A Twist of the Knife (16 page)

Ahead he saw the Welshman haul himself back onto terra firma and sprint towards the end of the garden. Not bothering to pick up his torch, Grace sprinted on after him. Suddenly, appearing to change his mind, the thief turned and ran back towards the house, and seconds later was lit up by the beams of three different torches. He stopped in his tracks. Before he knew it he was face down on the ground, with two officers on top of him.

‘Out for an early morning stroll are we, sunshine?’ said one.

‘Bit careless forgetting a shoe when you got dressed, wasn’t it?’ said the other. ‘Got any mail for us then?’

*

Back at the police station, ignoring his Sergeant’s advice to go home and get some dry clothes and some kip, Grace insisted on going down into the custody block in the basement. Dai Lewellyn and Rees Hughes had been read their rights, and were now locked in separate cells, still dressed as postmen, waiting for a duty Legal Aid solicitor to arrive.

Grace, his tie awry, his clothes sodden, walked through the custody centre in the basement of the police station and peered through one of the cell doors. ‘Got everything you need?’

Lewellyn looked at him sullenly. ‘So, how did you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘You know what I mean. You knew we were coming, didn’t you? Someone grassed us up, didn’t they?’

Grace raised his eyebrows. ‘A little bird told me you shouldn’t have been so greedy with the stamps. That mean anything?’

‘Stamps?’ Lewellyn said. ‘What do you mean,
stamps
? We didn’t have no stamps. You mean, like in postage stamps?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We didn’t take no stamps. Why would we take stamps? I don’t know nothing about no stamps.’

‘But you and your mate know all about Georgian silver?’ Grace asked.

Lewellyn was silent for some moments. ‘We might,’ he said finally. ‘But not stamps.’ He was emphatic.

‘Someone thinks you’ve been greedy over stamps.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Lewellyn said. ‘Who?’

‘A man who knows where you were yesterday and what you took.’

‘There’s only one bastard who knows where we was,’ he said, even more emphatically.

Roy Grace listened attentively.

*

The next two hours were taken up with formal interviews with the two men. In the end they admitted the burglary, but continued to deny any involvement with stamps, and indeed any knowledge of them.

Finally, shortly before 10 a.m., still in his damp clothes, with a search warrant signed by a local magistrate in his hand, along with the inventory folder and photographs of the valuables taken and a fresh team of officers, Grace arrived at West Southwick Mews. Their pissed-off co-operative Welsh prisoners had kindly supplied them with the exact address.

One officer broke the door down with the yellow battering ram, and they entered, found the switch and turned the lights on.

They were in a huge space, eight garages wide, and almost empty, bar a row of trestle tables – and what looked to Grace like a rather ugly antique clock.

Five minutes later, Tony Langiotti arrived for the start of his day, in his Jaguar, cigarette as ever dangling between his lips. As he drove into the mews and saw the police officers, he stamped on the brakes, and frantically threw the gear shift into reverse. But before he could touch the accelerator a police car appeared from nowhere, completely blocking off the exit behind him.

The cigarette fell from his lips and it took him several seconds to realize. By then it was burning his crotch.

*

There was not such a big hurry for Roy Grace’s last call of what was turning out to be a very long day or, rather, extended day. It was 2 p.m. and he’d had no sleep since yesterday. But he was running on an adrenaline high – helped by a lot of caffeine. So far everything had gone to plan – well, in truth, he had to admit, somewhat better than planned. Three in custody, and, if he was right, by the close of play there would be four. But, he knew, it might not be such an easy task to convince DS Stoker.

He went home to shower and change, wolf down some cereal and toast and to think his next – potentially dangerous – step through. If he was wrong, it could be highly embarrassing, not to mention opening the police up to a possible lawsuit. But he did not think he was wrong. He was increasingly certain, as his next bout of tiredness waned, that he was right. But speed again might be of the essence.

Whether it was because he was impressed with his results to date, or it gave him the chance to settle an old, unresolved score, DS Bill Stoker agreed to Grace’s request far more readily than he had expected, although to cover his back, he still wanted to run it by the Detective Inspector. He in turn decided to run it by the Chief Superintendent, who was out at a meeting.

*

Finally, shortly after 5 p.m., running on his second, or maybe even third or fourth wind, Roy Grace had all his ducks in a row. Accompanied by DS Stoker, who was looking as weary as Grace felt, he pulled up in the street outside the Cunninghams’ house. A van, with trained search officers, pulled up behind, and they all climbed out.

Roy Grace and Stoker walked up to the front door. Grace held in his hand his second document signed by a magistrate today. He rang the bell and waited. A few moments later, it was opened by the old man. He looked at them, and the entourage behind them, with a puzzled frown. ‘Good afternoon, officers,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Do you have some news for me?’

‘We have some good news and some bad news, Mr Cunningham,’ Roy Grace said. ‘The good news is we believe we have recovered your stolen clock.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Not so far, sir, but we have made some arrests and we are hopeful of recovering further items.’

‘Well, that’s good. So what’s the bad news?’

‘I have a warrant to search these premises, sir.’ Grace showed him the signed warrant.

‘What exactly is this about?’

‘I think you know that, sir,’ he said with a tired smile.

*

Trained police search teams, Roy Grace learned rapidly, missed few things. Not that the stamps had been hidden in a difficult place to find – they were beneath a crate of Champagne in the cupboard under the stairs that served as the Cunninghams’ wine cellar.

But it was three other items they found that were really to seal Crafty’s fate. The first was an insurance claim form that lay on his desk, faxed only this morning, but which he had already started to fill out with details of the missing stamps.

The second was another fax, lying beneath it, to a dealer in the US, offering the collection for sale to him.

The third was a fax back from the US dealer, offering slightly more than the £100,000 Crafty had given the detectives as an estimate.

*

Later that night, even though he was exhausted, Roy Grace insisted on taking Sandy out to dinner to celebrate the first highly successful days of his new post, rather than going to the bar with the other officers. Four arrests! ‘We got lucky,’ he said. ‘If the Chief Superintendent hadn’t been out, and delayed us for several hours, and we had gone early, he might not have started filling in that insurance form. He might not have sent that damning fax. And he might not have had the damning reply.’ He pulled out the folded page from
The Argus
newspaper and showed it to her.

She read it then smiled at him. ‘I’m very proud of you.’ She raised her wine glass, and clinked it against his, and said with another smile, this one a tad wistful, ‘Now, how about asking me about my day?’

He saw her and beamed as he staggered down the aisle of the packed aircraft, towing his holdall which bashed into all the other passengers’ ankles. She was fit: slender and beautiful with long blonde hair cut elegantly, and smartly dressed. And she was sitting in his seat.

She saw him too, and hoped to hell the dishevelled, drunk-looking slob in the crumpled tan suit wasn’t heading for her row, then focused back on her crime novel. She smelled the fumes of alcohol before she heard his voice.

‘S’cuse me, you’re in my seat!’

She held up her ticket stub, barely glancing at him. ‘14A,’ she said, and turned back to her novel.

He squinted at his own ticket. ‘Mea culpa!’ he said. ‘I’m 14B. Next to you!’

He tugged open the overhead locker, and saw the large pink carrier bag. ‘Is that yours?’ he asked her.

She nodded, barely looking up from her book.

‘I’ll be careful not to crush it.’ He lifted it out, hefted his bag in first, then held up the large, almost weightless carrier. On the outside was printed
Agent Provocateur.

‘Sexy underwear, is it?’ he said, squeezing his bulky frame into the seat beside her. She smelled fragrant. He reeked of booze and stale smoke.

‘You could sit in the aisle seat – it would give us more space,’ she said.

‘Nah, this is cosier!’ He gave her a wink. ‘Good book?’

Yes, it’s about a drunken dickhead on a plane
, she nearly said. Instead she smiled pleasantly and said, ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve finished it.’

‘I’m Don,’ he said. ‘Been in Manchester at a business fair – I flog aircraft components. But don’t worry, none on this plane are mine – so we won’t crash, ha, ha!’

‘Good.’ She pulled her book closer to her face.

He pointed upwards. ‘That sexy underwear – going to wear it for your boyfriend, are you?’

*

He drank three Bloody Marys on the short flight – or four including the one he spilt down the front of his jacket. As the plane began its descent, he whispered, ‘You haven’t told me your name.’

‘Roxanna,’ she said, as politely as she could, and began rereading the same page yet again, waiting for his next bloody interruption.

‘Posh,’ he said. ‘I like it! Tell you what, Roxanna,’ he lowered his voice. ‘Why don’t you and I meet sometime in London – you know? A couple of drinks, a nice little dinner?’

She looked down at his wedding ring, and said pointedly, ‘Would your wife be joining us?’

‘Nah, that’s over. Well, it’s on the rocks. She doesn’t understand me, you see.’

After the engines had been switched off, he stood up unsteadily and lifted her carrier bag and her small case down for her, then slipped her his business card. ‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see you wearing what’s in that bag – know what I mean? We could have a bit of fun.’

‘Oh, I will have fun, trust me.’

He held back the queue of passengers so she could go in front of him, but she insisted he went first. ‘Hope to see you sometime soon,’ he slurred.

Not if I see you first,
she thought.

*

The kids were asleep, and Susie had prepared a candlelit dinner and opened a bottle of wine to welcome him home, as she always did. He held her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

‘So, tell me about the trip? How was the fair?’ she asked over the avocado and prawns. ‘Tell me about the hotel – was it nice? And why did you have to stay on an extra couple of days?’ she quizzed as he carved into his steak.

After draining the bottle, he staggered upstairs, and threw his clothes on the floor as usual. Susie picked up his jacket, studying the tomato juice stain. ‘I’ll take that to the cleaner’s first thing,’ she said.

‘Yrrrrr,’ he groaned, almost asleep already.

As she began checking the pockets, she pulled out a folded square of paper from the right-hand one and opened it out. It was a receipt for Fifi briefs and a Fifi bra in black silk from Agent Provocateur
.

On the back was written:
Don, thanks for your wonderful generosity on this trip, as ever. And for making me a member of the mile high club on the flight back! I never knew an airplane toilet could be such fun! Roxy xxxxxxxxxxxx

‘Who was that at the door?’

‘Some undertakers with a hearse.’

‘No one’s dead.’

‘They said they can wait.’

This was inspired by the true story that gave me the idea for my novel
Dreamer

One of the things Annie liked best about going on holiday was deciding what she was going to wear in the evenings. She’d always had a passion for designer shoes, and of course, in her stylish opinion, if you bought new shoes, then a matching handbag was a must. Much to her husband’s dismay she regularly maxed her cards out on new outfits; she argued that it was her money, and he had to agree. And, to be fair, Nigel told her he was always extremely proud of how lovely she looked. Once he’d admitted to her, with that wry smile of his, that he got a secret kick out of seeing the envy on other men’s faces when they looked at her.

She was particularly excited about this holiday because it was the first time that the two of them were going away alone, without the kids. Thank you, Aged Ps, as Nigel called his mum- and dad-in-law! They weren’t actually that elderly at all, and were relishing taking care of Chloe, who was four, and Zak, who was going through his terrible twos. Zak had turned from an angelic baby into, at times, a demon out of a horror movie, with frequent tantrums, often involving hurling his food around the room. Although she would miss the children, the thought of having a week free of Zak was deeply enticing.

At least he liked attending the day nursery, and she was grateful for the respite that it gave her. She was able to continue her business as a hairdresser from home for three days a week without constant interruptions from him and it enabled her to afford to pay for her luxuries herself.

They were going to Montreux, a beautiful lakeside town on a sheltered bay, with fairy-tale views across the placid water of Switzerland’s Lake Geneva – or Lac Léman, its Swiss name that Nigel liked to call it by – to the Alps. The hotel, a magnificent building in grand Belle Époque style, had once been a palace, and all the guests dressed for evening cocktails on the terrace. Dinner, in the majestic dining room with its starched linen and fine-crystal glasses, where the waiters wore black tailcoats and white gloves, was a magical experience.