Love You Dead

92 Wednesday 11 March

Roy Grace arrived back at Sussex House shortly after 5 p.m. in a despondent mood. Where the hell in this city, and under what name, was Tooth?

He went straight to MIR-1 and was pleased to see Glenn was there, as he wanted an update on Lyon. The DI apologized for Norman Potting’s absence — he’d told him he had to attend a medical appointment — then gave Grace a short debrief on Crisp’s disappearance from custody in Lyon. It seemed the security in the hospital wing was severely lacking, but as yet no one could explain how the man had escaped.

Disappointed as he was that the suspected serial killer had yet again evaded justice — for now — Grace was at least relieved this was not something he or any of his fellow Sussex officers could be blamed for. He told his team the next briefing would be at 8.30 a.m. tomorrow and headed back to his office. He was badly in need of some time alone to think. But as he entered his room, his phone was ringing.

It was Maggie Bridgeman from the Covert Policing Unit, sounding excited. ‘Roy,’ she said, ‘I think I have the perfect undercover operative for you. UC 2431. Can you give me until tomorrow morning?’

‘Brilliant, thanks, tomorrow morning is fine!’ Then he asked, ‘Do you have a name for him?’

‘Yes — you’ll know him as J. Paul Cornel.’ She gave him some details.

Instantly, while he continued talking to her, Grace googled the name. A long list of Cornels appeared. A Paul J. Cornel on LinkedIn. One who was an attorney. One who ran a driving school. One who had a web page on ‘Knowledge Management For Development’, whatever that was. One who was involved in the wine business. One who was an academic at Brighton University.

It was a smart choice for a name, he thought. Plenty of diversity. Then he googled images for J. Paul Cornel. A dozen different faces appeared, including a black electric guitar player, and several other characters of differing ages and appearances.

He narrowed the search to ‘J. Paul Cornel, millionaire philanthropist’.

Over a hundred different faces and identities appeared, from John Paul Getty and a bloated John Paul Getty Junior, to people of every age and race, as well as cartoon drawings.

He tried ‘J. Paul Cornel, Brighton’.

A whole raft of hits appeared related to Brighton University.

Then, drilling down to the third page, he found what he was pretty sure was the target. An obscure photograph of a thick-set man in sunglasses, seemingly deliberately in semi-darkness, looking as if the camera had caught him unawares and in hiding. The caption read: ‘One of the rare public appearances of reclusive Brighton-born technology billionaire J. Paul Cornel.’

It was followed by another hit, dated six years earlier. ‘English tech tycoon who made his fortune buying emerging companies in California’s Silicon Valley, stalks US baseball team as his next trophy.’

And another: ‘Charles Johnson, 25 per cent owner of the San Francisco Giants baseball team, and Larry Baer, Chief Executive Officer, have successfully seen off a bid by reclusive ex-pat Brit dot-com billionaire J. Paul Cornel for control of the team.’

Then a further related hit from five years ago. ‘US-domiciled billionaire and baseball fanatic Brit recluse J. Paul Cornel sets sights on Boston Red Sox after failing in bid to acquire control of the San Francisco Giants.’

Grace smiled. Brilliant stuff! He’d believe J. Paul Cornel was real. Hey, he’d even try to tempt him into sponsoring the rugby team!

He checked his emails; glancing down them he clicked on one he did not recognize, from someone called Kate Tate of the City of London Police Financial Crimes Unit, about the undercover operation.

Tate said she would be with him mid-morning tomorrow.

Grace glanced at his watch. 5.30 p.m. He’d told Cleo he would try to be home early tonight. She’d sent him a picture of the inflatable baby play ring they’d ordered from Amazon and it looked like Noah was loving it! He really looked forward to getting home and seeing it for himself.

His phone rang. It was Cassian Pewe returning the call Grace had put in half an hour ago to update him on the latest developments.

‘Maybe you should retrain as a magician, Roy,’ Pewe said. ‘I saw a very good one called Matt Wainwright. He works as a Fire and Rescue Officer and is a close magician in his spare time. You ought to have a word with him.’

‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

‘All these disappearing acts, Roy,’ Pewe said, his voice sounding more whiney and snide than ever. ‘Jodie Bentley, Dr Crisp and now Mr Tooth. Perhaps you need the help of a magician to un-disappear them all?’

‘It’s beginning to feel that way, sir,’ Grace said, holding his temper with difficulty.

‘I have to warn you that our new Chief Constable is not impressed. Perhaps you’re becoming too distracted by the latest developments with your missing wife, Sandy? Would you like some compassionate leave?’

Grace took a moment to gather his thoughts before replying. ‘Sir, with respect, if it hadn’t been for my relationship with Detective Investigator Lanigan of the NYPD we wouldn’t even know that Tooth was in this country. Crisp was out of our jurisdiction when he absconded from custody. And I believe we are closing the net on Jodie Bentley.’

‘I’m happy for your sanity that you’re having that fantasy, Roy, but I’m less happy for the citizens of this county we’re here to serve and protect. Because at this moment you’re not serving or protecting them.’

Before Grace could reply he heard a click. The ACC had ended the call.

Roy sat, smarting with anger and said, aloud, ‘You tosser.’

He left his office and walked back through into MIR-1, and stared at the whiteboards, which had been returned from the Conference Room after the 2 p.m. briefing. He looked at the photographs of Christopher Bentley, Walt Klein, Rollo Carmichael.

Three dead lovers.

Three, at least, that they knew about.

Would she take the bait of number four?

Would he get to her before Tooth did?

What — if anything — was he overlooking? One thing he had not informed Pewe of was the danger to any undercover operative from Tooth. Should he pull the operation on the grounds of it being too risky?

It was at times like this that he felt lonely. All major crime investigations were teamwork. But the one at the head of the team shouldered the ultimate& responsibility. Decisions& made by& the Senior Investigating Officer could make the difference between life and death. As so many times before, the buck stopped with him. This dangerous bitch was out there, undoubtedly planning, scheming. And, if Pat Lanigan was right, so was Tooth. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of thinking how simple it would be to just let Tooth carry right on and take her out. In his job, moral judgements too often needed to be put to one side. His job was to enforce the law. And however unsavoury the target of a professional hitman in Brighton might be, he could not let that hit happen.

An email appeared in his inbox that was a salutary reminder of the potential dangers all police officers faced every day, throughout their careers, whether they were front line or off-duty and acting out of civic responsibility. It was from the Chief Constable’s staff officer.

He checked his diary, knowing it had been pretty much cleared by his assistant for the first crucial weeks of the Operation Spider investigation. Then he typed a reply saying that he would be honoured to attend, copying in Lesley so she could log it in his diary.

He arrived home shortly after 6 p.m., to be greeted by Humphrey holding a squeaky, furry, toy rodent in his mouth. Cleo was spark-out asleep on the sofa, her Open University coursework spread out around her, and the nanny was on the floor playing with Noah. Marlon was on his eternal, eager quest around his new tank, in search of what? Grace wondered often. An escape route? A female mate?

He took the dog for a walk around the neighbourhood, thinking hard, refreshed by the cold evening air. If Tooth really was in town — and he trusted Pat Lanigan’s information, plus his own possible sighting — where the hell was he? If they could find him, would he lead them to this woman?

He arrived back at the house to the appetizing smell of hot food. Kaitlynn, who had been asked to stay on this evening, was cooking a lasagne that Cleo had left out. He sat on the sofa, eating it in front of the television, with a glass of red wine, while Cleo continued to sleep beside him. There was a cop drama playing, but he didn’t engage with it. Too often when such shows were on he found himself shouting at the screen about all the inaccuracies. And this one looked even worse than most. A crime-scene tent had been erected over the body of a dead boy on a beach, who had seemingly fallen from a cliff. Quite correctly, several SOCOs emerged in their protective clothing. Then the SIO walked out in mackintosh and brogue shoes. Hadn’t anyone on this production done their basic research? He would never have been allowed inside this crime scene without wearing protective clothing to prevent him from contaminating it.

‘What?’ Grace hissed furiously. ‘You arsehole!’

‘Uh?’ Cleo stirred.

Grace kissed her forehead. ‘Sorry, darling.’