Dead Man's Time (15 page)

Potting grinned. ‘You’re a diamond geezer!’

Grace shook his head. ‘I’m not. Maybe one day I’ll understand what life is all about. Then I could give you proper advice – you see—’

Grace was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing. Glancing at the display, he saw it was Glenn Branson’s personal number. Apologizing to Potting, he answered it, and instantly heard his
mate in tears.

‘Shit, Roy,’ he said. ‘Oh shit. Ari’s just died.’

The fat man, in his white yachting cap, sat behind the wheel of his white convertible Rolls-Royce Phantom, looking, for all the world, like Mr Toad. He was driving at walking
pace, steering, with just one pudgy finger, through the midday hordes shuffling leisurely along the quay of Puerto Banus.

Cars were parked in white-painted bays, elegantly chained off. Beyond them were the fuck-off yachts, mostly painted brilliant white and sporting all kinds of flags of convenience.
ACE. FAR
TOO. TIO CARLOS. SHAF.
Some of them came and went; others, like his, were berthed here all year round. His was one of the biggest, and he liked knowing that.

He liked this place. The bling, the bright colours, the designer sunglasses; there was a smell of opulence in the air. And he was part of it – and few things, including his three ex-wives
and the twenty-four-year-old pole dancer he was currently shagging, ever let him forget that. One day he would die here, a contented man!

The car purred past smart bars and restaurants, the Bulgari shop, Jack’s Bar, then Chloé, American Brasserie and Dolce & Gabbana. Yachts were berthed stern-in, Mediterranean
style, along the pontoons of the marina to his right, and white Moorish villas with red pantiled roofs rose up the hillside ahead of him. Even the brilliant sun, beating down its dry, dazzling
heat, felt as reassuringly expensive as everything else here.

Wearing a baggy white shirt, Bermuda shorts and Gucci sandals, and breathing in the smell of the car’s fine leather interior, he drove on slowly, at the crowd’s strolling pace. He
was in no hurry; he had plenty of time for lunch and a round of golf before he needed to think about catching his plane, and he was enjoying himself. He was in a very contented mood indeed –
an even more contented one than usual. He was enjoying the admiring glances his Roller got, nodding his head to the tune that was blasting from its sound system: ‘The Millionaire’ by Dr
Hook. He liked to play that song over and over, because that was him, little Eamonn Pollock, from the wrong side of the tracks, now a millionaire over and over again.

‘
I’ve got more money than a horse has hair!
’ he sang out loud, to Dr Hook’s words, then beamed as a pretty woman grinned at him and he grinned back, waving his
fleshy little pinky finger at her, then braking to a halt as a couple in front of him wheeling a pushchair stopped to retrieve a stuffed toy the baby had thrown from it. As he did so, his phone
rang. Number withheld.

He pulled the handset to his ear, because you never knew who in the crowd might be listening. ‘Eamonn Pollock here,’ he said cheerily.

‘It’s me. How are you?’

‘How am I? I am a very contented man, thank you! The sun is shining, and I am very contented indeed. What’s not to be contented about, eh?’

‘We have a problem. Someone’s not a very happy man.’

‘So how do we spread a little sunshine for him?’

‘You could start by bringing his dead sister back to life.’

The sun felt as if, momentarily, it had slipped behind a cloud. But the sky was an unbroken deep blue. ‘She died?’

‘Your goons killed her.’

He turned the music right down. ‘Well, that was not my instruction to them.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it. I’m going to have a very nice lunch, then I’m going to play a round of golf at my favourite golf course, and then I
have a plane to catch. What about you?’

‘When do I get my share?’ the caller said sullenly.

‘Good boy, now we’re talking the same language! In time, you will get it, after I’ve concluded all the sales.’

‘You said you’d pay me based on your valuation.’

‘Did I really?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s not my style at all. I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient, dear boy.’

‘You bastard, that’s not our deal!’

A youth in bright red trousers was taking a photograph of the car. Eamonn Pollock beamed obligingly. ‘So nice to hear from you!’ he said, and ended the call. He selected the Dr Hook
track again. He was looking forward to his lunch. A grilled lobster today and a glass – or two – of Chablis. Nothing like a good meal before a nice round of golf.

Life was so good!

He checked the time on his gold Vacheron Constantin Patrimony watch, which really did cost more pound notes than a horse had hairs – or would have done had he acquired it honestly and paid
the market price of two hundred thousand pounds.

But
honest
was not a word in his vocabulary, any more than
conscience
was. He patted his large pot belly. Yes, he was definitely in a lobster mood today.

And very contented. And about to be very much richer than just a week ago.

He turned the volume of the song up again, and sang happily along to the words, beaming at the world around him. ‘
Please don’t misunderstand me! I’ve got all this money,
and I’m a pretty ugly guy!
’

In the sparsely furnished basement consulting room in Schwabing, close to Munich’s Isar river, the woman, with her brown hair cropped short with a boyish fringe, lay
prostrate on the psychiatrist’s couch. She was in her thirties, with a slender figure, dressed appropriately for the sweltering Munich summer day in cut-off jeans, a white tank-top and
Havaiana flip-flops.

‘So?’ Dr Eberstark said, at the end of one of Sandy’s habitual lengthy silences. ‘Is there anything you would like to say?’

Sandy shrugged.

‘More non-verbal communications with me? Maybe you would find talking easier?’

‘I don’t understand it,’ she said.

‘You don’t understand what, exactly?’

‘Why I hate him so much.’

‘You left him, yes?’ It was old ground, but the psychiatrist repeated it, as he did periodically.

‘Yes.’

‘When you were pregnant with his child?’

She said nothing.

‘And you never told him you were pregnant?’

‘We’d been trying for a child for several years.’

‘So why did you not tell him?’

‘Because . . .’ She drifted into a long silence, and then she said, ‘Because if I had . . .’ then she lapsed back into silence.

‘Because if you had?’ he prompted, sensing they were getting somewhere.

‘I would have had to stay.’

‘Would that have been so bad?’

She nodded.

‘Why?’

‘You should marry a cop, then you’d understand.’

‘What is so bad about marrying a cop?’

She was silent for some moments, then she said, ‘I always came second. Job first, me second – when he had time.’

‘Don’t you think having a child might have changed that?’

‘Actually, no I don’t.’ Then she hesitated. ‘There’s another thing about the baby.’ She fell silent and her face reddened.

The psychiatrist looked at his watch. ‘Okay, we’ll have to leave it there. I’ll see you again on Monday? You can tell me that
other thing
then. Okay?’

‘Montag,’ she said.

A nurse led the way along the maze of corridors at the Royal Sussex County Hospital, which smelled strongly of floor polish, to the High Dependency Unit where Ricky Moore was
being treated. Instantly the air was fresher and smelled better. She led Bella Moy through the ward towards the bed at the far end. Its occupant was awake, staring blankly ahead, dressed in
pale-blue hospital pyjamas, with a sheet partially covering him. An old-fashioned television on a swing arm was switched on but silent. A solitary greetings card lay on a table in front of the
pale-looking man, who rested on a bed of pillows, next to a glass of water, some tablets in a small container and an unopened copy of the
Argus
newspaper. There was a chair beside the
bed.

With the assistance of another nurse, the curtains were drawn around the bed to give them privacy. Then Bella Moy sat down. ‘Ricky Moore?’ she asked, to confirm.

He gave her a suspicious frown, but said nothing.

Her first impression of the man was that he was the very double of the television actor Dennis Waterman, former co-star of
Minder
and now of
New Tricks.

She held up her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Moy of Sussex CID – are you up to answering a few questions?’

He winced, painfully forcing one word out at a time. ‘If – you – want – the – capital – of – Peru – it’s – Lima.’

She smiled. ‘Very witty.’

He winced again.

‘I understand you were assaulted last Friday night, Ricky? Okay if I call you that?’

He stared at her for some moments. Then he nodded.

‘Do you know the people who did it?’

He shook his head.

‘Are you sure about that?’

He fell silent.

‘So, Ricky, you’re in the antiques business, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You look in pain – does it hurt you to speak?’

He nodded.

‘I’ll be brief. Someone hurt you quite badly – is that right?’

He stared into space.

‘How badly, Ricky?’

He continued staring into space.

‘I don’t get it, Ricky,’ she said. ‘So why did they hurt you?’

Nothing.

‘The doctors say you’ve suffered very serious internal damage. You have a perforated bowel, and permanently damaged nerves. How do you feel about that?’

Again he was silent.

‘I’d be pretty upset if that had happened to me. Are you upset?’

Again he said nothing.

She looked at the greetings card. ‘That from your wife?’

‘Girlfriend.’

‘Does it worry you that you might not be able to make love to her again? And that you might be incontinent for the rest of your life.’

He gave her a sullen glare.

‘You’ve been the victim of a very brutal attack. I understand you have severe rectal burns. Is that right?’

‘I never – touched – the – old – lady,’ he said. His voice was low and pained.

‘Is that why this happened to you?’

He did not reply.

‘Would you like to tell me who hurt the old lady? And who hurt you?’

‘No one hurt me.’

‘I’m told something very hot was pushed up your anus. With your perforated bowel you’re lucky not to be dead from septicaemia. Was someone torturing you?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, I was doing some electrical repairs. I just sat down on my soldering iron. Dunno how I did it.’

‘You were doing electrical repairs in the nude, were you?’

He closed his eyes.

‘Is there anything you would like to tell me?’

He remained silent.

After ten minutes a doctor and a nurse opened the curtain and told Bella that Moore needed to sleep now.

As she walked out of the hospital, Bella dialled Roy Grace’s number.

‘You know the worst thing?’ Glenn Branson said through his tears, cradling his second pint in the booth at the rear of the pub a short distance down the road from
the Royal Sussex County Hospital.

‘Tell me,’ Roy Grace said, one arm around his mate’s shoulder, his glass of a single Glenfiddich on the rocks on the table in front of them. He should not be drinking on duty,
he knew, and he still had work to do tonight. But for the moment he was making an exception. He was deeply shaken by Glenn’s news.

‘It’s knowing Ari’ll be having a post-mortem in the morning.’ He stared, heavy-lidded at Roy Grace. ‘We both know what that means.’

All Grace could do was nod.

‘They’re going to cut her open. They’re going to saw off her skull cap, and lift out her brains. Then they’re going to slice open her chest and then . . .’

He broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

‘Don’t go there, mate,’ Grace said.

‘But they will, won’t they?’ Branson said, helplessly. ‘We’re talking about the woman I loved. The mother of my kids. I can’t bear that, Roy.’

‘They have to know what happened,’ Grace said, and immediately regretted it.

‘I know what happened. She was cycling along the cycle lane on the seafront. Someone, not looking where they were going, stepped out in front of her. She came off the bike, broke her arm
in three places and dislocated her shoulder.’

Grace frowned. ‘Was she wearing a helmet?’

‘Always wore one. Made the kids, too.’

‘But she must have had a head injury, surely, to have died?’

‘No. They took her to the hospital, where she had to have corrective surgery on her arm – it needed metal pins putting in – and they had to reset her shoulder. They put her
under anaesthetic and she had an allergic reaction to it – called something like
malignant hyperthermia.
Apparently it happens; one in a hundred thousand or a million or some
statistic.’

Grace was silent for a moment. Then he touched his friend’s arm, and squeezed gently. ‘I’ve heard of things like that happening – allergic reactions to anaesthetics
– but I never – you know. God, poor you, poor kids.’

‘How am I going to explain to them that their mummy’s never coming home again?’

‘Maybe you need some advice from a child counsellor. Take a few days off – compassionate leave.’

He shrugged. ‘Thanks, but I’ll see.’

‘You’ll have a lot of stuff to sort out.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, pensively.

He looked so helpless, Grace thought. Even when Ari had kicked him out, Glenn had coped, but he was all at sea now, overwhelmed.

‘It really is unbelievable,’ Grace said. ‘Talk about
shit happens
. She comes off her bike, the kind of accident every cyclist has, then dies in hospital from the
anaesthetic. I – I know you weren’t together, but I’m sorry.’

Branson shrugged. ‘Yeah. I wish – you know – me and her – I wish we could at least have stopped disliking each other – that we could have been – at least
– ’ he choked. ‘Friends, yeah?’