Dead Man's Time (17 page)

Grace drank some more of his Coke. ‘You’re talking about a massive operation, Hector.’

‘I am, yes.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re dealing with an horrific murder and a huge-value crime. I don’t envy you this one.’

‘Any chance of luring you out of retirement to come and help me on this?’

Webb shook his head and smiled. ‘And get involved in all the politics again? No, thank you. I’m happy doing my gardening, tinkering with my sailing boat and spoiling my four
grandchildren. I just got my Yacht Master’s Certificate in July, which I’m pretty pleased about. Know what I learned in my thirty years with the Force?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Fighting crime is like lying down in front of a glacier and trying to stop it. If I could have my life over again, and had an ambition to be rich – which I never did –
I’ll tell you which businesses I’d go into: security, food or armaments. People are always going to steal, they’re always going to have to eat, and they’re always going to
kill each other.’

‘You’re a pessimist!’

‘No, I’m a realist, Roy.’

*

It was dark outside as Roy Grace left the Royal Pavilion Tavern. His watch said a quarter to ten by the time he walked down the concrete steps of the Bartholomews car park,
wrinkling his nose at the stench of urine.

He needed to go home, and stopped to text Cleo that he was on his way. But the moment he had done so, he regretted it. Something had been preying on his mind for many hours, and now he realized
what it was, and what he needed to do.

Cleo’s house was less than half a mile north from the car park. But instead of heading home after exiting, Roy Grace made a U-turn, then drove the Alfa west along the
seafront. Cleo was not going to be pleased, and he was not happy about that. But he could not help it. Whoever had tortured Aileen McWhirter was out there, and might well be planning their next
attack on a helpless, elderly victim. Cleo was wrong to say that a few hours weren’t going to change anything. In the early stages of a murder enquiry, every minute of every hour mattered. It
was quite possible that the people behind this robbery had already selected their next target.

All kinds of emotions tugged at him, and for a moment he found himself envying Hector Webb, who appeared to have little to worry about beyond his garden and maintaining his boat and how to spoil
his grandchildren. He thought for a moment about Glenn Branson’s warning about what having children did to a relationship. Reflecting on Sandy, and her tantrums whenever his work wrecked
their plans, he wondered if it was not only children, but the nature of a homicide detective’s work. Like it or not, trying to solve the crime took priority over everything else in his life.
It always had done, and for as long as he remained in this job, he knew it always would. His first responsibility was justice for the victim and closure for the victim’s family. That was the
reality.

He kept thinking about Glenn Branson.

He selected a Marla Glen track, ‘The Cost of Freedom’, on his iPod, plugged into the car’s sound system. Her deep, rich, soulful voice often helped him think clearly. It filled
the car now, as he headed along by the winged figure of the Peace Statue, one of his favourite monuments, which sat exactly on the border between Brighton and Hove, then along past the Hove Lawns,
street lights flashing by overhead. He turned right at the Queen Victoria monument and up Grand Avenue, a wide, handsome boulevard. This section, close to the sea, was lined with high-rise blocks,
many of them populated by wealthy retired people. He crossed the lights at Church Road, and continued; on this section, The Drive, most of the original, imposing terraced Victorian town houses
remained – many now housing law firms and medical practices, or converted into flats.

Half a mile on, he waited at the lights at the junction with the Old Shoreham Road, and then drove up Shirley Drive, the start of the area that Glenn Branson always jokingly referred to as
Nob Hill
. It was an appropriate sobriquet, Grace reflected. Few of the smart, detached houses in the area adjacent to the park were within the price range of police officers. Many of the
great and the good of this city lived here, along with a fair smattering of its successful villains.

He turned right up Woodruff Avenue and reached Dyke Road Avenue, which ran along the spine of the city, where the houses became even larger. He turned left, then moments later he made a right,
then a left into Withdean Road, one of the city’s most exclusive addresses of all. It was a winding, tree-lined road, with a semi-rural feel, the imposing houses set back behind high fences,
walls or hedges.

Something was bothering him about this case. Something that did not feel right. Something they were missing. He needed space, quiet time; to be alone at the crime scene without being distracted
by anyone and try to think through the sequence of events, and walk through them.

A few hundred yards further on, the road curved left, and he turned right and coasted down Aileen McWhirter’s steep, winding drive, the headlights making shadows jump from the fir trees
and rhododendrons. He could see the grand, secluded house down to his left, dark and forlorn, and in truth a little creepy. At the bottom, he turned the car around, and held the beam of the
headlights on the rear of the house, staring at the windows, the rear door, the walls, the roof.

He switched the engine off, but kept the lights on full beam. The rain had stopped and the blue and white crime scene tape fluttered in the light breeze. He was thinking through all that he knew
about the robbery. There had been no sign of forced entry, and it sounded like those responsible had posed as Water Board officials to gain entry. The loft insulation salesman, Gareth Dupont, had
made a call to Aileen McWhirter around the time they estimated the attack to have taken place. It was quite possible Dupont had nothing to do with it, but in Grace’s view, the man’s
previous record for aggravated burglary and handling stolen goods could well place him at the crime scene. There was something too coincidental about the timing of that call. He would be interested
in the man’s alibi.

It was also a strange coincidence, he thought, that he’d had a cold call himself about loft insulation two days after Aileen McWhirter was attacked. But could there possibly be any
connection? He dismissed it, climbed out of his car and removed his powerful torch from his go-bag. He snapped on a pair of protective gloves, then walked around to the front of the dark, silent
mansion. The red eyes of a rodent suddenly lit up, then vanished. He reached the porch and took the duplicate key he’d borrowed from the Crime Scene Manager out of his pocket, opened the
front door and, once inside, noticed the alarm was not pinging. Had someone forgotten to set it?

With the aid of the beam he found a row of old-fashioned wall switches, and pulled one down. Several sconces, with pink, tasselled lampshades, lit up dimly. He made his way past the dark shadows
along the nearly bare hall and through to the kitchen, where an open saucepan, with mouldy-looking green haricot beans at the bottom, lay beside the gas hob, and a wooden spoon lay next to it,
beside an elderly Aga, which was stone cold. A range of pans was stacked on a rack to the right of it. Near it sat a modern, pushbutton phone with extremely large numbers for people with poor
eyesight. Had she lifted the saucepan off the hob to answer the front door, he wondered.

The front door had a safety chain and a spyhole. So either she knew her assailants, or she had been tricked into feeling comfortable enough with them to open the door. Who among the people she
knew might have done this? In his mind he went through the people who had access to this property: not her elderly housekeeper, or her almost equally elderly gardener. Her brother? But he did not
need the money. Her nephew? A slim possibility. The knocker-boy, Ricky Moore, was high on his list.

The way the insurance company kept their records of high-value items, and who might have access to them, was currently being investigated. So was the window cleaner, the plumber she used,
Michael Maguire, the painters and decorators. The building firm, Bryan Barker, and the washing-machine man. Most household burglaries were opportunistic, but this robbery was in a different league.
The city of Brighton and Hove had many rich, elderly, vulnerable people like Aileen McWhirter. If the perps thought they could get away with this, for sure they would strike again. He had to stop
that, and there was only one way to do that – lock up the perps. But first he had to find them.

Ten million pounds was, as Webb had said, an enormous sum. During the past few days he had spoken to several local antiques dealers, including a Chinese and Japanese porcelain expert called
Chris Tapsell, a jewellery expert, Derek le-Warde, and Simon Schneider, who appeared regularly on one of Cleo’s favourite TV programmes,
Secret Dealers.
All of them had told him that
it was likely to have been a planned burglary, using insider information, and that there would have been customers lined up for many of the stolen items. The Oriental porcelain would have Chinese
buyers. Much of the furniture was likely to be destined for, or already have been shipped to, Russia. The paintings would likely be bought by US, German, Dutch or Russian clients.

Insider knowledge about the contents of the house could have come from someone bent at the company which insured Aileen McWhirter’s contents. But far more likely, all his contacts told
him, was that the knocker-boy, Ricky Moore, had sold information about the contents to someone. That was a regular business for knocker-boys who had managed to gain entry to houses rich in old
treasures.

Moore had subsequently been tortured, Bella Moy had informed him over the phone a couple of hours ago. For what reason? And by whom?

His phone vibrated, then pinged with an incoming text. He looked at the display. It was from Cleo.

He tapped out a quick reply.

Then he went back into the hall and stared up the staircase at the dark landing. He looked around but could not see a light switch. So he climbed up the stairs, then turned on the torch, again
looking for a switch, and still could not find one.

He flashed the beam up and down, still without seeing any switch. Then he pushed open the door into Aileen McWhirter’s bedroom and, as he pointed the beam into the darkness and stepped
forward, something hard struck his shins with such force he shouted out in pain, lost his balance and fell to the carpeted floor, the torch rolling away from him.

All his life, Roy Grace had been able to think clearly under pressure. At this moment, in the pitch darkness, as his torch stopped several feet away, he knew his assailant
would be expecting him to lurch forward to grab it. So instead, he rolled sharply away from it, connecting with something hard but yielding right behind him.

‘Ouch! Shit. Owwww.’

Someone cursing dropped something which thudded onto the floor. A torch? A gun? Then he heard the heavier thud of someone falling over. He twisted around in the darkness, balling his right fist,
ready to punch out, rolled fast, grabbed his torch and shone it in the direction of the sounds.

And saw Gavin Daly, in a green suit, flat on his back, tie askew, eyes shut. For a moment, he thought he had killed the old man. He knelt and shone the beam directly on his face; after a few
moments, Daly blinked.

‘You okay?’ Grace asked.

The old man blinked again, worriedly. Grace shone the beam on his own face for a few seconds, so Daly could see who it was. ‘Jesus!’

‘Are you okay?’ he repeated.

‘I’m okay,’ Daly gasped.

‘You scared the shit out of me.’

‘Next time come in a bloody marked police car,’ Daly gasped again. ‘And what the hell are you doing here anyway?’ He struggled with his arms, pushing himself upright,
then exhaled.

‘Perhaps you can tell me what you’re doing here, sir,’ Grace said. He stood up and switched on the bedroom light, then helped the old man to his feet. Then he saw his
silver-headed cane on the floor – and realized that was what he had been hit with. He handed it back to Daly.

‘I’ve just lost my sister, the only person I had left in the world who I loved.’ He shrugged. ‘I just wanted to be here – to feel her presence. Okay? And one of
your officers told me I should keep an eye on this house. He said the bastards might return and take more stuff, or tell others about the things they didn’t take. I’ve had the most
valuable items they left moved into storage. But someone has been here and taken something.’

‘What was it?’ Grace knelt, and examined the painful weals above his ankles.

‘Sorry if I hurt you.’

‘You’re bloody strong – especially for a man your age,’ Grace said, unable to conceal the admiration in his voice.

‘Apologies, but I didn’t know who the hell you were. I thought you might be the bastard who took the photograph of the Patek Philippe watch from Aileen’s album, coming back for
something else.’

‘Aileen’s album?’

‘It was here, in her bureau, on that Thursday evening when I came here, minus the photograph of the watch.’

‘It wasn’t removed by one of my team?’

Daly shook his head. ‘No, I asked your Detective Branson colleague. It was the album with the pictures of all the high-value contents. It must have been one of the burglars who came back
and took that one photograph to make it harder for you lot to identify the watch, do you think? My guess is they took that photo, as the watch is not insured, so the insurance company would have no
record of it.’

Grace frowned. If that was the case, it meant the robbery team was even bigger than they had suspected. ‘It’s a possibility, sir, but that must have happened in the past forty-eight
hours – no one would have had access while the house was sealed as a crime scene.’

‘Well, I decided to lie in wait for them if they did come back,’ Daly replied. ‘I barely sleep these days, anyway. But I thought you were meant to have a round-the-clock guard
on this house?’