Want You Dead

by Peter James

If anything, he was even more excited than a week ago. His excitement fuelled by his determination that this time, nothing was going to stop them.

  Then his phone rang.

  He looked at Cleo and she grinned.

  He picked it up out of the grey tray and stared at the display. The number withheld message meant almost certainly that it was work.

  ‘I’m not answering it!’

  ‘You will!’ she said, with a grin, and kissed him.

  ‘No, I won’t!’ He killed the call.

  Moments later the phone rang again. He hesitated. It could be any number of people calling him for any number of reasons. But he didn’t care, he really did not care this time. Whatever the problem – if there was a problem – for the next few days it was not his.

  ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

  ‘See!’ Cleo said gleefully.

  He grinned and blew a silent kiss at her.

  It was Glenn Branson. ‘Where are you, old timer? On a gondola on the Rialto?’

  ‘Very funny. You want me to buy you a Cornetto?’

  ‘Just-ah-one!’

  ‘Listen, I’m just finishing going through security at Gatwick. Can I call you back?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t want to disturb your honeymoon.’

  ‘You just have. What’s up?’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing. Bryce Laurent’s on remand in Lewes Prison on murder charges, right? Which means no bail, so he’ll be there until the end of his trial. But he’s trying to get at her. I had a call from her a little while ago, very upset. She’s had a cartoon emailed to her – by, it would seem, Laurent.’

  ‘I thought prisoners didn’t have access to email in Lewes Prison, mate?’ He signalled an apology to Cleo. ‘What was the cartoon?’

  ‘It depicted her in a cross hair gun-sight, wearing an eye-patch, surrounded by flames and swirling wind. It was captioned, To the Queen of the Slipstream. Enjoy your last days on earth.’

  ‘Van Morrison,’ Grace said.

  ‘Van Morrison?’

  ‘The song.’

  ‘Enjoy your last days on earth?’ Branson queried

  ‘No! Queen of the Slipstream! I thought you knew your music.’

  ‘Yeah, I do – but not your trashy white man stuff.’

  ‘It played at the wedding – did you have your thumbs in your ear or something?’ Grinning, Grace removed his belt from the tray and, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, began threading it back through the loops on his trousers. ‘Okay, so tell me more about the cartoon.’

  ‘I spoke to the Deputy Governor at Lewes, Alan Setterington. He says it’s possible it could have been sent from within the prison, despite the ban on internet connections, or maybe Laurent had someone outside do it. But I thought you should know something of concern: Setterington told me a prisoner informed him this morning that Laurent’s trying to hire a hitman to kill Red. He’s put out word that he’s offering around fifty grand cash for a result.’

  ‘Has he found a taker?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it yet. The man Laurent thinks might do it told Setterington earlier today.’

  ‘So what are your thoughts?’

  ‘If we could find that fifty grand stash, then we’ll have spiked Laurent’s guns.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Grace. ‘We’re on the same page. Setterington had better get his colleagues eavesdropping on Laurent. We need to listen to every conversation he has. Correction, you need to listen.’

  ‘You don’t sound as worried as you might, boss,’ Glenn Branson said.

  ‘No, I’m not, because you’re in charge and I’ve got every faith in you! Have a good week. I’ll see you next Monday morning.’

  ‘Yeah, but . . . hang on, old timer—’

  Roy Grace hung up. Then he switched his phone off altogether. He’d worked his butt off to keep the city of Brighton and Hove – and the whole of Sussex – safe for the past twenty years. It would now have to cope for one week without him.

  ‘I’ve never, ever, seen you do that before,’ Cleo said, with a massive smile.

  ‘Yep, well, I’ve never been on honeymoon with you before.’ He slipped his arm around her. ‘And I don’t intend wasting another second of it.’

  She looked at him with a huge, warm grin. ‘Now, why don’t I believe that? You without your phone on?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not going to happen!’

  ‘It is!’

  ‘You’re not going to pick up your messages for the whole time?’

  ‘Well . . . maybe I’ll check them . . . just occasionally. In case . . .’

  ‘See, you can’t, can you? And I wouldn’t want you to. I don’t want to change you, Roy, I love you as you are.’ She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  120

  Tuesday, 12 November

  The sodding towel he had put up over the window, to block out the glare from the security lights outside, had fallen down, and the tiny cell was filled with a weak yellow glow. How the fuck could anyone sleep on this hard, absurdly narrow bed, and with this bloody light? Bryce Laurent thought.

  He rolled over for the umpteenth time, feeling the coarse blanket against his face and shivering with cold. His left eye was bandaged and still hurt like hell from where that bitch had dug her nails in. The prison doctor was arranging for him to see a specialist because he was worried about the extent of damage, expressing concerns that it might be permanent and irreversible. Blind in one eye.

  He was so going to get even with Red for that.

  Somewhere in the block he heard another prisoner shouting out in his sleep. Having a damned nightmare. This place was a nightmare. So much swirled through his head, an angry mist of thoughts. And plans. Oh yes, he had plans. New plans forming all the time. He was working on one now. It was a beautiful one. Masterly! It would ensure Red never, ever, felt safe again. For the rest of her life.

  Although, if all went well, that was going to be a very short time.

  Suddenly, he noticed the sound of trickling water. As if someone had left a tap running. Who? Where? In the next-door cell? How long had it been going on? Had he left the tap running in here, or was it the cistern of his toilet?

  He closed his eyes to shut it out, but it seemed to be getting worse, louder, running faster. A distinct gurgling sound now, almost echoing in the silence of the night.

  Then he smelled petrol.

  He frowned.

  Petrol?

  Who had petrol in here? Were they using it in a heater?

  The smell was getting stronger.

  He now heard a sound like lapping water running up a beach.

  And suddenly, in anxiety, he swung his legs off his bunk and onto the floor.

  They splashed into something wet.

  He took a tentative step forward. Shit. The floor was wet. With petrol. Shit. Oh Shit.

  The gurgling sound continued. More was pouring in every second.

  What the hell was going on?

  Outside prisoner 076569’s cell door, another prisoner of Lewes’s remand wing continued to squeeze the reservoir bag of the water pouch, which was designed for cyclists, letting all three pints of petrol pour, via the drinking tube, through the cell inundation point in Bryce Laurent’s cell door.

  ‘Hey!’ Laurent said, his voice panicky. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’

  ‘It’s nearly lighting up time!’ his antagonist replied, in a soft Irish lilt. Then he switched on a torch and shone the beam at his own face, which was close to the grille. ‘Boo!’

  He laughed as Laurent recoiled in shock. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Laurent asked, fumbling for the light switch in his cell but momentarily unable to find it.

  ‘A friend of a friend who doesn’t like you. We’re like-minded, him and I. We don’t like men who hurt women. You’ve got a pretty long track record of hurting women, I’d say. You like playing with fire, don’t you?’

  ‘Warder!’ Laurent shouted, scared now. Then, remembering they didn’t like being cal
led that, he shouted, in a panic-stricken voice, ‘Officer! Officer!’

  ‘There’s only one prison officer on duty on this floor,’ the Irishman said. ‘He doesn’t like you very much either. You see, you murdered his cousin and set fire to his body just a couple of weeks back. Remember him? Up at the golf course? Dr Karl Murphy?’

  ‘Officer!’ Laurent shouted.

  ‘Relax, Bryce, he’s not interested! He’ll come when I call him, to lock me back in my cell. Then he’ll open yours and throw in this water pouch. Whatever remains of it for the forensics boys, everyone will think, with all you’ve been saying about killing yourself, that you smuggled it in yourself. I mean, I would! Hey, I do!’

  ‘Officer!’ Laurent screamed in terror. ‘Officer, officer, officer!’

  The Irishman suddenly stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and flicked the wheel of a plastic lighter, then lit the cigarette from the flame.

  Laurent jumped back into the darkness of his cell at the sight of it. The Irishman dragged on his cigarette again.

  ‘Put that out! For God’s sake, put it out!’

  ‘Relax! Tut, tut, I’m surprised at an experienced pyromaniac like you, Bryce, all surrounded by petrol, being scared of a cigarette. Don’t you know your basics, Bryce? Everyone who’s ever tried knows that a cigarette doesn’t burn hot enough to ignite petrol.’ He took another drag.

  ‘But, you shitty little woman-abuser,’ he went on, ‘a lighted cigarette with a tiny strip of magnesium in the middle will – just as soon as the flame hits the magnesium. Which in this case will be in about five seconds.’

  Then he pushed the half-smoked cigarette through the grille.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This novel came out of a phone call eighteen months ago from Chief Superintendent Nev Kemp, now Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove. He told me about a case that he was sure I would be interested in, and which, he felt, might inspire a story. He was right on both counts, and I owe an incalculable debt to him for setting me off on the journey that was to become Want You Dead.

  Former Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Gaylor has, as ever, given me the most enormous help, not just in so many areas of research for this novel, but in the plotting and editorial processes. I also need to single out Chief Inspector Jason Tingley, who gave me many introductions to those people and organizations involved in the White Ribbon campaign in Sussex against domestic abuse.

  There are so many other officers and support staff of Sussex Police, who give me such constant and enthusiastic help and advice, to whom I am immensely grateful. Starting with the very recently retired Chief Constable, Martin Richards, QPM. The Police and Crime Commissioner, Katy Bourne. Former Chief Superintendent Graham Bartlett. Detective Superintendent Paul Furnell. Detective Chief Inspector Nick May. Inspector Andy Kille. Inspector Steve Grace. Sgt Jonathan Hartley. PC Andrew Dunkling. Sgt Phil Taylor and Ray Packham of the High Tech Crime Unit. PC Tony Omotoso. Colin Voice.

  I owe huge thanks to Alan Setterington, former Deputy Governor of Lewes Prison, pyrotechnic expert Mike Sansom, and to many people in the Sussex Fire and Rescue Services: Matt Wainwright, who not only opened the doors to Worthing fire station for me, but who also taught me so much about close magic. Very especially Tony McCord, Borough Commander of East Sussex Fire and Rescue Service, and his wife Jan McCord. Both have been immeasurably helpful to me. Tony Gurr, Chief Fire Investigator. Mark Hobbs. Julie Gilbert-King. Sharon Milner. Roy Barraclough, Group Station Manager, Worthing fire station. Watch Commander Darren Wickens.

  And to many of those involved in the struggle against domestic abuse. Lindsay Jordan, team manager of the Southdown Housing Association. Sarah Findlay, Head of Housing Strategy, Lewes District Council, who gave me the information on the Sanctuary Scheme. Tracy O’Rourke Burr. Suzy Ridgwell. Penny Butler. Fin Castle. Kate Dale, Naomi Bos and Carys Jenkins of Rise. Tricia Bernal, who was prepared to so openly and candidly talk to me about the tragic death of her daughter, Clare, at the hands of her stalker ex-boyfriend. Former Chief Magistrate of Brighton and Hove, Juliet Smith. Psychologist Zoe Lodrick, who incredibly generously gave me many hours of her time helping me on key chapters.

  Pathologists Mark Howard, Ben Swift and Nigel Kirkham. Forensic Podiatrist Haydn Kelly. Julie Frith of Mishon Mackay. Graham Rand of Rand & Co. Nick Fitzherbert. Nick Bonner.

  As ever, my boundless gratitude to tireless Chris Webb of MacService for coaxing my Mac back to life on the many occasions it appeared to have died during the writing of this book.

  Very big and special thanks to Helen Shenston and Anna-Lisa Hancock. And to Sue Ansell, who has read and helped me so much, editorially, with every single book I have written; very many thanks also to Martin and Jane Diplock, and Nicola Mitchell.

  A huge debt of gratitude also to my agent and wonderful friend Carole Blake. And to Tony Mulliken, Sophie Ransom and Becky Short of Midas PR. To list everyone at Pan Macmillan would be impossible, but thank you Geoff Duffield, Anna Bond, Sara Lloyd, my wonderful and lovely publishing director, Wayne Brookes, and my incredibly patient editor, Susan Opie. And of course my great US team: Andy Martin, my editor Marc Resnick, my publicists Hector DeJean and Paul Hochman of Minotaur, Elena Stokes and Tanya Farrell of Wunderkind and all the rest at Team James USA!

  An extremely special thanks to my brilliant PA, Linda Buckley, who has worked with me, tirelessly, on endless drafts and revisions and corrections on this manuscript, and is always bright and cheerful.

  Phoebe, Oscar and Coco, as ever have been the model of all patience – above and beyond all duty for dogs! For waiting around the foot of my desk for the slightest hint that I’m going to take a break and walk them before they go wonderfully crazy with excitement – and for reminding me that sometimes there is a life beyond my keyboard and screen . . .

  Fond memories of my friend Jim Herbert, who was so supportive to me and sadly died during the time I was writing this book.

  Thank you, my readers. Your emails, tweets, Facebook and blog posts give me such constant encouragement!

  Peter James

  Sussex, England

  scary@pavilion.co.uk

  www.peterjames.com

  www.facebook.com/peterjames.roygrace

  www.twitter.com/peterjamesuk

  By Peter James

  DEAD LETTER DROP

  ATOM BOMB ANGEL

  BILLIONAIRE

  POSSESSION

  DREAMER

  SWEET HEART

  TWILIGHT

  PROPHECY

  ALCHEMIST

  HOST

  THE TRUTH

  DENIAL

  FAITH

  PERFECT PEOPLE

  Children’s Novel

  GETTING WIRED!

  Novella

  THE PERFECT MURDER

  Short Stories Collection

  SHORT SHOCKERS VOLUME ONE

  SHORT SHOCKERS VOLUME TWO

  The Roy Grace Series

  DEAD SIMPLE

  LOOKING GOOD DEAD

  NOT DEAD ENOUGH

  DEAD MAN’S FOOTSTEPS

  DEAD TOMORROW

  DEAD LIKE YOU

  DEAD MAN’S GRIP

  NOT DEAD YET

  DEAD MAN’S TIME

  WANT YOU DEAD

  About the Author

  Peter James was educated at Charterhouse, then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a screenwriter and film producer before returning to England. His novels, including the Sunday Times number one bestselling Roy Grace series, have been translated into thirty-six languages, with worldwide sales of fourteen million copies. Three of his earlier novels have been filmed. His smash hit play The Perfect Murder has been touring the UK to rave reviews and the stage adaptation of his first Roy Grace novel, Dead Simple, will start on nationwide tour in January 2015. James has also produced numerous films, including The Merchant of Venice, starring Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes. He divides his time between his homes in Notting Hill, London, a
nd near Brighton in Sussex.

  Visit his website at www.peterjames.com Or follow him on Twitter @peterjamesuk Or Facebook facebook.com/peterjames.roygrace

  First published 2014 by Macmillan

  This electronic edition published 2014 by Macmillan

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-230-76061-5

  Copyright © Really Scary Books/Peter James 2014

  The right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Roy Grace® is a registered trade mark of Really Scary Books Limited

  The Macmillan Group has no responsibility for the information provided by any author websites whose address you obtain from this book (‘author websites’). The inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute an endorsement by or association with us of such sites or the content, products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.

  Table of Contents

  Title page

  Dedication page

  Contents

  1

  2