Love You Dead (41 page)

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.

A Martini, perhaps? Or a Manhattan?

He looked at the cocktail menu the barman gave him. Two businessmen in suits, with conference tags on their lapels, sat next to him, drinking pints of beer. A beer might be more sensible, he
thought. He didn’t know how long he might have to wait. Another man in a suit, further along, was drinking what looked like a gin and tonic from a highball glass.

There was an assortment of cocktails he had never heard of. The barman placed a fresh bowl of peanuts in front of him, and Potting began to munch his way through them, spilling some. Would she
show up? There was no telling. Whatever, he had a feeling it might be a long evening.

In his well-rehearsed Californian twang, he ordered a Perrier with a slice of lemon in a long glass. If she did show up, at least it would look like the gin and tonic he was craving at this
moment.

The next hour passed slowly. He whiled away some of it by checking his iPhone. All the time he kept an eye on the door, ready to act if Jodie did appear. Then his thoughts went back, as they
always did whenever he had time to think, to Bella.

His heart heaved and he felt sad.

She had been a genuinely good person. They had had such a wonderful future in front of them. After so much shit, he had finally found the love of his life. Then she had gone and done what any
police officer would have done in those circumstances, whether on duty or off – and she had lost her life.

The barman interrupted his thoughts, asking if he needed another drink.

He did, badly. Instead he dutifully asked for the same again, consoling himself with the knowledge that he was having a better time this evening than the two poor Surveillance Team guys, in
their car out in the darkness somewhere close by, doing their tedious twelve-hour shift guarding him. He supposed it was comforting to know that for the duration of his time undercover, there would
always be two officers never more than seconds away if he needed them. All he had to do was push one button on his phone.

His drink arrived and he stared at it bleakly. Then he asked the barman to bring him a gin and tonic, and make the gin a double.

When it came he downed it in two gulps.

Determined not to fall foul of another Walter Klein, Jodie Carmichael had spent the past two hours rigorously checking out J. Paul Cornel on the internet.

His Wikipedia tallied with what she had read in the paper. His humble origins growing up on the Whitehawk Estate. His education, first at Brighton’s Dorothy Stringer School, then winning a
scholarship to study computer sciences at MIT – Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Followed by a five-year spell working under Dr Josef Kates, in Toronto, one the world’s first
pioneers in computer time-sharing, and later in traffic systems. Then his move to Microsoft in California, before making his first fortune in his own Silicon Valley-based technology company
developing facial-recognition systems for the US military, before funding a succession of highly successful tech start-ups. With his passion for classic cars, he had built up a highly valuable
collection.

One thing that particularly excited her about him was his lack of heirs. In his only marriage he had produced two children, a son born with cystic fibrosis who had died at nineteen, and a
daughter who had died in a TWA air disaster out of New York. His wife had died from cancer.

He had twice been thwarted in attempts to buy major US baseball teams, and during the past decade had given many millions to charities, including those for cystic fibrosis and genetic
engineering research.

She actually found herself feeling sorry for Cornel.

And thanks to the newspaper interview, she had a strong clue where she might find him right now, here in Brighton.

She began to google images of Cornel’s wife. And as she did so, Jodie smiled. The wife had been slim and attractive, brunette and glamorous. With her new hairstyle, she would fit very
nicely into that template.

Shortly after 6 p.m., she began to get ready.

Tooth sat at the desk in his hotel room, smoking a cigarette and drinking whisky, watching Jodie on the cameras he had concealed around her house. She was sitting in front of
the dressing-table mirror in her bedroom, applying her make-up carefully. Her computer screen was not visible to any of his cameras. What had she been looking at on the internet? he wondered.

What was she dolling herself up for tonight? When did this woman stop? Her husband had only just died and she had brought him home to bury him. He had to admit to a sneaking admiration for her.
She was a predator like himself.

He stood up and hobbled around the room. The discomfort in his ribs was lessening. The bruising in his right leg looked a little better now. In a few days he should be fit enough.

Shortly after half past six he watched – and heard – Jodie Carmichael order a taxi to take her to the Grand Hotel. She booked it in her alias, Judith Forshaw.

‘Have a nice evening, Judith,’ he said, quietly. ‘Stay out late. The later the better.’

The opportunity had come sooner than he had expected. But as he had been trained in sniper school, you always had to be ready for when a shot presented itself; you might not get a second
opportunity.

He stood up and removed his clothes, and began to reapply his make-up. Afterwards, going over to the closet, he pulled out his dress, shoes, coat and wig.

Fifteen minutes later, Thelma Darby, with the aid of her walking stick, limped along the corridor, clutching her large handbag, took the lift down to the lobby, then headed out across the road
to her rental car.

The buzz of the gin had worn off and Norman Potting – or as he had to keep reminding himself, J. Paul Cornel – was contemplating ordering another. He was also
wondering just how long he would have to stay here before declaring Jodie Carmichael a no-show.

The bar had filled up and although he had done his best to defend the seat next to him he’d finally had to concede it, and was now sandwiched between a large man, who sounded Scandinavian,
engaged in loud conversation with a Brit beside him, about nuclear power, and a couple of gay guys talking affectionately to each other. He’d had the liberal policies of Sussex Police drummed
into his head by Roy Grace, under pain of being kicked off the Major Crime Team, so he was doing his best to be more broad-minded. But he was in a world that had changed so much since he had first
joined the police, and he found it increasingly hard to understand.

A stunning woman entered the bar. He’d been a copper long enough to tell the difference between someone casually glancing around and someone casing a joint.

She was casing the joint.

And her eyes alighted, fleetingly, on him.

She was in her mid-thirties, in a silky grey dress that clung to every contour of her slender body, and stopped short of her knees. Her legs were long and slender, and she wore glittering high
heels. Her hair was long and dark, elegantly styled, and her neck and wrists were adorned with tasteful jewellery and a classy watch.

She gave him a second glance, and possibly a smile, before sitting a few places away, at the end of the bar.

Was that her?

And if it was, how did he make the next move? He had a dinner reservation for 8.00 p.m. An hour’s time. He was peckish and looking forward to a good meal, courtesy of Sussex Police.

Maybe, if he played it right, he could get her to join him.
If
it was Jodie Carmichael.

Whilst pretending to be texting on his iPhone, he leaned forward to catch her order to the barman. A glass of Chardonnay. Then, continuing his pretence of texting, he looked at the photographs
he had been given of the woman.

It was her!

He drank another Perrier. The irritating Scandinavian and his pal, to his left, climbed down off their stools and walked away. Ten minutes later the two other couples between him and his target
had also left.

Potting looked across and caught her eye again. He gave her a friendly smile, which was returned. He turned to the barman and in his best J. Paul Cornel accent asked him to offer the young lady
at the end of the bar a glass of champagne, on him.

It had the desired effect. Minutes later, glass in hand, the young woman slid off her bar stool and sat down next to him. ‘Thank you! Drinking alone?’ she asked.

‘Drowning my sorrows.’ He smiled.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘that people who drink to drown their sorrows should be told that sorrow learns to swim.’

‘That right?’ Cornel said.

‘In my experience, uh-huh!’ She grinned.

‘I’ve buried two children and a wife,’ he said. ‘And I’ve never learned to swim.’

‘It’s never too late to learn anything.’

They clinked glasses. ‘Let’s hope not. So, to paraphrase one of my favourite movies, out of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, what brings a beautiful lady like
you into mine?’

She smiled. ‘I could ask you that same question!’

‘Be my guest!’

‘So?’

He shook his head. ‘I’d like to give you a smart answer, but I don’t have one. I grew up in this city – well, it was a town back in my youth – and I’ve lived
away for many years. Now I’m near the end of my life, and I decided to come back to my roots. You?’

She plucked an olive from a bowl in front of them. Then she sipped her champagne and ate another olive, giving him a seductive look. ‘I’m trying to get over the train crash that I
call my life. This is the first night I’ve been out in a long while. I was meant to be meeting an old friend here, but he’s just stood me up – gave me a lame excuse about having a
flat tyre.’ She shrugged. ‘Guess he had a better offer.’ Looking deliberately vulnerable, she twiddled with the chain of her locket.

‘A better offer than
you
?’

‘He’s an old flame. We’re just good mates now. But you know, men . . .’

He smiled. ‘Tell me about the train wreck.’

She shrugged. ‘You know, it’s very weird being here in this hotel.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, the thing is, I met my husband here. He died just after we were married – he was bitten by a snake, in India.’

‘That’s terrible,’ he said.

‘We were so in love.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s very sweet of you.’ Her eyes locked on his. They were mesmerizing eyes. He was aroused by her stare, and had to focus hard through the alcohol he had consumed.

He held out his hand. ‘Paul Cornel.’

Shaking it, she replied, ‘Jodie Carmichael.’

‘Good to meet you,’ he said.

She stared back into his eyes. ‘It’s good to meet you, too,’ she replied. ‘So tell me the real reason you’re in town?’

‘I’ve come home to die.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t die too soon – we’ve only just met. I think that would be rather impolite.’

He laughed. ‘OK – I’ll try to last out the evening – but on one condition.’

She held out her glass. ‘And that is?’

He clinked his glass against hers. ‘That you join me for dinner here – if you’re free, that is?’

She gave him a faraway look. ‘Well, that puts me in a difficult position. I’ve got a lasagne-for-one defrosting in my fridge right now. So it’s a choice of that or dinner with
you here. Hmmmn. Any other inducements?’

‘All the champagne you can drink.’

She spiralled her index finger, flirtatiously signalling,
More?

‘The restaurant here, GB1, is meant to be one of the best in the city. Oysters, lobster, Dover sole.’

Again she spiralled her finger.

‘And they have a great wine list, I’m told.’

She spun her finger again.

‘A few hours of my scintillating company?’

She grinned and nodded. ‘OK, now you’re starting to convince me.’ She looked mischievously into his eyes.

‘I don’t like dining alone. You’d be doing an old man a big favour by joining me.’

Another spin of her finger.

‘I think you’re incredibly beautiful.’

‘You are too kind.’

‘No, really, you are!’ he said. ‘And I think your evening would be significantly improved by spending it with me.’

‘Oh, yeah? Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t drawn in by your charm.’

‘Now you’re talking bullshit!’

‘No, I always tell the truth. And I’m seriously in need of cheerful company. I’d be delighted to have dinner with you. But I do warn you, I have expensive tastes.’

Very fortunate Sussex Police have given me an almost unlimited budget
, Potting thought. ‘Well, that makes two of us,’ he replied.

She dipped her finger into her glass and held it out to Cornel, touching his lips with it. He licked the champagne off the tip.

Christ
, he thought.
I can see why men fall for her.

And he was uncomfortably aware that the two officers, outside in their car, were listening to every word.

A fine drizzle was falling and a haze of mist shrouded each street light. Tooth, again dressed as Thelma Darby, drove his small rental Ford along Jodie Carmichael’s road
as the wipers clomped away in front of him, pleased with the weather conditions. Poor visibility. Perfect. In this affluent neighbourhood, where every home had its own private driveway and off-road
parking, there were only a few vehicles out on the street which, he was aware, made him conspicuous. He passed her driveway and pulled over behind a Range Rover one hundred yards or so further
along.

With every movement sending twinges through his chest and ribcage, he wormed his way out of his dress. Beneath he wore black jeans and a black roll-neck sweater. He pulled on sneakers, struggled
into his anorak and slid the steel pipe down inside the front of his sweater. Then he put the dead mouse, which he had bought from the aquarium store, into one of the pockets and zipped the anorak
tight.