Dead Man's Time

  Grace nodded. ‘What about the relationship between your husband and Aileen?’

  ‘I’m afraid the old man rather poisoned his sister against Lucas. He convinced her to cut him out of her will.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  She hesitated. ‘I rather feel I’m talking out of turn.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I think he felt Lucas needed a reality check. That if he inherited a large amount from her, he’d just blow it. Squander it.’

  ‘Families and money,’ Grace said with a wry smile.

  ‘Maybe this terrible thing will bring Lucas and his father closer together.’

  ‘But you and Aileen got on well?’

  ‘Yes, Aileen and I got on very well. I used to pop in and see her every now and then – and she’d pour me a massive sherry! She was fiercely independent, still going really strong at ninety-eight. Her brother’s amazing for ninety-five – they have some good genes in that family, for sure. And they’ve been through a lot in their lives.’

  ‘Oh? Such as?’

  ‘They were born in New York. Their father was, I guess, what you’d call a gangster. He was high up in the White Hand Gang. One night their mother was shot dead by a bunch of men who entered the house – they actually went into Gavin’s bedroom first, then they shot the mother dead and took the father away. Gavin and Aileen never saw him again. A few months later an aunt took them to Ireland, thinking they’d be safer there than in New York. Then in their teens – I suppose that must have been in the early thirties – their aunt met and married a man from Brighton and they moved over here.’

  Grace listened intently, the books he had seen in Aileen McWhirter’s study starting to make sense now, together with the conversation he had had with Gavin in the garden. Then he walked over to the cabinet, and peered in at the trophies. ‘Are these yours or your husband’s, Mrs Courteney?’

  She blushed slightly. ‘All of them are mine – mostly broadcasting, and a couple of tennis trophies and one for Salsa dancing. I go to classes – a good way of keeping fit. Actually I’m Mrs Daly, but Courteney is my professional name.’ She gestured for them to take a seat, then sat on the sofa opposite them, crossing her bare feet, and looked at them expectantly.

  ‘We need to have a word with your husband, Lucas,’ Grace said. ‘I understand he’s away at the moment.’

  ‘For the weekend.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ DS Batchelor asked.

  ‘Marbella. A boys’ golfing trip.’

  ‘He’s a regular golfer, is he?’ Grace asked.

  She hesitated. ‘He’s a social golfer.’

  ‘What club is he a member of locally?’

  Suddenly, she looked very uncomfortable. ‘Umm, well, you know, he only plays occasionally. Societies, mostly. I’m not actually sure what club he’s a member of here – I don’t know for sure if he is actually a member of any of them.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean – he plays at different ones.’

  ‘Very expensive game,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘I nearly gave up membership to my club because I don’t play enough. It would be cheaper just to pay green fees.’

  ‘Does your husband play regularly in Spain?’ Grace asked.

  ‘No – not at all.’ She shrugged, looking increasingly uneasy. ‘He – we – used to have a place in Puerto Banus and we still have friends there.’

  She showed none of the confidence she exuded on air as a newscaster, as she nervously twisted her wedding band. Grace was almost certain she was lying. Covering up for her husband. Covering what up?

  ‘So he doesn’t often make you a golf widow?’ Grace said with a smile.

  ‘No.’ She smiled, then shot a pointed glance at her watch.

  ‘We’ll be gone in just a second. When will your husband be back?’

  She hesitated. ‘Sunday. Late Sunday.’

  Guy Batchelor handed her his card. ‘I wonder if you could ask him to call me when he returns – as soon as convenient.’

  ‘Of course.’ She laid the card on the coffee table.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re a very good newsreader,’ Grace said.

  ‘Thank you so much!’

  ‘Are Fridays one of your regular nights?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, they rotate, but this past month I’ve been doing the Friday evening regional news, after the 6 p.m. and 10 p.m. national news.’

  Sounding as nonchalant as he could, Grace continued, ‘I suppose with these long summer evenings, your husband plays golf while you’re working?’

  She blushed, looking very uncomfortable now. ‘Well – not that often.’

  ‘Out of interest, can you recall if he played last Friday evening?’

  She looked at her watch again. ‘Last Friday. No, he went over to see his father – Gavin’s very upset about Aileen. I think he had dinner with his father while I was at work.’

  ‘Have you had to read out any of the coverage on this story yourself, on air?’ Guy Batchelor asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘And I’d rather not. Not sure I could cope with that emotionally.’

  The two detectives stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, and we’ll have a chat with Mr Daly when he’s back.’

  ‘I’ll make sure he gets your card.’

  * * *

  Back in the car, Grace said, ‘I didn’t see a single golfing trophy in there.’

  ‘So maybe he’s a crap golfer. Where are we going with this, boss? Sorry if I’m being dumb.’

  ‘I don’t think he plays golf at all. Golfers always have trophies, even if just a wooden spoon.’

  Batchelor pulled over, got out of the car, shook a Silk Cut cigarette out of a pack, and offered the pack to Grace. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No, not right now, but go ahead.’

  ‘Have you given up?’

  ‘I gave up a long time ago, but I still have the occasional one with a drink in the evening.’ He shrugged. ‘I enjoy them, so sod it!’

  ‘Why’s Daly’s shop manager and his wife saying he’s on a golfing holiday, Roy?’

  Grace was silent as the DS leaned against the outside of the car, lit his cigarette, and blew a perfect smoke ring.

  ‘I’ve always wondered how to do those,’ he said.

  The DS grinned and blew two more in rapid succession. For an instant, as they closed together, they looked like handcuffs.

  ‘I’m impressed!’ Grace said.

  ‘My party trick.’

  ‘Then you wave a magic wand and turn them into steel?’

  ‘Depends whose party I’m at.’ He grinned back. ‘So we’re safe to assume that whatever Lucas Daly’s doing in Marbella, golf isn’t a feature?’

  ‘Once again we’re on the same page. Or maybe I should say the same fairway.’

  ‘Or bunker?’

  48

  At 7 p.m. Lucas Daly and the Apologist watched Tony Macario and Ken Barnes lock the gate at the top of the Contented’s gangway, and strut ashore.

  They were rough-looking men; neither of them was tall, but they both had a wiry meanness about them. Macario, with short dark hair, sported several days’ growth of stubble, and even from this distance Daly could see a long scar beneath his right eye. Both men wore jeans, and white T-shirts with the yacht’s name stencilled across the front. They headed off along the quay, Macario in flip-flops, and shaven-headed, tattooed Barnes in trainers.

  ‘They coming back or should we follow?’ the Apologist asked.

  ‘They’d sodding well better come back. Wait here.’ Daly got up and sauntered after them.

  The two crewmen did not walk far. After a couple of hundred yards they made a left into an alley lined with buzzing bars and restaurants, then a right, and entered O’Grady’s Irish Pub. The word GUINNESS and its harp logo were etched onto the windows and the glass panes of the open doors. Daly waited, watching them make their way slowly through the crowd towards the bar. Then as he saw their drinks being served, he returned to fe
tch the Apologist.

  Ten minutes later the two of them were positioned with their drinks in the pub, a safe distance from Macario and Barnes, watching them attempting to chat up a small group of uninterested teenage girls. Daly hoped to hell they wouldn’t pull, as that would complicate his newly formed plans.

  An hour and a half later, to his relief, the girls left, despite the entreaties of the two men, who were clearly a little sloshed, to stay. Just after 11 p.m., Macario and Barnes staggered out of the bar and up the alley. Daly and the Apologist followed them, and saw them stop at a takeaway pizza joint.

  Then, carrying their large polystyrene boxes, they headed unsteadily back to the Contented and boarded the yacht, disappearing through the saloon doors.

  It was approaching 11.30 p.m. The evening was warm, and the streets seemed to be getting even more crowded. Daly and his colleague entered a bar opposite. He ordered a Metaxa brandy, to steady his nerves, and another Coke for the Apologist. Ten minutes later he said, ‘Okay, time to rock and roll.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t dance very well,’ the Apologist said.

  Daly grinned and slapped him on the back. ‘I’m talking about rocking the boat.’

  ‘Rocking the boat?’

  ‘It’s a joke.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  Daly pointed at the Contented.

  The Apologist grinned. ‘Ah. Sorry.’

  49

  The quay was almost deserted, apart from one young couple eating each other’s faces, who weren’t going to be noticing anything else happening around them. Lucas Daly, needing a cigarette to steady his nerves, put one in his mouth, then clicked his lighter to no avail; it was out of gas.

  ‘Shit.’

  He walked over to the couple and, ignoring the fact they were snogging, said loudly, ‘Either of you speak English?’

  They both turned. ‘We are English,’ the male said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a light?’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ He dug in his pocket, clicked a lighter and held the flame up to Daly’s cigarette.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said, grabbing the lighter and walking away with it, drawing on the cigarette.

  ‘Don’t sodding mention it.’

  When he had finished the cigarette the couple had disappeared. He handed the Apologist a pair of surgical gloves, and snapped on a pair himself. Then the Apologist followed him up the gangway of Contented, through the gate, which the two henchmen had left unlocked, and onto the wide deck of the yacht. It felt plush and smelled of teak, polish, varnish and leather. They could feel the faint floating motion of the vessel.

  Daly opened the patio doors and entered the huge rear saloon. All around the sides were white leather banquettes, and in the centre was a curved bar, with stools also covered in white leather. On the wall behind were shelves stacked with an array of spirits. There was a distinct smell of pizza in here.

  Behind the bar were shiny wooden steps, with a roped handrail. They could hear the sounds of a football commentary coming from a television somewhere down below them. Raising a hand to keep the Apologist a distance behind him, Lucas Daly walked slowly down. In front of him, at the bottom, he saw a large dining room. Its centrepiece was a twelve-seater table, with white leather-covered chairs arranged around it, and a huge television screen, showing a football match, at the far end of the room. Macario and Barnes, facing away from them, were eating their pizzas out of the opened cartons, and swigging from cans of lager.

  He beckoned the Apologist down, pointed at his own chest, then at Macario, then pointed at the Apologist and indicated Barnes.

  The Apologist nodded.

  Both men hurried forward, as silently as they could. Just as Macario was putting a slice of pizza in his mouth, Daly felled him with a single karate chop to the back of his neck. He fell sideways off the chair, and onto the floor, where he lay still. The Apologist hauled Barnes up, out of his chair, onto his feet.

  ‘What the—?’ Barnes said, before the Apologist tightened his grip on his throat, turning the rest of his words into an incomprehensible gurgle. Then the Apologist stamped really hard on his foot.

  The shaven-headed man cried out in pain.

  ‘Sorry,’ the Apologist said.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Barnes croaked, his quavering voice betraying his fear.

  ‘I’m Mr Pissed Off,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘And this is my friend, Mr Even More Pissed Off. And you are Ken Barnes?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  Again he said nothing.

  ‘Tell you what. My friend here has some tongs. Curling tongs. He could plug them in, heat them up, then pull your tongue right out of your mouth. Would you like that? Then you’d have an excuse for not speaking, wouldn’t you?’

  Barnes’s eyes filled with terror.

  ‘Hurt him a little again, Augustine. He’s not being very talkative.’

  The Apologist stamped on the man’s foot again, this time even harder.

  Barnes screamed in pain, tears shedding from his eyes.

  ‘So you’re able to scream. If you can scream, you can talk, yeah? So what’s your name?’

  ‘Ken Barnes.’ He could hardly speak for the pain.

  ‘I need some information from you. Like, did you have a nice time in Withdean Road, Brighton, last week? Was it fun torturing that old lady with the curling tongs?’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he yammered.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Wasn’t me. I was – I was…’ He fell silent.

  Daly nodded at the Apologist. He stamped even harder, and this time Daly heard the crunch of breaking bones, accompanied by a howl of agony from Barnes.

  ‘Barcelona just scored,’ the Apologist said, nodding at the television screen.

  ‘He did that. It was him, the stupid bastard,’ Barnes gasped.

  ‘Your friend, Mr Macario?’ Daly asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Daly nodded, then looked down at the slumped, unconscious figure of Tony Macario. ‘The strong, silent type, is he?’

  ‘I was just hired to do the job. They needed someone to help hump the furniture, that’s all I was doing there.’

  ‘Hired by who? Your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

  Barnes said nothing.

  Daly turned to the Apologist. ‘You’d better stamp on his foot again.’

  ‘Noooooo! Please! I’ll tell you what you want.’

  ‘That’s better,’ Daly said. ‘Because you’re going to tell us anyway, so the less pain for you, the less aggro for us. Now, I’ve a list of things I really want to know. First, where is the Patek Philippe watch you stole from that house? Second, where is the rest of the stuff? Third, where is the safe on this boat, and how do we open it. And fourth, where is your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

  ‘I don’t know about any watch, that’s the truth. I don’t remember a watch.’

  ‘Remember getting the safe code from that old lady?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You know something, I don’t believe you,’ Daly said. ‘Why is that, do you think? Because you’re a crap liar?’

  ‘The gorilla’s broken my fucking foot.’

  ‘He’ll break the other one in a minute. That old lady was my auntie. That watch belonged to my grandfather. I can’t get my auntie back because she’s dead. But I’m sure as hell going to get that watch back. And you know where it is.’

  Barnes shook his head.

  Daly cupped the man’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look straight at him. ‘Listen to me, Ken. If you don’t tell me where that watch is, my friend’s going to kill you. Simple as that. I’ll give you ten seconds to think it over.’

  Daly stood staring at his own watch for the ten seconds. Then he looked at the Apologist and rotated his wrist. Moments later, Barnes was hanging upside down, suspended by his right ankle.

  ‘That helping to clear your mind?’ Daly asked.

  ‘I’ve drunk too mu
ch,’ he slurred for the first time. ‘Please put me down. I – I—’

  ‘Maybe you need another drink, to help the old brain cells?’ Daly asked.

  He shook his head. His eyes were like two frightened little birds.

  ‘Be back in a tick,’ Daly said, and climbed up the stairs.

  ‘Sorry to keep you hanging about,’ the Apologist said.

  Moments later Lucas Daly reappeared with a bottle of Macallan Scotch in one hand, and a small plastic funnel in the other. ‘Put him on the deck,’ he instructed the Apologist. ‘Then open his gob.’

  The henchman obliged. Barnes tried to wriggle free, but the Apologist knelt on his chest, pinioning him to the floor, and held his head with his hands, as firmly as a vice. Daly knelt, unscrewed the cap of the bottle, pushed the funnel into his mouth, then began pouring in the whisky.

  The man spluttered and choked.

  ‘Am I pouring too fast?’

  Barnes tried to shake his head, but it was held in the Apologist’s iron grip. In less than five minutes, the bottle was empty.

  Their captive’s eyes were rolling. Daly shot a glance at Macario, who was slowly starting to stir, then returned his attention to Barnes. ‘Where’s the watch? The Patek Philippe? Where’s the safe? And where’s your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

  ‘Safe’s in the master bedroom.’ Barnes’s eyes rolled again. Then, moments before he passed out, he murmured something barely decipherable.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, as Tony Macario opened his eyes, fully conscious again now, the first thing he saw was his colleague, Ken Barnes, suspended upside down by his ankles, unconscious, being swung, head first and extremely hard, into a stanchion studded with rivets.