His brain raced. He knew every road in this city. The taxi heading up the hill could either go straight on or fork right in a few hundred yards. At the top of the hill was the Seven Dials roundabout, giving six different options — as well as a left turn-off shortly before.
The lorry moved on up the hill and a van behind it stopped to let him through. Grace pulled out to try to overtake the lorry, but there was a bus in the oncoming lane and he pulled back in to let it pass, then pulled out again. The lorry indicated it was pulling over, and he shot past, squeezing into a narrow gap left by an oncoming car that had halted. But the road ahead was blocked by another lorry, waiting to turn right under the viaduct.
He radioed an urgent request for the Ops-1 Inspector, gave him the information and asked for any units in the area to look for a Streamline Skoda taxi heading up New England Road, with a passenger in the rear wearing a baseball cap. He told them to follow if they spotted it and inform him immediately, but not to stop it. He also asked his colleague to contact Streamline to see if they could get a carefully worded message to the driver. As soon as the lights changed, and the lorry moved on, turning right, he saw a whole line of buses coming down the hill, completely blocking the opposite lane.
He followed the lorry, then pulled out to overtake, thinking he would try to get ahead of the taxi this way and cut it off at the Seven Dials. He screamed past the lorry, crested the hill and eased left through a red light at the junction with Dyke Road, then driving on the wrong side of the road, hitting the alternate wail and honk sirens, bullied his way through the oncoming traffic all the way to the roundabout.
But there was no sign of the taxi.
It could have gone in any damned direction.
He did a full circle of the roundabout, thinking hard. The taxi was heading up New England Road. That was a route people took coming into the city. Was it then going to head down to the seafront? Or the town centre? Those were the most likely options.
He made a left turn off the roundabout into Montpelier Road, again driving as fast as he dared, weaving through the oncoming traffic and peering left and right down each side turning. Then he saw a Skoda taxi in Streamline livery heading west. He raced past it, pulled in front, switched on the red flashing STOP lights, and braked sharply to a halt. In his mirror he saw the taxi pull up behind him. As he was debating what to do next, the rear door opened and a young woman got out, reached in and lifted out a small child.
Shit!
Grace climbed out, removed his warrant card and walked up to the cab, raising an apologetic hand to the woman and the driver, who wound down his window, peering out nervously.
‘It’s fine,’ Grace said. ‘You can continue.’
He returned to his car, wondering. Had it actually been Tooth he had seen? Or just wishful thinking?
Twenty minutes later, as he arrived back at Sussex House, the Ops-1 Inspector called him back to report no success. Grace thanked him and went in through the front door of the building. Climbing the stairs to the Major Crime suite, he reflected on just what he had seen in the back of that taxi. Had he imagined it? He didn’t think so. Offenders had a way of looking at coppers that was different from all other people. But maybe he was just a regular Brighton villain who had picked up on him. Maybe it was just his imagination working overtime.
Back in his office, he phoned Pewe to update him on his meeting with West at the mortuary, and the expert’s opinion. When he had finished, he said, ‘Do you need anything else, sir?’
‘No,’ Pewe said, grudgingly. ‘I don’t.’
As he ended the call, Grace’s phone instantly rang. It was Guy Batchelor and he sounded excited.
85
Wednesday 11 March
‘Boss, something of significance to report!’ Batchelor said. ‘I think we may have found Tooth.’
‘Yes?’
‘Last Friday, there was a report of a man in collision with two cyclists close to Brighton Pier. He was taken unconscious to the Royal Sussex County Hospital. His US driving licence identified him as John Daniels, with an address in New York City. And there was a bar receipt from the Waterfront Hotel in his wallet.’
‘Jesus!’
‘I sent two officers to the hospital but he’s gone — seems to have discharged himself, sometime during this morning. But the hospital says he has severe bruising to both his legs and would be limping significantly. Someone’s going to have noticed him.’
‘Is this a genuine injury or a phoney one like Crisp’s, Guy?’
‘I haven’t checked that, boss, but I assume that the hospital wouldn’t have said so if it wasn’t the case.’
‘Yep, well you know my views on assumptions,’ Grace retorted.
‘I’ll get someone to double-check.’
‘Good. Have you contacted the hotel?’
‘Yes, they don’t have any guest by the name of Daniels registered. Nor Hinton.’
‘Bizarrely, I think I may have seen Tooth heading up New England Road in a Streamline taxi, twenty minutes ago,’ Grace said.
‘Seems an odd route from the Sussex County Hospital, wherever he was going,’ Batchelor said.
‘I could have been mistaken. Can you get on to Streamline and ask them for details of all pick-ups from the hospital this morning? All of them have CCTV in their cars now. Also can you see if there’s a n update on possible sightings from our message to Streamline earlier?’
‘Right away, sir.’
‘OK, good work, Guy. And can you arrange an accommodation check in the city for Daniels, Hinton, or any single American males
— but keep it low-key for now.’
As soon as he ended the call, Grace phoned Lanigan. He got his voicemail and left a message. ‘Pat, it’s Roy in Brighton. You said John Daniels was one of the aliases of our pal, Mr Tooth, and there’s Mike Hinton also. Can you let me have any others? I need to know very urgently.’
He hung up and then sat and thought. Had it been Tooth in hospital? Had it been him in the back of the taxi? If he had just left the Royal Sussex County Hospital, what was he doing at the north end of the city? New England Road was a route many people who came south into the city on London Road took to get to the beaches, or the western side of the city. Why would Tooth have gone north only to head south again? That route didn’t make any sense. Unless he was trying to shake someone off his tail.
Or be deliberately confusing.
86
Wednesday 11 March
Jodie Carmichael, returning home in light drizzle from a trip to the Asda superstore at Brighton Marina, turned into her driveway and clicked the remote button to open her double-garage door. She reversed her blue convertible Mercedes in, clicked the remote to close the door behind her, then climbed out of the car. She removed her bags from the boot and let herself into the house through the internal door.
As she laid out the bags on the kitchen table, her mobile phone rang. She saw the name of the funeral directors, P & S Gallagher, appear.
She hesitated for a moment, then putting on her grief-stricken voice, she answered. ‘Hello?’
It was the very charming boss of the firm. ‘Mrs Carmichael, it’s Mr Gallagher, how are you?’
‘Oh, you know, bearing up, I guess.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. I’m afraid I’ve got some rather frustrating news — the Coroner still hasn’t released the body. And I’ve also had a call from Mr Carmichael’s son who wants to engage the services of another pathologist to conduct a second post-mortem.’
‘Bloody hell!’ she said, furious. ‘My darling husband died at the start of our honeymoon. Doesn’t he think I’ve suffered enough? And he’s been embalmed — what the hell does he think another post-mortem’s going to achieve? I’m his wife! Don’t my wishes count?’