Tooth would know it by now, too. He rang the ACC, advising him that the UC might be in increased danger. With the knowledge that there could well be venomous reptiles in the property, he told Pewe he would speak to Nick Sloan, to discuss round-the-clock Armed Response Unit surveillance. He also added that if they were to attempt an entry to the house to rescue him, should anything go wrong, they would additionally need an expert on venomous reptiles to be present, and that was in hand.

‘Roy,’ Pewe said, ‘you know how stretched we are. Do we have the resources to protect UC adequately? If not, you’ll need to consider pulling him out — if you don’t want anything that happens to him to be on your conscience.’

‘Sir, so far everything has gone according to plan, like clockwork. I think he’ll deliver. We just need to make him safe.’

‘Was going into her home part of our plan?’ Pewe questioned.

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘You believe she might keep venomous reptiles there and you haven’t already arranged for an expert to be on hand? Do you realize the consequences for Sussex Police if he was bitten?’

‘I have arranged an expert, and I’ve a lot of faith in our officer.’

‘Good to hear that, Roy,’ he whined. ‘I’m glad somebody does.’

Grace hung up. God, he hated that man. Why the hell hadn’t he let him fall to his death over Beachy Head? It was a question he had asked himself so many times. He’d saved his life, and this was his reward.

One day Pewe would get his true comeuppance. But right now Roy’s priority was Potting’s safety, and arresting that bitch on murder charges that would stick. He vitally needed better evidence.

He called DS Tanja Cale and asked her to confirm that Dr Rearden, the snake expert from London Zoo, was on his way down to Brighton for the pre-search planning meeting. He then rang the on-call Gold Commander, to brief him on the current deployment of a UC at No. 191 Roedean Crescent, and the possible need for an ARV unit to attend in an emergency.

Grace was not pleased to hear that due to the shortage of man-power there might not be a surveillance unit available immediately. He knew that Potting should be able to take care of himself, and that he had a panic alert on his iPhone which would send a unit over at once, should he need it. The Gold Commander, Chief Superintendent Nev Kemp, told him he would talk to Silver and sort out the necessary resources.

Grace ended the call and sat, frustrated. Five years ago, if he’d needed an armed surveillance unit to safeguard Potting, there would have been one at scene within thirty minutes, and a rota of units would have remained there for as long as it took. Now it would take some while to arrange.

Great.

Grace stared down at the files on his desk. Updates on Crisp, Jodie and Tooth.

He glanced at his watch. 3.05 p.m. He frowned — it had to be later than that. Much later. He shook it and realized it had stopped. It was a chunky Swatch that Glenn Branson had made him buy some while ago when he had insisted on taking him fashion shopping for a makeover, when Grace had first begun to date Cleo. Probably needed a new battery. He glanced at his iPhone. 6.20 p.m. Then saw the date.

It was Friday the 13th today. Paraskevidekatriaphobics & was the word for people who had a fear of this date. But it had never bothered him. The only superstition he had ever taken note of — if it could even be called a superstition — was a full moon. In his early days in the police, as a beat copper in Brighton, it always seemed there was a rise in violent incidents whenever there was a full moon. One of his colleagues, some years back, had actually made a study and had concluded that it was true.

He felt at this moment like a juggler holding a whole bunch of spinning plates in the air. He had a female killer on the loose in Brighton; a fugitive serial killer somewhere in France, or Europe, or anywhere in the world by now; and an American killer for hire playing cat and mouse all over the city.

And a boss who would give anything to blame him for failing to lock all three up.

The only useful thing he had right now, thanks to Norman Potting, was Jodie Carmichael’s address, and some rather flimsy circumstantial evidence against her.

He was relying heavily on Potting finding something with which they could nail her.

Friday the 13th.

Hell, it had to be a lucky day for someone.