‘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.
46
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.
Dark-haired one on left Macario. Shaven head on rt Barnes.
‘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.’
Daly felt a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. ‘Are you sure that’s the 2.15 at Brighton?’
‘Yeah. The Reeves Flooring Cup.’
He dragged on his cigarette, his hands shaking. ‘What about Fast Fella?’
‘Fast Fella? Hang on, I’ll check.’
As he waited, Daly dragged deeply on the cigarette again. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Fuck.’
‘Something not good, boss?’ the Apologist said.
Moments later Daly heard the male voice of the bookie. ‘It was left at the post.’
‘What do you mean, it was left at the post?’
‘Fast Fella planted its feet. Refused to come out of the starting gate.’
‘So it was withdrawn from the race? It didn’t run. Do I get my bet returned?’
‘Afraid not; it was under starter’s order. All bets on that horse are lost.’
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Daly said, ending the call.
The Apologist looked at him. ‘Bad?’
Daly nodded and shook another cigarette out of the pack. ‘Bad.’
‘Sorry.’
47
Shortly after 2.30 p.m. Roy Grace pulled up outside his favourite bookshop, City Books, an independent store on Western Road. He loved the way it truly smelled of books, and despite the small exterior, it opened up inside to a maze of crammed shelves. Whenever he had time, which was not often these days, he loved to go in and just get lost among its shelves.
‘Do you have anything on the early gang history of New York?’ he asked a young, brown-haired woman behind the counter, who had a studious air. Behind her stood a serious-looking man, with short grey hair, pecking at a computer keyboard. He looked up in recognition and smiled broadly.
‘Detective Superintendent Grace, nice to see you! Early gang history? How far back do you want to go? The start was really the Irish Dead Rabbits Gang in the 1850s, or their later White Hand Gang, or Al Capone’s Italian Black Hand Gang.’
‘I need to cover everything,’ he replied.
Ten minutes later, with five books lying in the shop’s carrier bag on the rear seat, Roy Grace drove slowly up Shirley Drive, passing Hove Recreation Ground on their left, while beside him Guy Batchelor looked at the numbers on the detached houses on the north side.
A quarter of a mile on he said, ‘Here, boss!’
They pulled up outside a smart detached house. A silver Mercedes SLK sports car occupied one of the two spaces on the driveway, in front of the integral garage; the other one was empty. They climbed out and walked to the front door, entering the porch, and Grace rang the bell.
They could hear an aggressive beat of music coming from somewhere inside the house.
‘The Number of the Beast,’ Guy Batchelor said.
‘Iron Maiden?’ Grace asked.
He nodded.
‘Didn’t know you were into music, Guy?’
‘Yeah, well, when you have a teenage daughter…’
Grace grinned, and at that moment the heavy oak front door was opened by a barefoot woman in a cream silk dressing gown. She looked smaller in real life, and without make-up her face looked a little bleached out; her long, dark hair was pushed up inside a towel, wrapped around like a turban. For a moment he hesitated in recognizing her as the strikingly attractive local TV news anchor he had so often seen. She also looked a little nervy, a little frightened. Not at all the confident, assured woman on his television screen.
‘Hello?’ she said suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sarah Courteney?’
‘Yes.’
Grace held up his warrant card, and Batchelor did likewise. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace and this is Detective Sergeant Batchelor of Sussex and Surrey CID, Major Crime Branch,’ he said. ‘Would it be possible to have a quick word?’
She glanced down at her watch. ‘This is to do with my husband’s aunt, presumably?’
‘Yes,’ Grace replied.
‘So dreadful. I still can’t quite believe it. Okay, come in. I can only give you a few minutes – the car’s on its way to take me to the studio. But I’d rather you came in than stood out here – I’ve been besieged by the press over this.’
‘Of course. I’m a big fan of yours by the way!’ Grace said, then blushed, aware just how cheesy that had sounded.
She gave him a genuinely warm smile. ‘Thank you so much!’
They entered a hallway which smelled of fragrant pot-pourri. It was decorated with an exquisite antique table, two high-back chairs and a long-case clock. Photographs of the newscaster lined the walls. One was of her with Fatboy Slim, another, together with the man Grace presumed to be her husband, with sports commentator Des Lynam. Another was her with Dame Vera Lynn, and another with David Cameron. The music, coming from upstairs, was much louder in here. ‘Apologies for the din,’ she said with a grin. ‘My son, home from uni for the summer. That’s all he does all day long.’ She led them thro
ugh into the drawing room. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’
‘No, we’re fine, thank you. We’ll be very quick.’ Grace’s eyes roamed the large, elegant but comfortable room; it was furnished almost entirely in antiques, with a view out onto a well-kept lawn and a swimming pool. Two large, brown leather chesterfields faced each other in front of a marble fireplace, separated by an ornate wooden chest which served as a coffee table. A huge television screen peeped out of what looked like an adapted mahogany tallboy. A trophy cabinet sat in one corner, and the mantel above the fireplace was stacked with invitations. The room had a masculine feel, with just a few feminine touches. The sign of a dominant husband, Grace thought. Her dressing gown gaped open momentarily, before she clamped it shut defensively, and in that moment he noticed some bruises high up on her chest. Had her husband done that? A man who might brutally torture someone, who also beat his wife?
‘Have you had any luck on the case?’ she asked.
‘We’re making progress,’ Grace replied. ‘But no arrests yet.’
‘These people are monsters – I hope you get them.’
‘We’re very hopeful,’ he said.
‘I can’t believe what they did to her.’
‘Were you and your husband close to Mrs McWhirter?’ Batchelor asked.
She was quiet for a moment then she said, ‘I’m afraid no, not really. She and I always got on really well – we actually became quite close – but she had issues with Lucas.’
‘What kind of issues?’
‘Well, the thing is that Lucas and his father don’t get along.’
‘So I’ve gathered,’ Grace said. ‘What is the problem there?’
‘His father’s a tough act to follow – a highly successful self-made man. I think he put a lot of pressure on Lucas, and my husband’s a strong man – it’s like fire against fire.’
‘I think there’s often a problem when a relative works in a family business.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose the truth is my husband doesn’t have his father’s business acumen. He’s lost a lot of his father’s money over the years in trying to diversify the business – you probably know the antiques trade isn’t what it used to be. Lucas set up a large bar and restaurant in Brighton which failed. He’s sunk big sums of money into other businesses and for one reason or another they didn’t work out. When he came into the business, Gavin Daly Antiques was one of the biggest dealers in the UK – they had six stores in Brighton and two in London. Now they have just the one.’