One Last Lesson (32 page)

Hobbs sat in the car and kept watch while Henderson walked purposefully towards an apartment at the end of a block
where a set of steps, almost obscured by sprawling vegetation, led down to Cope’s ground floor apartment. All the buildings in this street were built on a slope, presumably to maximise the view, and all the windows seemed to face the same way too as there was only one at the rear, small and frosted, presumably a cloakroom.

At the bottom of the steps, he was standing between Cope’s apartment
building and the one next door. A path ran alongside each building and the gap between them was planted with small, green plants in readiness for blooming in the summer. By the look of the soil, which was dark and moist, it had recently been given a rich topping of compost, which would help water retention and provide nutrients, leading to a bright, colourful display a few months from now, but here endeth the gardening lesson from an otherwise ignorant flat-dweller, as he knew little more.

He was being more cautious now as his photograph had featur
ed in many newspapers over the last couple of weeks and if the wall display at the Saltdean house was anything to go by, Cope knew exactly what he looked like. If he was preparing for a proper stake-out he might have shortened his hair, grown a beard or worn different clothes, but he made the best of a bad lot with dark sun glasses and a Portimão-inscribed baseball hat pulled down low.

The metal roll-down shutters outside the apartment windows were
only half-way closed and after first checking he was not being watched by a couple of puzzled golfers, having a fag outside a neighbouring apartment, he carefully sidled up to the first window and peered in. The bed was unmade, the wardrobe doors were open and clothes were strewn across the room. It was too much to expect that a shirt would be lying close to the window so he could confirm the collar size, but he could see bottles of after-shave, a hairbrush and a can of Nivea Men antiperspirant on the dresser, indicating for this room at least, a man slept there.

Next along was the entrance door and beyond that
, large windows of the living room. Slowly he made his way past the door and just as he was about to take a look, he heard the shuffling of feet behind him.

Panic seized his senses like a vice
as he immediately thought it was Cope, coming out to investigate a strange man lurking outside his apartment or returning from breakfast in one of the restaurants nearby. Christ! If Cope caught him snooping, it would blow the whole case wide apart. He would scarper to Spain or Italy and it would be his fault for failing the families of the two murdered girls and letting a violent killer go free to kill again. Hobbs was supposed to warn him with a phone call to vibrate his silenced phone but what if he couldn’t do so because he was asleep or incapacitated?

A deep voice suddenly said, ‘Are you all right, s
enhor?’

Henderson turned. Five yards away and partly camouflaged by foliage, was a walnut-faced old fellow, wearing a wide brimmed
straw hat and the green uniform of the ground maintenance team.

‘
I’m just ... enjoying the view.’

‘Sim
senhor. Eet is a fine view from here.’

For a moment or two, he looked at Henderson
as a small smile creased his lips on what was otherwise an inscrutable face before bending down slowly and weeding carefully between the plants. His slow and careful stabs with the two-fingered hoe convinced Henderson he was there for the rest of the morning and so he decided to continue his recce but to finish it quickly and then get the hell out. Nonchalantly he moved forward.

The huge living room window, which was glazed on three sides,
giving him visibility throughout the rest of the apartment, the seating area around the television, the kitchen, the dining area and through floor-to-ceiling glass patio doors at the end of the room, out to a patio and barbecue area. At the back of the apartment and to the right, an open door led into a second bedroom but unlike the one he saw earlier, it was tidy and looked unused. Thank the Lord, as shadowing Cope was one thing, but the presence of a companion would make this job much more difficult.

He turned and followed the path back the way he came and after calling a passable and hopefully casual, ‘obrigado’ to the old man, he made his way up the stairs and over to the car. Hobbs was not asleep or incapacitated as his over-active imagination suggested, but reading the paper with the casual air of
a man waiting for his dilatory wife and daughters as they finished doing their hair or was simply enjoying some peace away from a noisy apartment.

‘How was it?’

‘It’s a two-bedroom place but there’s only one occupant, which reinforces my view that it belongs to Samuels. The room he’s sleeping in looks untidy but I didn’t see any golf kit, so maybe he didn’t bring any out with him as he’s away doing other things or he’s got it with him and he’s out there right now, playing a game.’

‘It’s a bit odd coming out here on your own, don’t you think? I mean, golf’s a sociable game and you need other players to make a game of it, so either he knows some people out here or he isn’t here to play golf.’

‘Yeah, take your pick, brass rubbing in local churches or raping and murdering local women.’

‘Ha, he loo
ks the churchy kind, doesn’t he?’

‘Maybe we should ask Inspector Giraldes if any local women have gone missing. That is, if we haven’t scared him into doing it already, the very thought of having someone like Cope holidaying twice or t
hree times a year in this place would get me worried.’

‘So, I don’t suppose we can go for a beer just yet?’

‘Nope. We need to wait here until he turns up.’

‘That’s providing he’s in these apartments at all and it’s not some bloody ruse.’

‘Cynic.’

The afternoon dragged past, Henderson taking naps while Hobbs read a book or fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station that didn’t play old fashioned tea-dance music, American oldies or endless military marches.

At four fifteen, yet another car drew up and parked outside the apartments. Henderson took little notice until two men stepped out.

‘Gerry, wake up mate. I think we’ve got company.’

‘Christ,’ he said sitting up. ‘Somebody should hire that dj for late-night radio in the UK, he could cure the nation’s insomnia overnight. Two minutes of him and I was out like a light.’

‘They’re on the other side of the road, about five cars up.’

He rubbed his eyes and leaned over to look in the rear-view mirror. ‘Yeah I see them, two guys taking their stuff out of the boot of a silver 4x4?’

‘Yep. That’s them.’

Cope bent over the opened boot and picked something out before stepping back. It was a bottle of water or juice, which he put to his lips and drunk greedily.

‘
Bloody Norah!’ Gerry exclaimed. ‘It’s him all right. Would you credit it?’

‘Bow down all you nonbelievers,
bow.’

‘Healthy scepticism I call it
boss, comes in handy sometimes.’

‘Yeah, that’s our Mr Cope all right. He’s a big bastard and no mistake.’

Martin Cope towered over his smaller companion and there was no trace of a beer belly. He was a regular body-builder in prison and although many used the gym as cover to hatch plans and do deals, he clearly didn’t and must have kept up the same regime on the outside. The two men stopped on the pavement for a chat and a couple of minutes later said hearty ‘goodbyes.’ His companion headed for the path in front of the car while Cope walked towards them, pulling his clubs behind him on a trolley.

‘Excuse me Mr Hobbs,
I seem to have dropped my last mint imperial. I’ll just duck out of sight and see if I can find it.’

‘Don’t make me laugh you clown. If Cope sees me smiling at myself he’ll think I’m
as mad as he is and come over and talk to me.’ He lifted the newspaper and glanced at it while speaking softly, as if mouthing the words he was reading or singing along to the radio.

‘He’s getting closer, two cars away, one car away
; he’s level with us. I’m looking up at him...he’s still walking, eyes to front, not looking left or right. He’s not worried about being watched, then. He’s past us, doesn’t turn round like he suspects anything. He’s stopped at the top of the stairs. He picks up the golf bag and trolley as if it weighs nowt. Now I can see his big head bobbing down the stairs.’ He paused a moment. ‘I think you can come up now, boss.’

The funeral of Jon Lehman took place on Friday morning at the Church of St Thomas A-Becket in Lewes. Although born in Morden, Surrey his wife Annabel decided that as Jon spent most of his adult life in Lewes and loved the town, particularly its women, beer and history, it would have been his wish to be buried there.

Bollocks
, was all Alan Stark would say when he heard of her decision. It was the sterile bitch’s last opportunity to take her spite out on the man she believed was responsible for screwing up her life. Maybe, he thought with a wicked smile, when she found out about all the oodles of cash the little squirrel had been salting away, she would not be quite so outspoken and acerbic as she was now.

The pastor was babbling on about the afterlife and what a good place our brother would find himself in, yes he thought
, nodding in agreement, but only if he could be provided with twelve young virgins and limitless supplies of Cabernet Sauvignon, or whatever the hell he drank, as he was never quite sure himself. He could be so decisive and commanding in class, yet became a dithering idiot when it came to his private life, such as choosing what to eat in a restaurant, who to talk to at a party or picking the woman he intended to marry, but on reflection, those were the very reasons why he liked him so much.

It took him years to realise it, but he, Alan Stark was a good-old fashioned control freak which permeated every aspect of his life, from the way he placed banknotes
around the same way in his wallet, to the months in which he wanted his children to be born as he liked to have a handle on everything in his life and he would do battle with anyone who sought to disrupt it.

Jon on the other hand, took life in his stride in a way
that he could never do and which seemed so carefree, so bohemian, even. Yes, it was hard to admit, but there were times when he envied him. Perhaps if those words were said to his face, it might have changed things and made for a more favourable outcome.

He allowed himself a tear, even in this exalted group of the great and the good. They came from all over; from the university, students and l
ecturers alike, from government, minor officials from many of the esoteric and arcane committees of which Jon was a member, from his wife’s coven of interior designers, style gurus and gays and of course, close friends like himself.

For all his failings, he was a good friend to
Alan Stark. He was loyal, trustworthy and reliable, much like his Golden Retriever, Randy now he came to think of it. He dismissed that impudent thought from his mind as the preacher finished speaking and invited them to stand and sing.

After the psalm, which was far
from uplifting as it made him feel more miserable, he walked to the lectern with a heavy heart. There were no nerves or apprehension as this was what he did for a living, although the charges he normally spoke to were somewhat younger and a darn sight prettier than this lot.

What he wasn’t used to doing, was speaking from the heart and so in preparation for this, he did something out of character
, he let other people read one of his speeches before he gave it. He wanted it to convey the right level of affection without a trace of the terse and serious law professor he usually became the moment he stood up to speak to his students or fellow lawyers at a legal gathering.

A few minutes after he started, he realised he was enjoying talking about his friend, summarising his eminent career at the university and the extracurricular activities he was responsible for, including the chess club and the badminton team and the secondments he organised for his business students as he had numerous contacts in many
large, international companies. He, of course omitted to mention the other extracurricular activities that Jon was involved in and approached with equal vigour, as they were approached with significantly less clothes and with little deference to rules.

Clearly, his short eulogy
was striking the right note as he spotted much dabbing of the eyes and coughing into the hands, although he was alarmed at the number of men that seemed similarly affected. One girl at the back of the church burst into tears when he concluded in a deep, solemn voice ‘that Jon would be sorely missed,’ and few moments later, a few more joined in with her wailing sobs.

Jon was never much of an environmentalist, dismissing them as less than intelligent and misinformed and accusing the more vociferous of changing their policies to include the words ‘global warming’, just to get their greed
y mitts on more government loot. He would want to be buried in a proper coffin and not cremated or encased (or was it wrapped) in a cardboard coffin as his loopy wife and friends wanted, and he and his mother made sure that particular wish was granted.