Grace looked at the red dot heading up Nevill Road. Even driving fast in light traffic, it would take Paternoster a good half-hour to get here. They could reach the car park in less than ten minutes. He radioed Taylor. ‘Grace to Alpha Seven.’

‘Alpha Seven,’ Taylor replied.

‘We’re going to check out the Beachy Head pub car park.’

‘Roger that, sir, we’ll put units either side but not too close.’

Grace turned to Branson. ‘Fire her up. Get there quickly but quietly.’

As Branson started the engine, Grace looked down at the red dot again. And again hoped to hell this wasn’t going to turn out to be a massive waste of everyone’s time.

104

Thursday 12 September

Glenn Branson drove fast out of Eastbourne, heading along the steep, twisting, clifftop road, with the darkness of farmland to their right as they left the town and the darkness of the English Channel, beyond the cliffs, to their left.

‘Coming up on the right,’ Roy Grace said.

There was a sign for the Beachy Head Chaplaincy on their right and then one for the pub. Branson slowed right down as they approached the pub’s huge car park. It was almost deserted. Just the Range Rover, on one side, parked close to some kind of mobile industrial unit, and a large camper van with German plates some distance from it, almost at the far end, facing towards the cliffs. The camper van’s roof extension was open, and the interior lights were on. Holidaymakers settled in for the night, Grace guessed, an idea forming.

‘Don’t go in, drive on by.’

As they did so, a figure emerged from the camper van, from a door on the far side to the Range Rover, and sparked up a cigarette.

There is a God, Grace thought. ‘Spin her round, go into the car park, drive normally as if you’re deliberately heading to the camper van, and pull up beside it, on the far side of it to the Rangey.’

Branson threw him a puzzled look and complied. As they approached the camper, they saw a man in shorts, a vest and flip-flops, sheltering beneath a small awning above the door. He looked at them warily. Grace lowered his window, smiled and said, ‘Guten abend!’ He smelled the sweet aroma of the smoke.

The man smiled back and replied with something that Grace, with his very limited German, failed to catch. He climbed out of the car, holding up his warrant card but still smiling. Putting a finger to his mouth to indicate they should be quiet, Grace said, ‘Polizei! Sprechen Sie Englisch?’

‘Ja!’ the German replied. Then he added, ‘I am very good to speak English.’

‘We are just keeping an eye on someone.’ Grace pointed at the binoculars around his neck and the man nodded. ‘Is it possible we can sit in your camper for one hour, to observe?’ He jerked a finger surreptitiously to the far side of the car park, in the direction of the Range Rover. Again quietly, but loud enough for the German to hear, he said, ‘Criminals.’