Copeland, frozen in panic like a rabbit in headlights, smelled the pungent reek of cordite.
Tooth disorientated, his brain swirling, aimed through the banisters and fired at Copeland. The bullet hit his thigh, sending him reeling back. Tooth fired again and the bullet went wide. Saw the blurry shape of the silver-haired man standing on the far side of the kitchen, aiming at him. Tooth fired again. Missed.
Then all hell broke loose as the front door caved in, and with the warning shouts, ‘ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, DROP YOUR WEAPONS!’, he saw two vizored officers, sub-machine guns in hand, crash into the room, sweeping in every direction with their guns. They were followed by more officers wearing baseball hats marked, SUSSEX POLICE.
It seemed to him, for an instant, that the pause button on a video had been pressed. The silver-haired guy dropped his gun. The woman and Copeland both froze. For an instant.
Giving him the chance to finish his task. Against all his training, which was to shoot at the body because that made a bigger target, he aimed at the balaclava. He wanted to bring that big bastard down with a headshot. Finish the job he’d come here to do. Finish his career with one final success. It seemed, in this moment, that he had all the time in the world.
‘DROP YOUR GUN!’ someone shouted.
Tooth fired. Shit. Fabric and blood flew from Copeland’s left arm and he lurched back. Instantaneously Tooth saw muzzle flashes in the periphery of his vision and heard a volley of shots. In the same instant, it seemed, he was kicked in the chest by what felt like the boots of an entire football team, slamming him back against the wall.
The gun fell from his hand.
His vision blurred. Light faded from his eyes as if a dimmer switch was being turned.
He saw Yossarian. He was sitting on the prow of Long Shot as they skimmed across the azure Caribbean Sea, heading out of Turtle Cove Marina on Providenciales Island for a day of deep-sea fishing. Hoping his master might catch a yellowtail snapper or some other tasty morsel which he might throw his way.
But the sun was already setting and he hadn’t yet put out his lines.
Yossarian stared at him with disappointment showing in his two different-coloured eyes. Stared at him as the sun set and darkness fell.
Tooth tried to mouth the word, ‘Sorry’. But the darkness struck first.
126
Friday 12 October
Jules de Copeland, his thigh and arm stinging in agonizing pain, looked around, bewildered.
Someone took hold of him, restraining his arms behind his back.
He heard a voice radioing urgently for an ambulance. And overhead the thwock-thwock-thwock of a helicopter.
Then a man in camouflage fatigues, wearing a helmet covered in netting with bits of greenery intertwined, faced him. ‘Tunde Oganjimi, alias Jules de Copeland, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Susan Adele Driver in Brighton and on suspicion of causing grievous bodily harm with intent to Toby Seward in Brighton. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?’
Copeland grimaced in pain at him. ‘Can you and I talk in private for a moment, officer?’
Lewis Hastings made a pretend show of switching off his radio’s microphone. ‘OK, we’re private now.’
‘I need more private than this.’
Hastings looked around. The silver-haired man was handcuffed and covered by one police officer with an automatic pistol. Another was standing, protectively, by the scared-looking woman.
‘This is as private as it’s going to get, OK?’
Copeland leaned forward and whispered into Hastings’s ear. ‘I’m a very rich man, officer. Name your price.’
Hastings looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Mr Copeland, my price is beyond anything you can afford or ever will be able to afford. It’s called morality. That’s probably not a word in your limited lexicon.’
127
Friday 12 October
Roy Grace, sitting in his car outside Primrose Farm Cottage, surrounded by police vehicles, two ambulances and the Coroner’s van, called Jack Roberts as he had promised.
‘Your clients are both safe,’ he informed him. ‘Major Fordwater has been arrested for illegal possession of a firearm and may face more serious charges. Copeland is currently in an ambulance, under arrest, being treated for gunshot wounds.’ He said nothing about the dead American contract killer.
‘That’s good to hear, Detective Superintendent,’ Roberts said. ‘I appreciate your updating me.’
‘There’s quite a lot to take in at this moment, as I’m sure you can understand, Mr Roberts,’ Grace continued. ‘But from what I know so far, I would say you’ve sailed pretty close to the wind. Fortunately we’ve had a result. It could have been a very different outcome.’
‘I’m taking that as a positive,’ Roberts replied.
Grace pursed his lips, not wanting to give the PI any encouragement. ‘When we met in your office, you gave me the impression you are not too enamoured with the police. I hope this might help change your mind.’
‘I’ll reserve judgement on that,’ Roberts replied. ‘You might be scooping the glory, but you need to remember who teed it up for you.’
As Grace ended the call, his phone rang. It was Cassian Pewe.
‘What’s going on, Roy?’ he demanded. ‘Where are you? Media Relations are being bombarded by the press for information on what’s happening. A caretaker’s been found dead in the apartment block you had under surveillance. Do you have anything I can tell them? Any bones I can throw for them to gnaw on?’
‘I was made aware of the caretaker just a couple of hours ago, sir.’
‘Well, really, I’m so pleased to know you are aware of something that’s happening in this county, where you are supposed to be the Head of Major Crime. Do we have any more dead bodies or is one enough for today?’
‘I’m afraid we have two more,’ Grace replied. ‘But I think you might be happy to know the second is the American, Tooth, who, as you know, has long been on our radar.’ He nearly added, Longer than need be, thanks to your intervention months back, but he held his tongue. ‘Tooth was shot by firearms officers and we will of course notify the Independent Office for Police Conduct.’
There was a brief silence from Pewe. Then he said, sarcastically, ‘I’m sure the Chief Constable will be very pleased, Roy. Thrilled to bits, I would say, when I inform him.’
‘Talking of chiefs, sir, I had lunch with Alison Vosper.’
‘Alison Vosper, did you say?’ Pewe sounded thrown.
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing her?’
‘You didn’t ask,’ Grace retorted, smugly. ‘I had an interesting conversation with her, in which she told me about all the major cases in Sussex that you’ve taken credit for. Maybe my memory is going, but I honestly don’t recall your involvement in quite a number of them.’
‘Is that so?’ Pewe said acidly. ‘So what was the purpose of this lunch?’
‘She offered me a job in London. It would put me on the same rank as you if I accepted.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘Well, if that’s what it takes, sir.’
Ignoring the comment, Pewe said, ‘Be in my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow.’
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Roy, quite correct. Saturday follows Friday in the Gregorian calendar. Although perhaps in the weird bubble you inhabit, you are still on the Julian calendar, which was started by Julius Caesar? In case you’re not up to date, we switched to the Gregorian calendar in this country in 1752, so we’ll go by that one, shall we?’ he said in his most patronizing tone.