Dead Man's Time (48 page)

‘I won’t be needing any breakfast,’ he said.

‘Well, you’ll be getting it anyway.’

Gavin Daly smiled.

The officer hesitated. ‘We don’t get many folk your age in here. If you need anything, let me know. But don’t miss meals because you don’t get nothing in
between.’

Daly smiled again. ‘Thank you, I have everything I need. Everything I’ll ever need.’

That night, for the first time in ninety years, he slept without dreaming.

He slept the sleep of the dead.

At 8.45 a.m., Glenn Branson picked Roy Grace up from Gatwick Airport in a pool car. ‘Want to go straight to Sussex House, or home first?’

‘Home first, please, mate. I want to make sure Cleo’s okay, and I need a shower and change of clothes. So how are you? Ari’s funeral tomorrow, isn’t it? At least
I’ll be able to come now.’

‘I’m glad,’ Branson said. ‘Thank you. I think she actually quite liked you.’

‘She had a strange way of showing it,’ Grace replied with a grin.

‘Yeah.’ Branson sniffed. ‘She had a lot of strange ways.’

‘But you’re okay?’

‘Yeah, I am. Her sister’s still looking after the kids – she’s staying to take care of them until the end of this week, giving me a chance to get myself sorted. To be
honest, being at work’s the best thing for me. Got a lot to report, old timer, while you’ve been swanning around the US of A.’

‘Haha.’

He felt tired after a cramped, uncomfortable flight, jammed in the centre of three seats, with a bawling baby two rows behind him. And he had been far too wired with his thoughts to sleep, even
if the baby had let him. He made a promise never to inflict Noah on any long-haul passengers if he possibly could.

It was a wet day, with a chill in the air, in contrast to the Indian-summer warmth of New York yesterday. The wipers clopped away the water in front of him, although he would almost have
preferred it if they didn’t, so he couldn’t see anything. Glenn’s driving seemed to be getting faster and worse the more experience he had. Right now he was accelerating towards a
roundabout, when any sane person would be braking. Grace pressed his own feet hard into the footwell, and Branson shot the Ford right in front of a skip lorry that had right of way; he heard the
angry blast of the lorry’s horn, felt the rear wheels losing grip, and the slide start to happen. Braking hard now, Branson over-corrected and the tail went in the opposite direction.
Somehow, miraculously, they came out of the other side of the roundabout still intact, and headed down the M23 slip road.

‘Do you have any concept of the laws of physics?’ Grace asked.

‘Physics?’

‘Maybe you should study momentum, get your head around that a little. You could try working out that a car going seventy miles an hour in a straight line has to slow down before turning
sharp left, and especially in the wet.’

‘That was a controlled power slide. Like Jeremy Clarkson does,’ Glenn said.

‘Ah.’

‘I don’t know why you’re worried – I’ve never had a crash.’

‘Maybe you’re saving it up for the big one.’ Switching subjects, Grace asked, ‘Anything back from the lab on our dog, Humphrey?’ Then he winced as Branson pulled
straight across into the fast lane, only inches behind the car in front.

‘No, it will take a couple of days. We found a vial of tablets in Smallbone’s bathroom that we’ve also sent for analysis. We’ve been keeping a careful eye on Cleo; an
FLO’s been with her around the clock and the Neighbourhood Policing Team’s been briefed to be extra vigilant. But from the history, don’t you think it likely Smallbone was acting
alone?’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘Okay, we have a significant development regarding the shoe-print found at the letting agent’s, Rand and Co. I told you Haydn Kelly had established a match with shoeprints found in
Smallbone’s house.’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve got a third match – from Eamonn Pollock’s yacht in Marbella. The Spanish police sent it yesterday and Haydn Kelly informed Norman Potting an hour ago!
There’s also other sets of shoeprints – from the patterns it appears three other people, not just Macario and Barnes, were on the boat recently.’

Frowning, Grace said, ‘The match is to the ones in the letting agent’s and in Smallbone’s house?’

‘Yes. It’s only a shoe match, but if we could find the shoe—’

Suddenly all Roy Grace’s tiredness had gone. ‘I know who those second shoeprints might have been made by.’ He leaned over the seatback and hefted his briefcase onto his lap.
From it he removed a small evidence bag containing a USB flash drive, and held it up triumphantly. ‘Yesterday, Gavin Daly’s son, Lucas, was recorded on videotape in an office in New
York admitting involvement in Aileen McWhirter’s robbery.’

‘Daly’s son – her nephew?’ he said, incredulously. ‘He was involved?’

‘Probably the mastermind behind it. Yes, he’s a regular charmer.’

‘Has he been arrested?’

‘No, he’s agreed to DS Batchelor and DC Alexander escorting him back to England. But he’s asked if they can wait a day or so until he knows what’s happening with his
father.’

‘Result!’ Glenn Branson said. ‘But – um – how exactly does that help us with the second set of shoeprints on the boat?’

‘We’ll need to get a search warrant and raid his house. And, I think you are going to like this. If we can put Lucas Daly on that boat, then I think we’ll know who the other
set belong to.’

‘How?’

‘Lucas Daly flew to Marbella with his henchman. I suspect they’re involved in the deaths of Macario and Barnes. If the shoe-prints on the boat match his henchman’s, then we
have him too. Don’t forget there’s an historical association between Amis Smallbone and Eamonn Pollock.’

‘Yes, I’m aware. But there’s one thing still bothering me. All the sets of shoeprints are from trainers: Haydn Kelly’s identified the one in the letting agent’s and
Smallbone’s house – and now on the boat – as a Nike shoe, of which there are tens of thousands. The other one on the boat are Asics, again tens of thousands sold.’

‘There are a number of ways to put those people at those scenes,’ Grace replied. ‘In addition to the same make, model and size of the trainers there’s also the comparison
of wear patterns – Haydn Kelly explained this to me a few days ago and, if we can obtain the trainers, a comparison can be performed of the insoles in the trainers to the insoles in the
suspect’s footwear as these give an imprint of the person’s foot. If there is a match there, then that is pretty much game, set and match! We may also get lucky with DNA deposits inside
the trainers.’

‘Good stuff! Brilliant! Plenty of options for us.’

‘If we stay alive long enough,’ Grace said, eyeing the road ahead nervously.

In his office at 3 p.m., Grace had just finished a call with Haydn Kelly, discussing in further detail the shoeprints they had. He sipped a strong cup of tea and then yawned.
In half an hour a Detective Superintendent from Surrey, whom he had never met, would be arriving to conduct a review of Operation Flounder. It was standard practice, at certain intervals during a
major crime investigation, for an experienced outsider to look through the policy book, and all lines of enquiry that the SIO had running, as well as the size and make-up of the team.

It was likely to be a slow and tedious process, Grace knew, and he could seriously have done without this today – particularly with the way things were moving, he was fast getting this
whole case wrapped up. With luck the review would be finished by the evening briefing at 6.30 p.m. which he would attend, and then he would head home. He was about to type an email to ACC Rigg to
give him a summary, before meeting to brief him fully tomorrow morning, when his phone rang.

It was Pat Lanigan. ‘Hey, how you doing, Roy? Home safe?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Is all okay? Cleo? The baby?’

‘Yes, thanks, all is fine. They’re safe and well.’

‘Hopefully that punk was acting on his own.’

‘I hope so, too.’

Then Lanigan’s tone changed, becoming more serious. ‘Ithought you’d want to know this right away. The old guy, Gavin Daly, didn’t wake up this morning.’

Grace felt a sudden, deep twinge of sadness. ‘He’s dead?’

‘Seems like he passed away peacefully during the night. He had some heart problems, so maybe the stress of being arrested – it’s a pretty big thing for anyone, but especially a
guy of that age – maybe that’s what did it. I guess we’ll know more after the autopsy.’

‘I’ll never forget the sight of him on that dive boat, looking inside the tarp. Ever,’ Grace said.

‘Yeah, that was something. You know what? I think he knew he was going to go last night. The prison officer taking care of him said he was very funny about breakfast, saying he
wasn’t going to need any. Made him wonder if the guy was a bit suicidal, so he kept an extra eye on him.’

‘I don’t think he was suicidal, Pat. I think he’d done the one thing he had left in his life that he wanted to do. He told me some of his story, about his father and mother,
over a cigar in his sister’s garden a couple of weeks back. I was moved.’

‘Uh huh? Maybe. But you know, he spent the evening, before the lights went down, writing instructions. He wanted his father’s remains to be buried in Brooklyn Cemetery as close as
possible to his mother’s. He wanted restitution paid to the antiques guy, Rosenblaum, for the gunshot damage in his office. And – you’ll like this – he asked if someone
could contact you and apologize for the trouble you’ve been put to.’

‘Very nice of him,’ Grace said, with a grin.

‘To me, that sounds like a suicide note, pal.’

‘Either way, he’s gone, Pat. Does it actually matter? Nothing’s going to bring him back – and, you know, I don’t think he would have wanted to come back.
Life’s not compulsory!’

‘I like that!’ Lanigan said. ‘
Life’s not compulsory.
Think I’m going to use that line next time I have to deal with some total shitbag.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Good morning,’ Roy Grace said to his assembled team in the conference room at the start of the morning briefing. ‘Welcome to this briefing on the progress of
Operation Flounder today, September the 13th. An unlucky day for some people – particularly our perpetrators.’

There was a ripple of laughter.

‘But a lucky day for Operation Flounder,’ he went on. ‘Lots of positives to report.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘First up is that our forensic podiatrist, Haydn
Kelly, has, through his analysis of Lucas Daly and his henchman Augustine Krasniki’s shoes enabled us to put them on Eamonn Pollock’s boat at around the time that Macario and Barnes
died.’

He turned to Norman Potting, who was looking better than last time he had seen him; clearly he had caught a little sun while in Spain. ‘You have some information for us, Norman?’

‘Yes, the Marbella police have found a witness who was close to Pollock’s boat on the night of Friday, August the 31st. He was approached for a light by a man who he could not see
clearly, but he was accompanied by another man, and their build and height fit Daly and Krasniki. The Spanish police are intending to issue a Magistrate’s Warrant for both of them. Just to
add to Daly’s woes.’

Grace smiled.

Norman Potting continued. ‘Spanish police, acting on information supplied by Shoreham Harbour, have raided a warehouse, and found a container filled with antiques matching the majority of
the high-value items taken.’

‘Brilliant news. Thank you, Norman,’ Grace said. Then he looked down at his notes again. ‘There’s something else which I consider significant. Shortly after the robbery,
when we requested photographs of the Patek Philippe watch, Gavin Daly informed us that the photographs he had, and those that his sister had, were missing. Search officers found them late yesterday
in a locked filing cabinet in Lucas Daly’s back office behind his shop.’ He looked up at the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Good work, Dave.’ He turned to Bella. ‘How did the
interview go?’

‘DC Exton and I interviewed Lucas Daly yesterday, in the presence of his solicitor, as the first of three interviews in our planned strategy. He strenuously denies killing Macario and
Barnes. He said that he and Augustine Krasniki did go to Marbella together and went aboard the boat to talk to the men about the whereabouts of Eamonn Pollock and to try to find out where the
high-value items were – one in particular being the Patek Philippe watch. He admits they roughed them up a bit, but swears they were alive when they left.’

She paused and checked her notes. ‘Now here’s the bit that DC Exton and I find hard to believe. Daly claims that they hired a Moroccan to go and talk to the men and see if he could
get any more out of them.’

‘A Moroccan?’ Grace asked.

She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what he says. He paid this Moroccan five hundred euros to go and speak to the men.’

‘By speak, you mean
torture
?’ Potting asked.

‘That’s the implication, yes. Daly reckons this mysterious Moroccan might have just gone over the top.’

‘Does he have a name for this Moroccan, or a description?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood asked.

‘No,’ Bella responded. ‘He claims he only saw him in the darkness, on the quay near Pollock’s boat.’

‘This witness who gave Daly a light, did he see him too?’ Grace looked at Potting.

‘No, chief. The witness is adamant it was just the two men, presumably Daly and Krasniki.’

‘Something is not making very good sense to me,’ Roy Grace said. ‘Daly and Krasniki are big guys – what would this Moroccan, if he exists, get out of Macario and Barnes
that Daly and Krasniki couldn’t?’

‘Our thinking exactly, sir,’ Bella replied.

‘So is your view that this Moroccan is an invention?’

‘It is, sir, yes.’

Grace nodded. ‘Unless someone can physically produce him, it’s mine too.’

‘What about this Krasniki, boss?’ Guy Batchelor asked. ‘Has he been arrested yet?’

‘No, it looks like he’s done a runner. He hails from Albania so he could be hiding in one of their communities here – or gone home – or anywhere.’