Dead Man's Time (20 page)

‘Might you remember the name Aileen McWhirter?’ he asked, watching the man’s face intently again.

‘Aileen McWhirter?’

‘Yes.’

He shook his head a little too quickly, Grace thought. Then he raised a finger in the air. ‘Wait a sec – she’s been in the news, right? A nasty robbery at her home?’

‘Very nasty,’ Grace said. ‘She died.’

‘Yeah, I read that, that’s why I recognize the name.’

Grace pointed down at the piece of paper bearing the phone number, lying on the table. ‘You ought to recognize that number. You phoned her the evening she was attacked.’

‘I did?’

‘She was in pretty poor shape,’ Grace said, ‘but she told officers it was about 7 p.m., Tuesday, August the 21st. The records show you phoned her at that time. Quite
coincidental, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I – I dunno what to say.’

‘You claim you were at home, Mr Dupont?’ Guy Batchelor cut in. ‘Why didn’t you phone on a landline?’

‘Coz it’s cheaper on my mobile. I got one of those deals with O2, one thousand free minutes per month. In the office I use a landline; at home it’s cheaper on my
mobile.’

‘Can anyone vouch for where you were at 7 on the evening of Tuesday, August the 21st?’ Grace asked.

‘I was home alone. I guess God could.’

‘God?’ Grace smiled at him.

Dupont shrugged.

‘You could get an affidavit from Him, could you?’

Dupont looked down at his watch. ‘I’ve told you all I can – I really need to get back to work.’

‘Of course. We’re sorry to have bothered you.’ Grace smiled again. ‘It’s just that on a murder enquiry we have to check out everything, so we can eliminate people.
I hope you understand that?’

‘I do – perfectly. I hope you catch the bastards who did it.’

‘Oh, we will, Mr Dupont. You needn’t worry about that. We will.’ He gave him a confident smile. ‘By the way, what car do you drive?’

He hesitated for a moment, then replied, ‘A Golf GTI.’

‘Nice car,’ Grace said. ‘I don’t suppose you remember the registration?’

‘Just one moment.’ Dupont left the room, then returned a minute later holding a set of keys, with the registration tag attached. He handed them to Grace.

‘Almost brand new,’ Grace said.

‘Much less grief, having a car under warranty,’ Dupont said.

‘And who wants, grief, eh?’ Grace said, handing him the keys back.

As the two detectives left, Gareth Dupont sauntered back into the open-plan office, looking more carefree than he felt, and handed the keys back to a colleague whose car it was. ‘Thanks
mate,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’

The two detectives said nothing until they had left the building and climbed back into Roy Grace’s work car, the standard silver Ford Focus estate issued to all
superintendents. As they buckled up, Grace turned to his colleague and said, ‘So, what do you think?’

‘The little shit was squirming.’

‘He lied about working at home. He lied about not recognizing the number. He lied about not recognizing her name – then quickly covered his tracks.’

‘I don’t remember seeing a Bulgari watch on the inventory of stuff that was taken, Roy?’

‘There wasn’t one.’ He started the engine. ‘I just wanted to rattle his cage a little – and then watch his eye movements on something he didn’t need to lie
about.’

‘Don’t you think we’ve enough to arrest him?’

‘We need something to place him at the crime scene,’ Grace said, driving off. He headed out of the industrial estate, and down towards the coast road back to Brighton.
‘Dupont’s involved, for sure. You saw that scab on his knuckle?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe he left some blood at the scene. If SOCO find it, and we get a match, then we’ll have him banged to rights. And I’ve a feeling he could lead us to the other perps. He
looks a slimeball who’d sell anything, especially his colleagues, for a reduced sentence. If he’s left just one drop of blood there, however tiny, those two SOCOs will find
it.’

‘Dunno if I’m putting two and two together and getting five, Roy, but—’

‘That would be a lot more than we have on anything at the moment, Guy,’ Grace said with a grin.

Batchelor grinned back. ‘I’m thinking about Bella’s report of her interview with Smallbone.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it, too.’

‘He had a black eye, and was missing some of his front teeth. Bella said it seemed to be hurting him to walk. He claimed he’d walked into his fridge door after a glass or two too
many.’

‘Oh yes? What was the fridge’s name?’

‘Exactly.’

‘The day after Aileen McWhirter is found, Ricky Moore is beaten up – tortured. A few days later, Amis Smallbone is beaten up. Maybe tortured too.’

‘Moore is linked to Aileen McWhirter’s house, and Smallbone has previous for this kind of crime,’ Grace said. ‘As does our slimy friend Gareth Dupont.’

‘What’s your hypothesis at this point, guv?’

‘Historic knocker-boy modus operandi is for them to case a place and if it’s got value higher than they can handle, they sell it on to someone for a cut. I’d say at this stage
it’s possible Ricky Moore passed the information to either Smallbone or Dupont. Old man Daly, Aileen’s brother, saw that leaflet. He might have taken the law into his own hands, had
Moore tortured for names – and was given Smallbone. So he had him tortured for names next.’

The Detective Sergeant nodded. ‘I think we’re both on the same page, guv.’

*

Many things about policing these days really irked Roy Grace. High among them was parking. It used to be that on a major enquiry, you could park anywhere in the city. Not any
more. You had to park, like anyone else, legally. Which meant driving around until you found a car park with vacancies, and paying an exorbitant amount to leave the car there. What the cost was to
the taxpayer, in terms of parking fees, and police time, he had, in despair, long given up thinking about.

He emerged with DS Batchelor from the Bartholomews seafront car park, and headed into the Lanes. They zig-zagged through the narrow alleyways, passing one landmark, the jewellery store of Derek
le-Warde. Then they reached the large shop, filled with a wide range of antiques including a stuffed ostrich, a George III writing desk, a gilded chandelier, and a display of Chinese vases, the
gilded sign above the door proclaiming:
GAVIN DALY AND SON
.

They entered. Seated behind a glass display shelf in the centre of the room containing a range of tiny ornaments was a man in a wheelchair, with a short ponytail, tiny oval glasses, his head
tilted back, which gave him a hint of arrogance. He was dressed in a baggy Hawaiian shirt, with even baggier cavalry twill trousers.

‘Hello, gentlemen. Can I help you?’ His accent was Southern Irish.

Grace showed him his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Batchelor. We’d like to have a word with your proprietor, please. Mr Lucas Daly.’

‘Ah, I’m afraid he’s away right now – he’ll be back in on Monday.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘Yes, he’s in Spain having himself a golfing weekend. Can I give him a message?’

‘Where in Spain has he gone?’

‘The south. Marbella.’

Grace gave him his card. ‘Thank you – please ask him to call me on this number as soon as he gets back.’

‘Anything I can help you gentlemen with in the meantime?’

‘How much is the ostrich?’ Guy Batchelor asked.

‘Four thousand pounds.’

‘Yeah, right, thanks. I’ll think about it,’ the DS said.

‘They are very hard to come by,’ the man said.

‘A bit like your boss, you mean?’

He didn’t get it.

As they stepped out of the shop, into the late-morning sunshine, Roy Grace dialled Gavin Daly’s number. The old man answered almost immediately.

‘It’s your sparring partner from last night, Mr Daly. Detective Superintendent Grace. I should have you for assault.’

‘I’ll tell you something, if I’d been twenty years younger, you would not have got up!’ Grace detected humour in his voice.

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘So, what news? You’ve got some good news for me?’

‘Your son Lucas is a keen golfer, is he?’

Instantly he sensed the cagey tone of Gavin Daly’s voice. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘What club is he a member of?’

‘I actually don’t know, Detective Grace.’

‘But he’s a good golfer, is he?’

‘My son and I are not that close. I’m not able to tell you how he spends his leisure time.’

‘
Not that close?
Would you like to elaborate, Mr Daly?’

‘No, I would not. We have our issues, but I can tell you that following the death of my sister we are united.’

‘Because you don’t trust us to find the perpetrators?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Even though you put up the reward of one hundred thousand pounds?’

‘Is your father alive, Detective Grace?’

‘No. He died some years ago.’

‘Do you have anything belonging to him that you hold dear?’

‘A few things, yes.’

‘My sister and I only had one thing. His pocket watch. As you probably know, it’s worth about two million pounds. But that’s of no consequence. She and I were lucky in life, we
both made a lot of money. We never ever put that watch on the market; it was the only thing of our father’s – in fact of our parents’ – that we had. Those bastards took it.
I don’t care about the rest of the stuff that was taken, but I care about that watch. I want it back. Just so you understand.’

‘I understand, loud and clear,’ Roy Grace said. ‘I just want you to understand one thing, too, sir, equally loud and clear. We are doing everything we can to find out who
carried out this crime, and to recover the stolen property. But we have to do it within the law.’

Gavin Daly said nothing.

Lucas Daly removed his Ray-Ban sunglasses as he drove the Jeep down the entrance ramp into the large, communal underground car park of Puerto Banus. All the time he was looking
warily around for CCTV cameras. He did not want anyone to be able, later, to plot their movements. To his annoyance he saw several, and drove back up the ramp again. He was feeling edgy as
hell.

The Apologist gave him a strange look. ‘Plenty of spaces there, boss.’

‘I didn’t like the shape of them.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Daly put his glasses back on as they emerged into the dazzling early afternoon sunlight. He looked at the car clock, then, as if he did not trust it, he checked his wristwatch: 2.26 p.m. They
were an hour ahead of the UK here, which meant that in a little under an hour, the first race of today’s meeting at Brighton races, the 2.15 p.m. Reeves Flooring Cup, would be under way. With
Fast Fella running at 33/1.

He’d bet the ranch on the horse, which was part of the reason he felt so nervous. But only part. He knew why he was here, and what he had to do, but carrying it out was going to be another
matter. As yet he hadn’t fully worked out a plan, and he wanted to have all his ducks in a row.

But they had time; too much of the damned stuff; they had to wait for the cover of darkness, and with the clear sky at this time of year it wouldn’t start to be fully dark until around
9.30 p.m. Still, he remembered all the scantily dressed young women who swarmed around the port, seriously attractive totty, so passing a few hours over some cold beers in a quayside bar would not
be too much of a hardship, even if he did have to endure the Apologist’s company – or rather, lack of it.

He drove around for a while, happy to be killing time, until he found a parking space in a narrow shady street that did not appear to have any surveillance. They left the car, walked down to the
port, then ambled along, seemingly casually, just a couple of guys amid the early afternoon throng of holidaymakers admiring the swanky boats berthed along the quay. He clocked their names on their
gleaming sterns.
TIO CARLOS
.
SHAF
.
FAR TOO
.
FREDERICA
.
CONTENTED.
Their flags hung listlessly in the still heat.

The bar owner, Lawrence Powell, had been right when he’d said
Contented
was a sodding great yacht. It was considerably longer, taller, fatter and even more gleaming than its
neighbours. Two men in white uniforms were working on the rear deck, one cleaning with a mop and pail, the other polishing the chrome rails. The one with the mop had a shaven head and a tattooed
neck; the other had short dark hair and worked with a cigarette in his mouth.

Surreptitiously, as they strolled past, Lucas Daly snapped both men with his phone camera, then stopped a short distance on, pulled the card Lawrence Powell had given him from his wallet,
entered his mobile-phone number and texted him the photographs.

They seated themselves at an outdoor table that gave them a perfect view of the
Contented.
The Apologist studied the plastic menu, while Daly checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to the
race now. The Apologist ordered a Coke and a lasagne with chips. Daly ordered a large beer. He was too knotted up to eat anything, and he shouldn’t be drinking, he knew; he needed to keep his
wits clear for this evening. But that was still a long time away.

As their drinks arrived, his phone vibrated. He looked down. It was a reply from Lawrence Powell.

‘We’re on,’ he said to the Apologist. He stepped outside the bar to make a phone call.

Five minutes later he returned, drained his beer in three gulps and ordered another. He looked down at his horse-racing app, and tapped on it for the tenth time, trying to log into the Brighton
race meeting, but the connection was too slow and nothing happened. Twenty anxious minutes and a third beer later, whilst the Apologist was shovelling his food into his face, he lit a cigarette and
phoned his bookmaker.

‘It’s Lucas Daly. Have you got the result of the 2.15 at Brighton?’

‘One moment. Yeah. First number seven, Connemara, second number four, Kentish Boy, third number ten, Voyeur.’