One of Us Is Dead

75 Saturday 15 October 2022

At 5.30 a.m., in the misty drizzle and near-total darkness, the convoy of three vehicles rolled out of the parking lot of Brighton police station, turned left and proceeded downhill towards the brightly illuminated London Road.

The lead vehicle was a black Audi containing Armed Response officers from the Tactical Firearms Unit. Behind them was a plain white Transit van, inside which were eight members of the elite Public Order Team. Bringing up the rear were Roy Grace and Glenn Branson, in an unmarked Ford. This was the order in which they would arrive at their destination, and it was the order in which everyone would enter the building, with Grace and Branson last, after the apartment had been made secure.

Branson drove, with Grace in the passenger seat beside him. Both detectives, who had shed their suit jackets in favour of stab vests beneath heavily padded fleeces clearly marked POLICE, were tense. The only sound in the car was the monotone clonk-clonk of the wipers.

Each passing street light strobed across Branson’s face. He looked stiff, anxious, tired, Grace thought, not his usual perky, jokey self. Grace had felt tired too earlier but not any more. As always on the way to a raid, he felt the buzz of excitement as adrenaline coursed through him — but tinged with apprehension. Everyone was highly trained and well briefed and knew exactly what they had to do, but he was only too aware from past experience that things could easily go wrong on raids, and sometimes very badly, very quickly.

All three vehicles maintained radio silence. Surprise was the key element in any raid, and if Paul Anthony/Lee Oswald was indeed Rufus Rorke, then, with all his guile, it was possible he had equipment tuned into the police radio network. It was also highly probable that he would be armed.

From the maps of Arundel Terrace they’d studied, as well as Google Earth, there were just two ways of gaining access to the property — the main entrance at the front, and from a fire escape door at the rear. They also had a floor plan and good video of the interior of the penthouse, which Stanstead had found from an old listing on Rightmove.

All three vehicles, as prearranged, pulled up a block short of the building, double-parking, blocking in a few cars, but hopefully not for long, Grace figured. The firearms officers, menacing shadowy figures in their dark clothing in the misty rain, climbed out of the Audi, brandishing their semi-automatics. Then the Public Order Team clambered down from the van, each in blue combat kit, wearing body armour and helmets with visors. Their leader for this operation was a tough sergeant, Monica Dawes, who had once been a police diver before that unit had been disbanded. They stood in a circle as Grace and Branson approached.

‘All good?’ Grace asked.

‘Ready, sir,’ Dawes said.

Then he looked ahead at the handsome front facade, weakly lit by a street light. Black railings lined the steps up the porches of each front door. He stepped out into the road and looked up, at roughly where he thought Rorke’s apartment was. There were no lights on anywhere in the building. Good. Dawes delegated two officers from the Public Order Team to cover the front entrance.

The rest of them headed into the mews that ran behind the building and lined up, the firearms officers ready to enter first after the door was opened. One public order officer, a man-mountain, stood holding the bosher — the big red battering ram. Grace checked everyone’s position, then gave the order to start.

They all shuffled to a halt at the top of the steps, silent, apart from several of them panting. Ahead of them was a drab door. Grace knew from the Rightmove plans this was the fire door at the rear of the penthouse.

The sergeant turned to Grace for his instruction to proceed. Grace nodded. The firearms officers positioned themselves to the right of the door and one signalled, with his free arm, for everyone to stand well back. Then the man-mountain stepped up to it and swung the bosher with seemingly all his force. It just bounced back, showering a few wood splinters and flaking paint. Looking very determined he took a second swing, and this time the door visibly shook and seemed to give a fraction. He paused for breath for an instant, then swung it again.

The door burst open and hung at a drunken angle. Immediately he stood aside and the two firearms officers squeezed past him and rushed in, screaming at the top of their voices, ‘ARMED POLICE! ARMED POLICE!’

Grace heard their voices, repeating the same words for some moments. It was followed a couple of minutes later by, ‘ALL CLEAR! ALL CLEAR!’

Grace and Branson held back, until Sergeant Dawes, who had entered the flat after the firearms team, came to the front door and said, looking slightly crestfallen, ‘The place is definitely empty, sir.’

‘Empty?’

‘There’s no one here. Doesn’t look like there’s anyone living here, sir.’

‘What? What do you mean? The letting agents confirmed they have a tenant living here!’ Grace retorted.

‘Maybe he hasn’t moved in yet?’ the officer suggested.

Grace shook his head. ‘We know from the agents their tenant is living here, and in residence.’

The officer gave him a look that implied otherwise.

Shit, Grace thought. He and Branson each slipped on a pair of protective gloves and turned on all the lights. They walked around the sumptuous apartment. In the living room he noticed immediately the stale reek of cigar smoke, as if it were ingrained in the place, but there was nothing to indicate Rufus Rorke or indeed anyone else was currently actually living here. The whole place was as sterile, pristine and lacking in any personal touch as a vacant hotel suite.

He and Branson continued walking around, going from room to room. There were no photographs, no mail, no half-drunk or empty bottles. Nothing in the massive fridge or freezer compartments. Nothing in the dishwasher. The kitchen bin was empty and spotless. Nothing in the two bathrooms or their cabinets. The bedding in each of the rooms, with stacked cushions and pillows, looked professionally made and untouched.

Walking over to the conservatory-style windows he opened one door and shone his torch out across a deserted, equally spotless terrace, Grace turned to Branson. ‘Are we sure we’re in the right place?’

‘We are. This is the apartment rented to our friend, Paul Anthony. No question.’

‘Does he smoke cigars? Do we know if Rufus Rorke did? We need to find out. Because someone here has been smoking them. Recently.’

‘Done a runner, do you think, sir?’ Sergeant Dawes said.

Grace shrugged. ‘We know from the estate agents that our suspect has been paying his rent — apparently from a bank in the Seychelles, which makes it hard to trace who exactly.’

‘It doesn’t look like anyone’s living here,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t keep a place this neat and tidy. It doesn’t even look like either sofa has been sat on in a while. Would he have a vehicle in the car park — if there is one?’

‘There isn’t,’ Branson replied. ‘The residents all use lock-ups.’

Grace sniffed hard. ‘But someone has been in here, smoking a cigar — can’t be that long ago — a few days?’

‘So where is he?’ Branson asked.

Grace rubbed his eyes, looking around carefully. He opened a drawer in a table that he realized, with a beat of excitement, they’d missed. It too was empty. ‘What we do know about Rufus Rorke is that he’s very good at disappearing. But, if you’re going to do a runner, why go to so much effort to clean up behind you?’

‘Unless he was never here in the first place, boss,’ Branson suggested. ‘Perhaps he just rented this place as a possible bolt-hole?’

‘That doesn’t fit with what we know from Aiden Gilbert and Charlotte Mckee — Barnie Wallace’s movements, the subject he photographed, the location. I’m pretty sure Rorke was here. And he’s now trying to give the impression he was never here.’

‘What’s that old boast of the SOCOs? That if someone has ever been in a room, no matter how long ago, give them enough time and they’ll find the evidence to prove it,’ Branson said.

‘There may be a quicker way,’ Grace said.

‘What’s your thinking?’

‘The clue is in the cleaning.’ He smiled.

‘Are you going to leave me in the dark?’

Grace patted him on the arm. ‘Nah, it’ll be dawn soon.’