Love You Dead

90 Wednesday 11 March

As Roy Grace raced down to the seafront in his unmarked Ford Mondeo, blue lights flashing, talking to Ops-1, he saw to his dismay that the traffic was gridlocked ahead with roadworks.

He eventually parked up and approached the side entrance of the hotel. Guy Batchelor, also wearing a bulletproof vest under his coat, was waiting with Roy Apps, the Duty Inspector, and a tall TFU sergeant, who quickly outlined the plan that had been agreed between him and the Silver Commander.

‘Tooth is in room 407. We’re ready to rock and roll, sir,’ Batchelor said.

‘Are we certain he’s there?’

‘There’s a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and the television’s on very loudly, which may have meant he didn’t hear the housekeeper’s call. He’s due to check out tomorrow, so it would seem he must be here.’

‘OK, good.’

‘We’ve got TFU officers up on his floor, covering his door, the lifts and the fourth-floor fire-escape stairs, sir,’ the TFU sergeant said. ‘Up on the sixth floor, there are more waiting. They’re ready to go in.’

That made Grace feel better. His biggest nightmare was to have another officer injured by a gunshot wound. The TFU knew what they were doing — and the risks.

‘OK,’ Grace said.

He heard from Ops-1 that the Silver Commander was satisfied everything was in place.

‘I want to be up there when they get the bastard, Guy,’ Grace said.

‘Be careful, boss,’ the DS cautioned.

‘I will. Which way are the stairs?’

Batchelor pointed.

Adrenalin surging, Grace ran up the stone staircases, his heart pounding harder with each floor. Two armed officers turned warily as he reached the fourth floor, then smiled at him.

‘All OK?’ he said, breathless and perspiring.

‘All good, guv,’ said one.

He went through into the corridor and saw the Firearms Team ready to enter the room. Two held semi-automatic rifles and two of them handguns. Another, a solidly built woman, wielded the heavy red battering ram, affectionately known as the bosher. An instant later they all broke into a run, lumbering down the corridor and halting outside a door. Grace, standing behind them, had his view of the room number blocked.

They paused for a moment, the two officers with rifles braced in front of the door, the two with handguns at their sides. Then their leader, a female sergeant, gave the signal. Grace had agreed with the Silver and Firearms Commander that once the team had entered the room and secured the target, he would be called in to make the arrest.

As one officer put an electronic pass key against the door lock, the officer with the bosher standing ready, there was a click and a green light on the door lock. She kicked it open and in unison they yelled out, ‘POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!’

The two holding the automatic rifles went through the door, yelling, ‘FREEZE! POLICE!’

At an empty room.

The television was on, with an afternoon game show playing. The bed was made, the room spotless.

Followed by the rest of the team, but with Roy Grace holding back outside for the moment, as he had been instructed, the armed officers raced across the floor and opened each of the doors for the bathroom, the toilet and the cupboards.

But the room was bare, pristine, fully cleaned by the housekeepers as if awaiting a new guest to arrive.

Grace was given the all-clear to enter.

‘Shit!’ he said, looking around. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit!’ There was no sign that anyone had been in this room all day.

‘Do we have the right room?’ he asked the equally frustrated-looking sergeant.

‘George Dickel. Four zero seven, guv.’

Grace radioed down to Guy Batchelor and told him what they had found.

Two minutes later Batchelor radioed back. ‘That’s his room, chief. He checked in the Saturday before last.’

‘So where the hell is he?’