It wasn’t often, in his current role as Head of Major Crime, that Grace was present at operations, but this one was different. It was personal. He’d led the last manhunt for this monster from the front, when after a ferocious struggle with Glenn Branson, Tooth had dived recklessly into a dock at Shoreham Harbour and vanished. If this really was him, and he was still alive, Grace was determined to be the officer who finally read the evil bastard his rights, although he knew that the TFU — Tactical Firearms Unit — officers would have to secure him first.
So for the first time in some while he grabbed his Kevlar vest off the hook on the back of his door, pulled it on and headed downstairs.
90
Wednesday 11 March
As Roy Grace raced down to the seafront in his unmarked Ford Mondeo, blue lights flashing, talking to Ops-1, he saw to his dismay that the traffic was gridlocked ahead with roadworks.
He eventually parked up and approached the side entrance of the hotel. Guy Batchelor, also wearing a bulletproof vest under his coat, was waiting with Roy Apps, the Duty Inspector, and a tall TFU sergeant, who quickly outlined the plan that had been agreed between him and the Silver Commander.
‘Tooth is in room 407. We’re ready to rock and roll, sir,’ Batchelor said.
‘Are we certain he’s there?’
‘There’s a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and the television’s on very loudly, which may have meant he didn’t hear the housekeeper’s call. He’s due to check out tomorrow, so it would seem he must be here.’
‘OK, good.’
‘We’ve got TFU officers up on his floor, covering his door, the lifts and the fourth-floor fire-escape stairs, sir,’ the TFU sergeant said. ‘Up on the sixth floor, there are more waiting. They’re ready to go in.’
That made Grace feel better. His biggest nightmare was to have another officer injured by a gunshot wound. The TFU knew what they were doing — and the risks.
‘OK,’ Grace said.
He heard from Ops-1 that the Silver Commander was satisfied everything was in place.
‘I want to be up there when they get the bastard, Guy,’ Grace said.
‘Be careful, boss,’ the DS cautioned.
‘I will. Which way are the stairs?’
Batchelor pointed.
Adrenalin surging, Grace ran up the stone staircases, his heart pounding harder with each floor. Two armed officers turned warily as he reached the fourth floor, then smiled at him.
‘All OK?’ he said, breathless and perspiring.
‘All good, guv,’ said one.
He went through into the corridor and saw the Firearms Team ready to enter the room. Two held semi-automatic rifles and two of them handguns. Another, a solidly built woman, wielded the heavy red battering ram, affectionately known as the bosher. An instant later they all broke into a run, lumbering down the corridor and halting outside a door. Grace, standing behind them, had his view of the room number blocked.
They paused for a moment, the two officers with rifles braced in front of the door, the two with handguns at their sides. Then their leader, a female sergeant, gave the signal. Grace had agreed with the Silver and Firearms Commander that once the team had entered the room and secured the target, he would be called in to make the arrest.
As one officer put an electronic pass key against the door lock, the officer with the bosher standing ready, there was a click and a green light on the door lock. She kicked it open and in unison they yelled out, ‘POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!’
The two holding the automatic rifles went through the door, yelling, ‘FREEZE! POLICE!’
At an empty room.
The television was on, with an afternoon game show playing. The bed was made, the room spotless.
Followed by the rest of the team, but with Roy Grace holding back outside for the moment, as he had been instructed, the armed officers raced across the floor and opened each of the doors for the bathroom, the toilet and the cupboards.
But the room was bare, pristine, fully cleaned by the housekeepers as if awaiting a new guest to arrive.
Grace was given the all-clear to enter.
‘Shit!’ he said, looking around. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit!’ There was no sign that anyone had been in this room all day.
‘Do we have the right room?’ he asked the equally frustrated-looking sergeant.
‘George Dickel. Four zero seven, guv.’
Grace radioed down to Guy Batchelor and told him what they had found.
Two minutes later Batchelor radioed back. ‘That’s his room, chief. He checked in the Saturday before last.’
‘So where the hell is he?’
91
Wednesday 11 March
From behind the curtains in the sanctuary of his fifth-floor, sea-view room at the Royal Albion Hotel, Tooth watched the commotion on the seafront below him, concentrated around the Waterfront Hotel a short distance to the west, with a wry smile.
Did that dickhead Detective Superintendent Roy Grace and his team of morons really think he would make it that easy for them?
He had news for them. He was here to do a job; they could raid every hotel room in the city but they weren’t going to find him, because they weren’t going to catch up with him.
He had paid in advance for a week. But ten minutes later, unnoticed, he slipped out with his bags, then headed for the Russell Square car park to recover his rental Ford.
92
Wednesday 11 March
Roy Grace arrived back at Sussex House shortly after 5 p.m. in a despondent mood. Where the hell in this city, and under what name, was Tooth?
He went straight to MIR-1 and was pleased to see Glenn was there, as he wanted an update on Lyon. The DI apologized for Norman Potting’s absence — he’d told him he had to attend a medical appointment — then gave Grace a short debrief on Crisp’s disappearance from custody in Lyon. It seemed the security in the hospital wing was severely lacking, but as yet no one could explain how the man had escaped.
Disappointed as he was that the suspected serial killer had yet again evaded justice — for now — Grace was at least relieved this was not something he or any of his fellow Sussex officers could be blamed for. He told his team the next briefing would be at 8.30 a.m. tomorrow and headed back to his office. He was badly in need of some time alone to think. But as he entered his room, his phone was ringing.
It was Maggie Bridgeman from the Covert Policing Unit, sounding excited. ‘Roy,’ she said, ‘I think I have the perfect undercover operative for you. UC 2431. Can you give me until tomorrow morning?’
‘Brilliant, thanks, tomorrow morning is fine!’ Then he asked, ‘Do you have a name for him?’
‘Yes — you’ll know him as J. Paul Cornel.’ She gave him some details.
Instantly, while he continued talking to her, Grace googled the name. A long list of Cornels appeared. A Paul J. Cornel on LinkedIn. One who was an attorney. One who ran a driving school. One who had a web page on ‘Knowledge Management For Development’, whatever that was. One who was involved in the wine business. One who was an academic at Brighton University.
It was a smart choice for a name, he thought. Plenty of diversity. Then he googled images for J. Paul Cornel. A dozen different faces appeared, including a black electric guitar player, and several other characters of differing ages and appearances.
He narrowed the search to ‘J. Paul Cornel, millionaire philanthropist’.
Over a hundred different faces and identities appeared, from John Paul Getty and a bloated John Paul Getty Junior, to people of every age and race, as well as cartoon drawings.