In the centre of the lawn had been burned the words:
UR DEAD
Smallbone had been on Roy Grace’s radar right from his very earliest days as a detective, after he had been the prime suspect in a number of scams involving tricking elderly, vulnerable people out of their cash and valuable possessions, using threats and actual violence whenever necessary. There wasn’t an area of the Brighton and Hove crime scene, including burglary, drugs, protection racketeering, prostitution, fake designer goods, vehicle theft and car clocking, that Smallbone’s family didn’t have a finger in. But what interested Roy Grace now was that Smallbone’s credentials included fencing high-end antiques – most of which were shipped overseas, predominantly to Spain, within hours of being stolen.
If an offender was freed on licence, as Smallbone had been, then if that person committed just one offence, of any nature, they would be straight back inside for many years. ‘Is there anything to connect Smallbone with this?’ he asked.
‘Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid so soon after coming out, would he?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood said.
‘If it’s in the blood, it’s in the blood,’ Norman Potting said. Grace noticed he was perspiring heavily. ‘Smallbone was used to living high on the hog,’ Potting continued. ‘From memory, we pretty much cleaned him out after his conviction. He’ll be needing to earn again.’
Grace nodded, then addressed Sam Tovey and Bella Moy. ‘Smallbone will have an alibi for last Tuesday evening, I’ll guarantee. He’ll have spent the evening in a pub where he’s known, and there’ll be a dozen people there who can vouch for him. But just rattle his cage, let him know we think he may be involved. It’ll make him nervous – and the more nervous he is, the more likely he’ll make a mistake.’
‘Could we get surveillance on him, chief?’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘Or a phone tap?’
‘We don’t have hard enough evidence to justify the cost of surveillance,’ Grace said. ‘And I’m afraid a phone tap is a nonstarter at this stage.’ Surveillance was extremely costly in terms of specialist manpower and Grace could not see the ACC sanctioning it. The criterion for obtaining a phone tap order was evidence that a human life was in immediate danger. It had to be signed by an ACPO and the Home Secretary or a Secretary of State. He turned to DS Potting, who had been given the action at a previous briefing of seeing if any activity had taken place on the dead woman’s credit cards or bank account.
‘Norman, do you have anything on her credit cards?’
Again, Grace noticed a quick, almost imperceptible, glance between the old detective and Bella Moy.
For some moments, Potting’s gloom lifted, as he looked distinctly pleased with himself. ‘I do, chief. During the twenty-four hours between the night of August the 21st and 22nd, two hundred pounds was withdrawn from Aileen McWhirter’s bank account with her debit card. During this same period, three hundred pounds was withdrawn on her Amex card, three hundred pounds on her MasterCard and two hundred and fifty on her Visa. All CCTV footage from the cashpoints has been checked. In each case the money was withdrawn by someone with their face hooded.’
Grace frowned, then said, ‘The estimated value of the articles stolen from the victim’s house is in the region of ten million pounds. It seems odd that anyone would bother with such relatively small amounts of cash in addition, with the risks involved.’
‘Well, chief,’ said Potting, ‘to me that would indicate hired thugs. They’re either on a flat rate or a small percentage of what they nicked. So they helped themselves to a bit more, perhaps?’
‘Quite possible,’ Grace agreed. ‘Her brother, Gavin Daly, is a major player – or was – in the antiques world. And his son, Lucas, has the business now. Any thoughts on whether either or both of them might have had a hand in this?’
‘I’ve interviewed the old man and the son, boss,’ DS Guy Batchelor said. ‘Gavin Daly’s grief seems pretty real. The son seems pretty upset too. He doesn’t have a record but Operation Reduction have had an eye on him for some time.’ Operation Reduction was the long-term operation of the Brighton Drugs Squad.
‘Can you tell us more on that?’ Roy Grace asked.
‘They’re building a file on him. He’s running his father’s shop in the Lanes and he’s married to the television news presenter Sarah Courteney.’
‘She’s a bit of all right, she is!’ Norman Potting said. ‘Phwoar!’ Then Grace noticed Bella glare at the detective and he fell silent, blushing slightly.
‘But no history of involvement with robbery?’ Grace asked Batchelor.
‘No, but I did find one thing, running a search on him through the serials. Two years ago a crew were called to his home – his wife had phoned for help saying he was attacking her. He was arrested, but subsequently released, because she refused to press charges.’
Roy Grace nodded. ‘Useful to know. Thanks, Guy.’ On the long list of members of the human species that the Detective Superintendent despised were men who hit women.
‘The only other person with regular access to Mrs McWhirter’s property,’ Guy Batchelor continued, ‘is the housekeeper who comes twice a week. She’s seventy-five, bless her, and has worked for Daly and his family for thirty years. Other visitors to the property include the gardener, who’s almost equally ancient, the milkman, the newspaper boy, a plumber called Michael Maguire, who did some work on a toilet about four months ago, and a builder, Bryan Barker, who did some roof-tiling work in April. We’re checking them all out.’
‘Good. Thanks, Guy.’ Grace turned to the Press Officer. ‘What’s the situation on press and media interest, Sue?’
‘I’m getting a lot of calls and emails asking whether we’ve established a motive, other than burglary, and if we have any suspects.’
‘At this moment I’m regarding Amis Smallbone as a Person of Interest, but no more than that,’ he replied. ‘I don’t want that announced. Is there any urgency on holding another press conference?’
‘Not at the moment, sir, but we’ll need to by the end of the week,’ she said.
‘Okay. Friday afternoon.’ He turned to David Green, the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Anything to report?’
‘Not until we get the detailed footprint analysis back from the forensic podiatrist, Haydn Kelly, chief. We haven’t found anything else in Aileen McWhirter’s house yet.’
Normally, Grace kept his cool, but his tiredness and the grilling from the ACC were getting to him. ‘Bloody hell!’ he exploded. ‘The woman’s been tortured, and her house has virtually been stripped bare. No one could have done that without leaving a damned trace! There has to be more than three sets of shoeprints!’
‘If there is, we’ll find it, boss!’ Green said.
He turned to Ray Packham, from the High Tech Crime Unit, a man in his mid-forties who could easily have been mistaken for a provincial bank manager. ‘Anything for us from the victim’s phone, Ray?’
‘Very little traffic, chief. I don’t know if it is in any way significant, but she received a call only moments before she was attacked.’ Packham checked his notes for a moment. ‘We traced it to a mobile phone belonging to an employee of a telesales company selling loft insulation. The man who made the call, Gareth Dupont, left their employment at the end of last week and started with a new company called Mountainpeak this Tuesday. I would not consider this significant, ordinarily, except for one thing.’ Ray Packham gave Grace a smile, then said nothing further, as if enjoying his moment in the sun.
‘Which is?’ Roy Grace asked.
‘Gareth Dupont has form. Four previous convictions. Possession of cannabis. That was minor. More significant is one for GBH, one previous conviction for handling stolen goods – and even more significant is he’s out on licence for aggravated burglary.’
‘Good work, Ray,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve had one of those calls about loft insulation as well – but I got rid of him smartly. Do you have any details on his aggravated burglary conviction?’
Packham nodded. ‘Yes, chief. Fi
ve years ago he was arrested following a burglary at a country house near Lewes. The owners were an elderly couple who were tied up and tortured with a very similar MO to Aileen McWhirter. They were burned with cigarettes by perps wanting their credit-card pin codes. Dupont claimed only to be the driver and got a reduced sentence for giving evidence against the other two perpetrators. I think he’s a fairly nasty piece of work. He also has links to an organized crime ring in Spain – Russian Mafia – specializing in fencing valuable paintings.’
DS Batchelor raised his hand. ‘Boss, there could be something significant here.’
‘Tell us,’ Grace said.
‘I was on a case of country-house burglars some years ago. They used a trick similar to this: phoning the occupant under the pretext of selling something, while knocking on the front door at the same time. It creates confusion, puts people off their guard – especially elderly people.’
Roy Grace made a note on his pad. ‘Good thinking, Guy. Do a full background on him, and what he’s up to now. Who he associates with, and any intelligence we have on him. Then I’d like you to go and have a chat with him.’
‘Do we have a residential address for him?’
‘His Probation Officer will know it. Otherwise you can go to Mountainpeak tomorrow where he’s working. Let me know; I’d like to come with you – I’m interested in this person.’
‘Yes, chief.’
Grace turned to DS Moy. ‘Bella, the knocker-boy who left the leaflet in Aileen McWhirter’s house – R. C. Moore. I had a phone call earlier this morning from Andy Kille, the Ops One Inspector. A senior nurse from the Royal Sussex County Hospital contacted Sussex Police at 5 a.m. today. She’d read in the Argus about Aileen McWhirter being tortured with burns, and reported that a man giving his name as Ricky Moore had been admitted early last Saturday morning, after stumbling into A&E with burns across his body – as well as internally. Without going into graphic detail, I understand it will be several weeks before he’s going to be able to sit down – or have a crap in comfort.’
‘You mean he’s a fudge-packer, chief?’ Norman Potting said.
‘Not a willing one, Norman, no,’ Grace said, irritated at his language. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone getting pleasure out of heated curling tongs up their rectum.’
‘Ouch,’ Potting said.
‘Could not have put it better myself,’ he replied tartly. ‘I’d like you to go and have a chat with him, Bella.’
‘Yes, chief.’
As Roy Grace ended the meeting, Norman Potting came up to him and said, ‘Do you think I could have that word with you, chief? Need a bit of advice.’
Roy Grace glanced at his watch, mindful of his promise to Cleo to be home early. ‘In my office – give me five minutes. It’ll have to be quick.’
32
To Roy Grace’s irritation, Norman Potting followed him straight out of the briefing, along the corridor, towards the open-plan office area of the Major Crime Suite. He had hoped for a bit of breathing space after the briefing to call Cleo and tell her he would be home soon.
He checked his emails on his BlackBerry as he strode along the zig-zagging corridors, annoyed to hear Potting’s footsteps almost on his heels.
As he opened the door to his office and went in, peeling off his jacket and hooking it on the back of the door, Norman Potting followed. Grace squeezed into the space behind his small desk, and the DS sat down heavily on the chair opposite. Grace could smell the reek of pipe tobacco smoke on his clothes, but he didn’t mind it. An occasional smoker himself, he loathed the draconian antismoking laws the nanny state in the UK had come up with. In truth, he envied Potting’s total insouciance in ignoring them at every possible opportunity.
‘So, Norman?’ he said, glancing at his BlackBerry, flashing red again, then his watch. ‘Tell me?’
Potting was looking uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Well, chief, the thing is, umm, you see…’ he said in his rural burr. The old detective blushed, then touched his eyebrows with the fingers of both hands. ‘I – ah – went to see the quack last week – and I had to go back to him this morning for the results; that’s why I was late for the briefing. The thing is, he sent me to have some tests – I’d been having a bit of irregularity with the old waterworks. Peeing a lot during the night, that kind of thing.’ He looked at Roy Grace quizzically.
The Detective Superintendent smiled back, patiently waiting for him to get to the point. ‘Sorry to hear that, Norman.’
‘Yes, well, you see –’ He looked around, conspiratorially, then lowered his voice, despite them being alone in the office. ‘Turns out I have a bit of a problem in the old prostate department.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘A touch of the old favourite.’
Grace had heard that expression before. It was mostly used by old rogues, rather than saying the C word. ‘God, I’m sorry, Norman.’ Grace genuinely was.
‘The doc says I have choices. One option is surgery – have the whole thing cut out, but that could result in a total loss of – you know – winky action, if you get my drift?’ He curled his index finger to illustrate the problem. ‘A one in five chance of that happening.’
Roy Grace nodded. Although he felt sorry for the man, Norman Potting talking about sex did not float his boat. ‘It wouldn’t come back afterwards?’
Potting shook his head glumly. ‘Not in the majority of cases, apparently. The other option is to have radiotherapy. From what I understand that way the old winky action would continue – but they might not get rid of it. Meaning, I suppose – you know – a few years, then curtains. I need to talk it through with someone, but I don’t really have any close male friends these days. You’ve got a wise head on you, chief. I need a bit of guidance.’
Grace thought that Norman Potting, suddenly, for the first time in all the years he had known him, looked lost. Like a small kid seeking teacher’s approval of a piece of work. Despite his frequent irritation at the man, he felt intensely sorry for his dilemma.
‘I don’t know what to say, Norman. I’m just not qualified to give this kind of advice. What’s your doctor’s view?’
‘That I have to make the decision. I did talk to the Nurse Specialist after – she was a bit of all right, phwoar! But you’re the only person whose judgement I trust – you know – to be impartial.’
Grace took a deep breath. ‘I just don’t know enough about the subject to give you an informed decision. You’re obviously very upset at the moment. I think you need to get all the facts clear in your mind before you make any decision.’
‘I don’t know if I would want to take the risk of not being able to shag. A difficult choice, know what I mean?’
Grace did and shuddered. He’d read stuff in the press about this disease over the years. But at forty he’d never been troubled enough to think about it. Now he was being asked to help someone make a possible life or death decision. ‘Get all the facts, Norman, okay? If you can get all the facts, then I’ll talk through them with you.’
‘Imagine it’s you, not me. What would you do?’
Grace shrugged. ‘I don’t know, really I don’t. I guess my immediate reaction would be there’s a lot more to life than sex. But I’ll tell you one thing. From all I’ve seen of it, old age has some good points, but a lot of bad ones. I believe in quality of life rather than the length of it. If you feel that sex is an important part of your life, then you have to weigh up whether you are willing to sacrifice that in order to gain a couple more years playing tiddlywinks and pissing into a nappy in an old folks’ home.’
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.’
33
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 Chloe´, 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.