‘Yes, Roy,’ Pewe interrupted him. ‘Walter Klein, a fraudster who knew the game was up. All the evidence points to suicide.’
‘With respect, sir, there is no evidence.’
‘Leaving that aside, you’re trying to link the death of a small-time burglar in Brighton with the death of her second husband in India?’
‘Second husband that we know about — I’m trying to get more on that, sir. I’ve already briefed and prepared a plan with the Force Authorizing Officer, Detective Superintendent Nick Sloan, whose job it will be to manage and supervise the operation. I’ve also made contact with Wayne Gumbrell at the Crown Prosecution Service, who’s on board. We all agree that this is the only option available at the moment to prevent this woman targeting and killing another victim. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up for you to sign as it needs y our written authority.’
‘OK, Roy, but screw this one up and I’ll have you writing out parking tickets for the rest of your career. Do I make myself clear?’
Clear as merde, Grace said, under his breath.
82
Wednesday 11 March
As he went back down to his car, Roy Grace played a voicemail from Guy Batchelor on his phone. He was in luck — an expert from the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine was attending a conference in London and could be with them by midday.
He phoned Guy and told him to delay the briefing further, to 2 p.m., then he phoned Wayne Gumbrell, left a message on his voicemail updating him on his conversation with Pewe, and returned to Sussex House. He wanted to spend a quiet hour alone, reviewing everything, checking for anything he might have overlooked, and writing up his policy book.
Stopping by the tiny kitchenette, he switched on the kettle, then spooned some coffee into a mug with the only available implement, the handle of a bent fork, then carried the coffee through into his office. A while later, Pat Lanigan rang. Grace glanced at his watch. 9.25 a.m. It was 4.25 a.m. in New York. During the past couple of weeks he’d been in regular communication with the New York detective, sharing information.
‘Hey, pal, how you doooin’?’ Lanigan said in his nasally Brooklyn accent.
‘Yep, good. I was going to call you in a bit. You’re up early!’
‘Always! Look, I’ve got something maybe of interest. Remember a while back you had a character name of Tooth visiting your city?’
‘Only too well,’ Grace said, putting his phone on loudspeaker on his desk, along with the mug, then peeling off his jacket. ‘We thought he was dead, but then again, we thought Crisp was dead, too.’ He remembered how Tooth, a professional hitman, had disappeared from Sussex Police’s clutches, presumed drowned in Shoreham Harbour, after a fight with Glenn Branson at the edge of a dock.
‘Yep, so you told me,’ said Lanigan. ‘We got some intel on him from undercover operations. One of his aliases, John Daniels, just got flagged up on our radar. Seems he’s very much alive and might be headed back your way. There’s a link with our friend Jodie.’
‘Tooth still alive, a connection with Jodie, heading back to Brighton? Bloody hell. That’s a bit of a bombshell, Pat. This has suddenly got very, very interesting. Tell me more.’
‘We believe he travelled to the UK, using the name Mike Hinton, to recover a memory stick from Jodie.’
Grace remembered DS Batchelor’s report from Tuesday about the poste-restante and internet café at 23A Western Road, Brighton.
I was told by the manager there that a strange guy turned up on the morning of Sunday March 1st, around eleven o’clock, enquiring about Jodie — an American, who was quite bolshy. He was rude to her, then went away.
‘What more do you have, Pat?’
‘Hinton flew to England the weekend before last. I don’t have any more information at this stage, but I can get you the flight number. I thought you’d want to do some checking.’
‘Right away, Pat. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it, pal. We gonna see you and your bride over here anytime soon? Francene and I’ll take you to dinner.’
‘Cleo’s keen to see New York at Christmas.’
‘My favourite time of year in this city! Come over, we’ll go to the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. Then we’ll take you to dinner at the best Italian in the world. OK, buddy?’
‘If we can, it’s a date!’
Grace hung up then sat, thinking, for some moments. Tooth. So he had survived? And was back here? Under the name of Mike Hinton?
Tooth was suspected of the revenge killing of a lorry driver who had been in a fatal road accident. He was also suspected of murdering the van driver involved. And he had come close to murdering the young son of another person also in that same accident. Shoreham Harbour had been searched by trained divers who knew the waters, the tides and the currents. Nothing had been found. It was concluded at the time that it was possible, however unlikely, that Tooth might have survived. And now he was back?
Grace phoned Guy Batchelor and asked him to come and see him, urgently.
Five minutes later, DS Batchelor eased into the chair in front of Roy Grace’s desk with an amiable smile. ‘Yes, boss?’
‘Guy, top priority, use whatever resources you need to see if an American national, under the name of John Daniels or Mike Hinton, has checked into any hotel or boarding house in the city of Brighton and Hove, or surrounding area. Start with the city and work outwards to as far as Gatwick Airport for starters. And have all car rental companies checked, too.’
‘Do we have a current description of him?’
Grace nodded. ‘The one the woman in the internet café at 23A Western Road gave. A small, bolshy weasel with an American accent. There’s also a very poor quality CCTV image of him that Jack got. We think that man is the professional killer, Tooth, from Operation Violin, and may be armed. Call me instantly if you find anything, and we’ll decide on a course of action. I’ve intelligence that he could lead us to our target lady — and I want to get to her before he does, because I’d like to have her alive. And I’d quite like to keep you alive, too.’
‘I remember him, boss, I’ll look after myself.’
Grace shook his head. ‘Don’t underestimate him, Guy. He’s not your average Brighton villain. He’s smart and seriously dangerous. I mean it. Find him and keep your distance. I don’t want to have to go knocking on Lena’s door telling her you’ve died a hero, OK?’
‘Understood.’
‘Good man.’
83
Wednesday 11 March
The expert from Liverpool, Dr James West, was already seated in the tiny reception room at the Brighton and Hove City Mortuary, gowned up and with a mug of tea, when Cleo showed Grace through at a few minutes past midday.
A tall, thin man in his late forties, with a gaunt, rugged face framed with a shock of curly ginger hair and the kind of beard someone who had been several weeks in the jungle might sport, West rose and greeted him with a strong, bony handshake.
‘Apologies for keeping you waiting,’ Grace said.
‘Not at all, I was early.’ His voice had a trace of a South African accent. ‘It’s an honour to meet the famous detective.’
‘Famous?’ Grace grinned. ‘I don’t know about that!’
‘I googled you. You seem to have solved most major crimes in your county over the past decade or so.’
‘Very flattering of you. Let’s see if we can solve this one.’
‘Cup of tea or coffee, Detective Superintendent?’ Cleo, also gowned up, asked him, cheekily.