‘Be my guest.’ She glanced at her watch, then out of the window, past the van, at the drive beyond.
Tooth frowned. But he took it as licence to check the place out.
Lady, he thought, if you knew why I was really here, you’d be throwing your arms around me in gratitude. I’m your freakin’ guardian angel, lady.
‘Do you have a loft?’
‘Yes, there’s a hatch up on the landing. I saw a pole with a hook against the wall. I’ll show you.’
He followed her up the stairs, and she pointed to the hatch and then the pole. He reached up with the pole and pushed the hatch, which dropped down on a hinge to reveal a folding ladder. He hooked the bottom rung and pulled it down.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.
As he began climbing she went back downstairs.
124
Friday 12 October
‘Mike Whisky One to Romeo One. For information, Southern Water official has now been inside target house for ten minutes.’
‘Romeo One to Mike Whisky One. Did you say he is inside house?’ The support officer sounded concerned.
‘Inside the house, yes yes.’
‘Mike Whisky One, Southern Water say that all water meters are external. There is no need for anyone to enter a property, other than to ask where the stopcock and meter are.’
Doug Riley was distracted by the sound of another vehicle turning into the drive. A dark-grey Mercedes coupe drove past him, travelling slowly on the bumpy track. Slowly enough to make out the identity of the driver through his binoculars.
‘Romeo One,’ Riley said, urgently. ‘A Mercedes coupe is approaching target house. Driver is a male IC3.’
‘A black man, Mike Whisky One?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Can you positively identify him as Jules de Copeland?’
‘I can’t positively.’
‘ARVs to carry out enforced stop,’ came the command.
The Mercedes suddenly stopped. Doug Riley, bits of shrubbery tumbling from his clothes and helmet, stood a short distance from the car, his Glock drawn and aimed. He was joined by his colleague, Lewis Hastings, also showering vegetation from his clothes, gun in his hand.
An instant later an ARV raced up behind the Mercedes. A second blocked the exit onto the road.
The first ARV officer stopped at the driver’s door, as his colleague reached the passenger side.
‘Police!’ the first one yelled. ‘Hands in the air! Show me your hands!’ The man behind the wheel, looking scared, raised his arms.
The officer yanked open the door. ‘Keep your hands up and get out!’ The driver tried to move but his seat belt restrained him.
Standing back, holding both hands on the gun, the officer yelled, ‘Unbuckle and get out, out, out!’
The man obeyed and climbed out, raising his arms as high as he could. He was short, wearing a hoodie, jeans and trainers.
Doug Riley instinctively felt something was wrong. That this was not his man. Not from his height, for sure. ‘What’s your name?’ he yelled.
‘Lucius Orji,’ the man said, with some reluctance.
Hastings came round, stood behind the man and frisked him thoroughly. Then he jerked his arms down behind his back and snapped on handcuffs, as Riley peered carefully into the empty rear of the car.
‘Where’s Jules de Copeland?’ Riley demanded as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the support van followed by the second ARV approaching at speed.
‘Who?’
‘Jules de Copeland. Don’t try playing innocent. Did he send you?’
‘I don’t know any Jules de Copeland.’
‘No? So what are you doing here? Taking a drive in the country? Admiring the autumn colours?’
Lucius Orji nodded. ‘Yeah, just taking a drive — must have took a wrong turning.’
From the look in the man’s eyes, Riley knew he was lying. ‘Are you sure? It wasn’t Jules de Copeland who asked you to come here tonight?’
‘I don’t know no one of that name,’ he said, sounding angry and insolent.
‘Really?’
‘Well, maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
The van and the car pulled up behind them. The support officers, also guns in hand, got out of the van. Two ARV officers, in vizors and full body armour, jumped out of the car, brandishing Heckler and Koch sub-machine guns, further covering the handcuffed man.
Riley conferred with the support officers, who then began searching the Mercedes. Glancing around, he suddenly saw that the driverless Southern Water van was rocking. He sprinted towards it.
125
Friday 12 October
Jules de Copeland, for once in many years not wearing red shoes, stood in the woods, shielded by a tree, a short distance to the west of Primrose Farm Cottage, watching the unfolding events, the empty suitcase by his side. His car, which he had rented from a company twenty miles from Gatwick Airport, was concealed up a forest track fifteen minutes’ trek through the woods from here.
Good man, Lucius!
His most trusted senior employee had done exactly what he had planned — to flush out any cops that might be watching the house and distract them.
Keep it going!
Copeland was dressed, head to foot, in dark camouflage gear, black boots and a black balaclava over his head. For the past half-hour he’d worked his way steadily through the dense woods and even denser undergrowth. He was feeling pleased, and not a little smug, that his plan had worked out. The police officers he had suspected might be watching the house were now all occupied out front.
Through a downstairs window he could see a woman, standing alone, looking out at the commotion. Dressed to kill.
Lynda Merrill.
With the £300,000 in cash for him!
He had to trust that Lucius Orji would hold his nerve and stick to the script.
Out of sight from everyone at the front of the house, a hunting knife in his hand, he sprinted the hundred yards to the flimsy-looking side door. Not wanting to take a chance on whether or not it was locked, he hurled his full weight against it, splintering it open and stumbling in.
The woman spun towards him, shock and fear and bewilderment in her eyes. ‘Lynda! I have a message from your darling Richie!’ he said, reaching her in two fast steps and holding the blade out of sight. ‘Don’t be scared, my love. Just get the money, quick, quick, quick, and let’s go!’ He knelt and clicked open the suitcase. ‘Quick!’
She pointed at a cupboard under the stairs. ‘It’s in there.’
‘Get it! I’m taking you away to Richie! He is waiting! Quick, quick!’
Calmly, she walked over to the cupboard, opened the door and knelt. As she did, he heard a voice behind him.
‘Freeze, you scammer bastard!’
He spun round.
A silver-haired man in his late fifties had appeared from seemingly nowhere, with a gun in his hand.
Copeland’s mind went into overdrive.
Had he walked, dumbly, into a trap? ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘You should know me, you and your friends have relieved me of over £400,000,’ Fordwater replied.
Copeland looked at him, patronizingly. ‘Put the gun down, I’m sure we can sort something out.’
‘Really?’
Suddenly, the old guy raised his aim, away from him, at something behind him.
Copeland turned. He saw a short man, halfway down the stairs, crouched, holding a handgun in a double-grip, aiming straight at him. Then he heard what sounded like a gunshot from behind him. A chunk of plaster flew out of the wall beside the short man’s head. Followed by another gunshot. This time the man was flung backwards. Then another shot and he tumbled down the staircase, head first, spurting blood from his shoulder.