Dead Man's Time (7 page)

On the victim’s walnut bureau was a large leather diary, some framed photos of children and adults, all discoloured with age, an old-fashioned red leather address book, a Parker pen lying
on a blotter pad, her blue headed notepaper, and a birthday card with a blank page inside and a blank envelope that she had obviously been planning to send to someone.
The clue might be in the
diary
, he thought, flicking backwards and forwards through a few pages with his gloved fingers. But at a cursory glance the pages were blank except for an appointment note, in three
days’ time, written with a fountain pen in a sloping, spidery hand:
Dr Parish. 11.30.

Above the bureau, surrounded by a dark rectangle where a painting had probably hung, there was a safe, with a combination lock, and the door to it open. He peered inside but it was empty. At the
back was what looked like a panel on its side, and a second door, as if to a secret chamber in the safe, which was also open.

He turned his attention back to the bookshelves, and ran his eyes over some of the titles again.
The First 100 Years of the American Mafia. Young Capone. Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of
New York City. Irish Organized Crime. King of the Brooklyn Waterfront.

There was shelf after shelf of them.

Why?

The collection was like an obsession.

Why had this lady got all these books on the early gang history of New York?

Aileen McWhirter. That was an Irish name. Did Gavin Daly’s sister have some historic link with American organized crime? Did they both?

From what little he had gleaned about Aileen McWhirter since being called out here, she had been married to a stockbroker, and widowed for the past fifteen years. Her own children had
predeceased her, but there was a granddaughter and her husband, Nicki and Matt Spiers, and their two children, Jamie and Isobel – Aileen McWhirter’s great-grandchildren – whom the
police were currently trying to contact. She had no record, other than a traffic offence three years ago, when she had collided with a bollard for no apparent reason, which had resulted in her
licence being revoked.

Perhaps she had once written a thesis on the subject? A book? Was trying to learn something about her family history?

Suddenly his phone rang. ‘Roy Grace.’

It was Glenn Branson, outside. ‘Boss, Gavin Daly has just been. I was going to get you to meet him, but he’s been called up to the hospital urgently.’

‘What’s the latest on Mrs McWhirter?’

‘We’ve got an officer there, guarding the ward. He’s keeping me in the loop. It’s not sounding good.’

‘It never was,’ Grace replied grimly.

‘Something I want to show you in the hall.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

Branson was standing on a SOCO board on top of a frayed Persian rug by a hall table, tapping an A4 leaflet, in a bag, headed with an ornate typeface that was, no doubt, intended to convey an air
of class, but which, in Grace’s view, made it look even more like the work of a spiv.

Roy Grace glanced briefly at it.

Then he looked at his colleague. ‘Shit, I thought knocker-boys were a thing of the past. That everyone now sees
Antiques Roadshow
and
Cash in the Attic
and all those
other shows and they don’t get suckered in any more by these creeps.’ He remembered, with anger, his grandmother getting conned out of almost all her few family heirlooms by
knocker-boys when he was in his teens.

‘Obviously not completely, boss. I guess wherever there’s a pond, you’ll find something crawling around in the mud at the bottom.’

Grace smiled grimly. ‘We’ll need to question R. C. Moore asap.’ Then he glanced down at the carpet. ‘Strange – such a beautiful home, filled with, presumably,
lovely things, and yet she had this tatty hall carpet!’

Branson gave him a sad look. ‘You’re so ignorant!’

‘Thanks. But actually I think I know beauty when I see it.’

‘Oh yeah? Do you have any idea of the value of this rug?’

‘I’d probably give a fiver for it in a car boot sale.’

‘You’d be getting a bargain if you did. It looks Persian to me, probably worth several thousand quid. Ari’s dad traded in them, taught me all about them. When they make these
rugs they put flaws in them, deliberately.’

‘Why?’

Glenn Branson smiled. ‘Because in the eyes of those carpet makers, only God is perfect.’

Grace smiled. ‘I’ll remember that.’ He pulled his phone from his pocket and took a couple of close-up photographs of the leaflet. As he was checking to make sure they
weren’t blurred, he heard Glenn Branson answering his own phone. After a brief exchange of words, Branson ended the call then looked at Grace with his large and, recently, world-weary
eyes.

‘That was our officer at the hospital, boss.’

‘And?’

‘Looks like we are now upgraded to a murder enquiry.’

New York, 1922

The boy’s aunt was urging him to come in out of the cold, but he refused. He clung for dear life to the stern rail of the RMS
Mauretania
, salty wind tearing
at his hair, a lump in his throat, tears streaming down his cheeks, oblivious to the numbing cold. His eyes were fixed on the steadily disappearing Statue of Liberty as they passed through the
Verrazano Narrows.

It was tiny now, just a distant speck. It was being swallowed by the mist and cloud, which were relentlessly closing in on it in the falling darkness. He kept his eyes on the statue until it was
gone completely, and then he felt even sadder. As if the cord between him and his pa had now been severed, totally and finally.

The deck thrummed beneath his feet. There was a strong smell of paint and varnish, mingled every few moments with a snatch of smoke from the funnels. His aunt was saying his name again, and
tugging at his coat sleeve. But he ignored her, and stared down at the foaming wake, a hundred feet below. Every second, the distance between the stern of the
Mauretania
and New York
increased. Every second, he was further away from finding his father. The mystery of his disappearance swallowed up by clouds much darker than the ones now cloaking the Statue of Liberty.

From inside his pocket, he took out the crumpled piece of newspaper that he had been given a few hours earlier on the pier. The wind ripped at it, making it crackle, and he held on tightly,
terrified of losing it. He looked at the newsprint photograph of his father, then at the clumsily written names and numbers. 9 5 3 7 0 4 0 4 2 4 0 4. Then back into the distance at New York.

His father was there, somewhere. In a place he did not want to be. The place where the bad men had taken him. The numbers were important, he knew that for sure. They
had
to be.

But what did they mean?

As his aunt tugged his arm even more sharply, he tucked the paper carefully back into his inside pocket, and, staring towards the grey horizon, he made a promise.

One day, Pop, I’m going to come back and find you. I’m going to rescue you from wherever you are.

Above him there were three sharp blasts from the ship’s horn. As if signalling agreement.

2012

Ricky Moore was fifty-three, with a balding dome, and long, lank grey hair that covered his ears and the top of his collar. He was dressed in a shiny open-neck white
shirt, with half its buttons undone to show off his gold medallion, a cheap beige jacket, and his fingers were adorned with chunky rings. With his booze-veined face and sallow complexion, he looked
more like an ageing, drug-addled rocker than an antiques dealer; but he knew how to charm his way into any old lady’s house, no matter how canny she might be.

It hadn’t been hard to find him. He drank here three nights a week.

The Cock Inn at Wivelsfield was a proper pub, in Moore’s view. It had bar billiards, a dartboard and shove ha’penny, was decorated with beer mats from all over the world, and had a
friendly landlord and staff, especially a barmaid whom he lusted after. It didn’t have a stupid, manufactured name, or the ghastly muzak or the pinging electronic gaming machines that
blighted so many establishments these days. And it served a good pint.

But none of those were the real reasons he drank here. Situated in the countryside, fourteen miles north of Brighton where he lived, it wasn’t convenient, particularly with the
drink-driving laws these days – every time he came here it was a risk. But that had to be balanced against the benefits, as with any business.

As one of the few remaining antiques knocker-boys, he made a comfortable enough living, ripping off the low-hanging fruit – picking up bargains in gullible people’s homes. He had
charm and good patter, and despite his rough appearance, people took a liking to him. Especially old ladies, for some reason he didn’t understand – and certainly did not question.
He’d carved himself a niche market, a nice little earner. Stuff he could con little old ladies out of. But every now and then, when he entered a home, he would hit a treasure trove.

Like the house in Withdean Road a few weeks ago. That little old lady knew fine well what she had and she wasn’t parting with any of it, at least not to him. She’d sent him packing
with a flea in his ear.

Now, he had read in today’s
Argus
that she was dead. Stupid old bat. She should have sold him the items he had wanted. Then he might have left it at that, instead of phoning his
contacts.

Although maybe he would have phoned them anyway.

The five grand in folding, his advance on his commission, was burning a hole in his pocket.

Tax free, too.

The first benefit of this pub was that no one from Brighton drank here. He’d made a fair number of enemies over the years, tucking people up, and sooner or later in Brighton pubs,
he’d run into someone bigger than him who hadn’t forgotten. The second and far more important one was the rich pickings to be had from this place.

It was the way he had operated for years. Find a pub in a nice, wealthy pocket of the countryside. Get known and liked and trusted. Sit up at the bar, buy the occasional round, nip outside now
and then for a smoke. Keep your ears open. Sooner or later you’d hear about nice big isolated properties. And sooner or later the locals would invite you to value some of the stuff in their
homes, or their mum’s homes, or whatever. You’d secretly take photographs, make the calls, email the pictures, then after a few months, move on.

He raised a pint of Harvey’s to himself. He was doing all right, yeah. Life was sweet. A bit quiet in here for a Friday night, he thought. The barmaid he fancied was off sick tonight. But
everything was all right. Very sweet.

Yeah.

Out of slight boredom he studied a framed photograph on the wall showing the members of a football team. Written at the bottom in large letters was
WIVELSFIELD WANDERERS.

Suddenly he felt a vibration in his trouser pocket. He pulled out his iPhone and checked the display; it was a withheld number. He brought it to his ear and answered quietly.
‘Yeah?’

‘Ricky Moore?’ asked the caller.

‘Yeah.’

The caller hung up.

He frowned, and waited some moments, in case whoever it was called back. But the caller had no intention of calling back. He had all the information he needed to confirm the man’s
identity. He was standing out in the darkness, outside the pub, watching through the window as Moore pocketed his phone and drained his pint. His identity proven.

Ricky Moore put his glass down on the counter, then looked around for someone to play bar billiards with, but didn’t spot any of his regular players. Deciding to head home soon, he ordered
another pint – one for the road – and another whisky chaser.

His missus, Kjersti, the beautiful Norwegian woman whom he had finally decided to settle down and spend the rest of his life with – after two acrimonious divorces – hankered after a
Rolex watch. Now, thanks to the McWhirter house, he had the dough to buy one – and with any luck he’d buy a stolen one, below retail, from a bent jeweller he knew.

She’d go nuts when she saw it!

He downed his drinks and left the pub with a smile on his face. He’d phone her when he got to the car; tell her to get her kit off and be waiting in bed for him.

*

Had Ricky Moore been sober, he might have been more aware. But four pints, accompanied by whisky chasers, had dulled his wits. As he stepped out into the darkness, pulling his
cigarettes out of his pocket, he didn’t notice anything out of place. If he had looked around the car park, he might have wondered about the Mercedes limousine with blacked-out rear windows
that really did not belong in a rural pub car park. Nor, above the rasp of a passing motorbike, did he hear its engine start.

He was preoccupied with thoughts about what he was going to do in bed with Kjersti tonight. She had a very dirty mind; and right now, loaded with drink, he was feeling increasingly rampant.

As he made his way, unsteadily, towards his elderly BMW estate, he stopped to light a final cigarette for the evening. Kjersti did not let him smoke indoors. A strong wind was blowing and he had
to cup his hands over his lighter to prevent the flame being blown out. He heard a car slowing down alongside him, but concentrating on the cigarette, he ignored it. He ignored the sound of the
door opening, too, as he clicked the lighter for the third time.

Then he dropped the lighter and the cigarette fell from his mouth as an agonizing vice clamp gripped his arm so hard he cried out in pain.

‘Sorry,’ said the Apologist, yanking him into the rear of the car, across his knees, and slamming his head into the offside door, dazing him. Then he pulled the door shut.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, as the car shot forward.