Not Dead Yet

gathering was Chief Inspector Rob Hammond, a Tactical Firearms Commander.
    Graham Barrington stood up to greet him. ‘Roy, thank you so much for giving up your Sunday!’
    ‘I can’t remember the last time I actually had one!’ he replied, then smiled at each of the others. He was pleased to see Jason Tingley, with whom he had worked years back on a brutal rape case. Tingley was a very smart detective. He also went back a long way with Graham Barrington; like most of the force, he had a great deal of respect for the man who had been credited with very substantial crime reductions in many areas of the city.
    Barrington introduced him to the two women, then Grace sat down. All of them, he noticed, had Starbucks containers in front of them. He could have killed for a coffee right now – he cursed himself for not thinking ahead and getting one on the way here.
    They chatted informally for some moments before Barrington cut across them. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The situation is I’ve had telephone contact with the Threat Management Unit of the Los Angeles Police Department and with Gaia’s security chief, a former police officer called Andrew Gulli. The first issue I’ve had to deal with is explaining to Mr Gulli that his bodyguards are not permitted to carry guns in the UK.’
    DI Tingley cut in. ‘The threat is global, and we know our target is capable of using a firearm. Are we going to have any Armed Response Unit members active?’
    ‘We are, Jason,’ Barrington assured him. ‘Chief Inspector Hammond and Sergeant Worsley are here to give us their plan for protecting Gaia and her son Roan.’ He indicated to the two men to proceed.
    Sergeant Worsley went first. ‘Gaia Lafayette and her entourage are flying in to London Heathrow Terminal Five at 7 a.m. on Wednesday,’ he said. ‘We have suggested putting out a false trail that sheis flying in to Gatwick via a private jet, but I understand she has had her press secretary inform the entire UK press of her actual plans. It looks like we have a case of the ego is about to land.’
    Grace suppressed a grin. This was so typical of major stars. They claimed to hate the paparazzi, yet always tipped them off where they would be. ‘Where is she staying? In Brighton, or outside?’
    ‘In Brighton, sir,’ Worsley replied. ‘In The Grand Hotel. Her entourage has booked the Presidential Suite and all the other rooms on that floor – so we can at least make that floor a sterile area.’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘One of our big issues is budget, sir. The Chief has told me to offer every resource I have to her, but she’s going to have to pay for anything beyond what we would consider a reasonable level – the kind of security we’d give to minor royalty.’
    ‘You’re aware of the attempt on her life last week?’ Grace asked.
    ‘That is very largely why were are here,’ Hammond said.
    ‘We’re also aware that she will probably make some kind of pilgrimage to her childhood home in Whitehawk,’ Worsley added.
    ‘Another problem is she likes to jog, Roy,’ Barrington said. ‘Apparently she has her minders jog with her, but that’s another area of security risk.’
    Worsley nodded. ‘We’re planning on putting a ring of steel around her, sir. No one’s going to get near her without us checking them first.’
    Grace nodded. ‘Good.’ But he knew that no matter how much security you laid on, it was impossible to protect anyone totally. He asked Barrington for the name of his contact in Los Angeles and wrote it down, intending to speak to him directly.
    They were all experienced officers in this room. And they all knew the reality. You could protect someone as much as you liked, but if they insisted on moving around freely, they were always going to be at risk from a lone nutcase.
    He could not stop the chill of unease that coiled inside him.

32
    The gaunt, cadaverous-looking American was dressed in a weary checked jacket, tieless gingham shirt buttoned to the top, grey trousers, leather sandals and grey socks. He peered down through unfashionably large glasses, his Adams apple throbbing, reading her name badge. Becky Rivett. Worried that he was about to kick off at any moment, the receptionist at The Grand Hotel glanced up from her screen to give him a quick, reassuring smile, then moved the cursor up the page, searching desperately for his reservation.
    He had thinning hair the colour of ash, cut in a pageboy fringe – a style that looked