She slumped back and picked up an abandoned copy of the paper on the seat next to her, which had been left open part way through. She liked to keep updated on local Brighton and Sussex news — and especially anything that might refer or relate directly or indirectly to her.
The page seven headline of the Argus read:
She scanned it. A gang was operating in Brighton and Hove, breaking into houses not to burgle their contents but to get the keys to high-end cars, particularly Range Rovers and top of the range sports cars.
She thought back to the break-in at her home. Was that what the thief had been after? Her Mercedes?
She turned a few pages and saw another, smaller headline.
She speed-read the article, which said that the police were mounting a series of spot checks in the city to catch people still over the drink-drive limit the following morning. She flipped through a few more pages then closed the paper, and immediately the front page splash caught her eye.
She looked at the photograph of the man, read the article, then looked back at his photograph again; not that she really cared what he looked like. She was thinking to herself, OK, I could shag you for seventeen billion dollars. Not a problem. I could definitely be the love of your life. For the short amount you have left of it!
She actually found him quite sexy. And, she noted, the Argus said Cornel would be in Brighton for just a few days before returning to California to tie up his affairs there. Shit, she was going to have to strike fast to catch him while he was here. She read on, avidly.
Cornel has, understandably, gone to ground in a suite at a rather grand Brighton hotel which he has asked me not to disclose.
So how many hotels in this city would I go to ground in? she wondered. The Hotel du Vin? The Hilton Metropole? The Grand? One of the other smaller boutique hotels?
A rather grand hotel.
Oh, you wonderfully clever bitch of a reporter!
98
Thursday 12 March
Tooth removed his hat and coat, and the really uncomfortable flat ladies’ shoes, which he had bought, with the rest of the outfit, from a vintage clothing shop. He discarded the walking stick he’d picked up earlier in a charity shop, propping it against a wall, and hobbled, unaided, through to the bathroom, where he leaned on the side of the washbasin and stared at his face in the mirror.
A hideous old lady, with Pan-Cake make-up, stared back.
She reminded him of his mother.
Taking out a face wipe, he rigorously cleaned his face of all the gunk.
Changed back into the clothes he felt comfortable in — navy chinos and a grey T-shirt — Tooth set to work. His first task, as always in a hotel room, was to cover the smoke alarm.
Next, he lifted a corner of the bed’s mattress and saw the coil springs that held the base in place. Removing one of the springs, he took it over to his temporary workbench, the desk. He unwound a few inches of the coiled wire, then cut it off with the pliers. Next, he folded the wire into a U-shape, and pushed it into the end of the heavy-duty insulated wire he had bought earlier.
He programmed the mini relay for thirty seconds and connected it, via the wire, to the mercury tilt switch. Then he angled the switch downward. The mercury inside slid down to complete the circuit to the motion sensor, which in turn would set the timer going. After exactly thirty seconds there was the flash of a spark, and a smell of burned electrics reached his nostrils.
Excellent! It worked fine.
Good, very good. He disconnected the timer.
He plugged in the coffee grinder, filled it with potassium chlorate oxygenating tablets from the aquarium supplies store, and switched the machine on. When they were ground into a small mound of powder, he tipped it out onto the scales, and then into a tumbler from the bathroom. He repeated the process with further tablets until he had the exact amount he required.
Next, he measured out and carefully weighed some of the aluminium powder from the art shop, and tipped it into another tumbler from the bathroom. Then, very carefully, he mixed the two compounds together.
When he was satisfied, he unscrewed one end of the steel tube and poured in the concoction.
Then he pushed in the end of the insulated wire with the bent metal of the coil spring, working it through the mixture until it was completely embedded, and secured it in place with the hot-glue stick. As an extra safety precaution, he carefully wound insulating tape round the two exposed wires at the other end of the cable, then pushed them into the tube, followed by the mercury tilt sensor and the Arduino relay, which fitted snugly. He replaced the screw-cap. It had been some years since he’d last made one of these, but the good thing today, he thought, was if you were unsure about anything you could always look it up on the internet.
He searched around for a suitable hiding place for his bomb and the timer that would detonate it. One secure place presented itself: the air-conditioning grille above the door. He removed his Swiss Army penknife from his suitcase, stood on a chair and undid the four screws holding it in place.
Five minutes later, the grille securely back in place, he climbed down off the chair, and then began to do some exercises on his legs. He had to get everything working again. He was on the mend, but he needed to be in a lot better shape before he attempted to complete his mission. And he knew what he had to do. He checked the temperature of the gel-pack, which he had placed in an ice bucket, wrapped it in a towel then pressed it against the worst bruise on his right leg.
To occupy himself for the ten minutes that he was going to hold it there, he opened his laptop and took a look at what was going on in Jodie Carmichael’s house.
99
Thursday 12 March
J. Paul Cornel, installed in his vast fourth-floor suite at the Grand Hotel shortly after 4 p.m., walked around exploring his plush new surroundings. He could fit his little flat about five times in here.
The suite, overlooking the English Channel, had a master bedroom with a huge ensuite bathroom, a second bedroom and a living room, which was decorated in Regency style with two large sofas beneath an ornate chandelier. The four large suitcases that had accompanied him, as part of his cover, lay unopened, two of them on the trestles which the porter had helpfully placed there for him. They were filled with clothes that had been purchased for him from an array of clothing stores around the city, as well as a classy washbag crammed with toiletries.
He put the iPhone he had been given on charge. It was loaded with hidden software, which relayed his position, down to six feet, to a round-the-clock monitored screen in an Intelligence Team office at police HQ, as well as a voice-activated sound recorder. He popped each of the cases open and unpacked, hanging up the jackets and trousers and putting the shirts and underwear away in the drawers. Many of the clothes bore American designer labels. An hour later he had truly moved in. The next step was to find this dangerous lady, Jodie Carmichael. Or, if his colleagues had laid the bait according to plan, to let her find him.
Shortly after 6 p.m., dressed in a dark blue suit, white, open-neck shirt and black suede Gucci loafers, he took the lift downstairs, then strode across to the bar, taking in all the people in the room. There were a few groups of what looked like businessmen and a couple drinking champagne. But no single women. Easing himself onto a seat, positioning himself so he could see anyone entering the room or walking past, Potting wondered what J. Paul Cornel would order in a cocktail bar.