Текст книги "Dead Man's Time"

Автор книги: Peter James

Соавторы: Peter James
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

37

‘In your dreams,’ Amis Smallbone said, through his missing teeth. Seated in a booth in the busy pub, opposite a glass tropical fish tank that acted as a dividing wall, he cradled a whisky, feeling particularly ratty as he hadn’t had a smoke for over half an hour because it was pissing down with rain outside, waiting for this fuckwit who was late, and hurting all over from his beating. He was dressed in his regular summer rig of blue blazer, open-neck shirt with a paisley cravat, chinos and Cuban-heeled boots.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Gareth Dupont, with a pint of Diet Coke in front of him and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. He was feeling equally ratty because he was running very late for his date with Suki Yang. He sat there in a thin leather bomber jacket over a white T-shirt, jeans and flashy loafers. ‘And what the fuck happened to you?’

‘I walked into a door.’

Dupont nodded, not expressing any interest in the details.

‘We made a deal,’ Smallbone said. ‘You don’t renege on a deal. And you don’t grass up people in this city.’

‘I don’t need to grass up anyone,’ Dupont said. ‘You weren’t straight with me. You didn’t tell me how much value was involved here – and you didn’t tell me I was going to be at the wrong end of a murder enquiry. I’m out on licence like you. You asked me to find a home for some paintings. You never told me I was going to be the driver for some psychos and ten million quid’s worth of gear.’

‘And you really think you can grass us all up and collect the reward? You’re fucking dreaming.’

Dupont shook his head. ‘You’ve been inside a long time, Amis. But don’t tell me you’ve been out of touch.’ He dug his hand into the crisp packet. ‘You must know about Crimestoppers?’

‘What about them?’

‘They’re a charity. Any member of the public can call them with guaranteed anonymity. They will never, ever reveal the caller’s identity to the police or to anyone else. But if that anonymous call results in arrest and conviction, the caller will get the reward. Are we on the same song sheet now?’

‘You’re forgetting that I know everyone, Gareth,’ Smallbone said. He spoke kindly, like an uncle to an errant nephew.

‘You’re forgetting you’ve been inside for over twelve years, Amis. Most of your contacts are inside or have gone away. That’s why you contacted me.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘You offered me ten grand for this deal, right?’

‘That’s what you accepted, and very gladly,’ Smallbone replied.

‘Yep, well, now I want one hundred grand. Or you’re going back inside.’

‘In your dreams.’

38

Grace sat outside Glenn Branson’s house in Saltdean, in his new – new to him at any rate – black Alfa Romeo Giulietta, which he had bought from the second-hand lot of Frost’s at a bargain price. Hard summer rain drummed on the roof. Cleo had sounded exhausted on the phone, and he wanted to get back to her, and to see Noah.

‘I have to meet this guy, darling, it’s really important.’

‘I thought you were going to be home early today,’ Cleo said.

‘I had to see Glenn. His wife died – I told you, right? Dead from an allergic reaction. It’s unbelievable.’

‘You did tell me, and I can’t imagine how he is feeling. Poor, poor guy. Aileen McWhirter died and that’s terrible, too. You have to find her killers, and you have to find them quickly, and you will, darling, because you’re the best. But a few hours aren’t going to change anything, Roy.’

Sandy had never understood – or at least, accepted – how the work hours of a homicide detective could be so totally unpredictable. But Cleo was different. Until only a short time before she had given birth, she ran the Brighton and Hove City Mortuary, and had equally unpredictable hours, recovering bodies from wherever they had died. People were rarely courteous enough to drop dead or get murdered within office hours. But all the same, he really wanted to be at home with her, wanted to spend every precious minute with Noah that he could.

‘I’m doing all I can to keep the weekend clear, darling,’ he said.

‘So you can go to the footy?’ There was humour in her voice.

‘If I go, it’s for work. How is Noah?’

‘He’s cried, pooed and vomited for five hours, non-stop.’

‘I’ll be on Noah watch all night, after I get home, I promise.’

‘That’s sweet of you to say, darling, but you won’t. You’ll fall asleep and I won’t wake you, because I know you have to be at work at 6 a.m. And besides, you don’t have breasts.’

‘Couldn’t I bottle-feed him to give you some sleep?’

‘I’m so tired,’ she said, ‘I can barely think straight.’

‘I’ll be home as soon as I can.’

He hung up with a heavy heart. How the hell was he going to be a good father and a good detective at the same time? The task in front of him seemed daunting. Was it possible?

Others had done it, it had to be. But at this moment he wasn’t sure how.

39

Hector Webb was a tall man with a ramrod-straight back and a military bearing. He had close-cropped fair hair and a rugged, pockmarked face. He was seated at the bar, with a half-drunk pint of Guinness in front of him, as Roy Grace entered the Royal Pavilion Tavern on Brighton’s Castle Square.

Before crossing the threshold, out of habit Grace clocked all the faces in the room. But none of them rang any bells. Webb, twenty years ago, had been the Detective Inspector in charge of Brighton and Hove’s Antiques Squad – a unit that had been disbanded, for economic reasons, shortly after his retirement. Since then he had written a series of non-fiction books about his big passion, Second World War aviation.

‘What can I get you?’ Roy Grace asked.

‘My shout,’ Webb insisted.

After his conversation with Cleo, he felt badly in need of a drink, but he was still working and he should not even have had the one with Glenn. ‘A Diet Coke on the rocks, thanks.’

Webb ordered, and when the drink was poured, they retreated to a quiet table.

‘So?’ Webb asked.

As a young Detective Constable, Grace had served for a short time under Webb, who had then been a DS at Brighton’s John Street, and had liked the man a lot.

Grace brought him up to speed on the Aileen McWhirter case, then said, ‘What I need help with, Hector, is where to look for all the stuff that’s been stolen. I don’t know the world of antiques, although I’m having a crash course in it right now and some very good help from Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds. Do you know him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you still keep in contact with any of the old dealers?’

Webb drank a large draught of his pint. ‘It’s a changed world from my time, Roy. But I still keep up with a few of my old contacts and they tell me most dealers have had a rough time, particularly since 9/11 when the Americans stopped coming over here. They also tell me fashions have changed a lot in the Western world. People have modern furniture in their homes these days.’

Grace nodded.

‘Cost’s a big factor,’ Webb said, draining his pint.

Grace fetched him another, then queried, ‘Cost?’

‘People used to furnish their homes largely with antiques because they were cheaper than buying new furniture. Ikea has a lot to answer for in hurting the antiques trade. My youngest daughter recently got married. They bought lovely dining chairs from Ikea at thirty quid a pop.’ He helped himself to a handful of nuts. Chewing them, he said, ‘One thing’s for sure, a raid of this magnitude was pre-planned – and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a lot of the items weren’t already pre-sold. It would have been out of this country pretty damned quick. I wouldn’t rule out the Russian Mafia being involved, Roy. More likely they’d have their tentacles wrapped around this crime and those expensive items than anyone in Spain. But Marbella is a good starting point for the Russians – and the Irish, of course.’

‘Irish?’

Webb nodded. ‘People forget them, but the Irish Mafia were around long before the Italians. The White Hand Gang? Al Capone may have kicked them out of New York in the late 1920s, but they’ve never gone away. Drill down through the IRA and you’ll find Irish Mafia at their heart.’

Grace gave him a wry smile. ‘Interesting.’

‘In New York in the twenties they slugged it out with the Italians,’ Webb continued. ‘Now in Marbella, Spain, ninety years later, they’re slugging it out with the Russians – and the Albanians. That Patek Philippe watch, in particular. There are plenty of rich Russians who would desire a rare, vintage Patek Philippe, and pay big money for one. When I was on the squad, we knew that two of our Brighton knockers had travelled to Moscow to buy stolen Russian icons which were then later traded in Finland – and I would imagine by now that even better links have been made.’

Grace sipped his Coke. ‘What routes abroad should we be watching – assuming the stuff is even still here in this country?’

‘Which is unlikely,’ Webb said. ‘The watch could have been taken over the Channel to France within hours of the crime by a trusted “donkey” travelling with it in his pocket on a day trip on the Newhaven ferry – where virtually no checks are made – and a meeting made at an autoroute cafe for the exchange. The paintings could have been cut out of their frames, and laid at the bottom of a suitcase for a similar exchange. Furniture would be harder.’ He drank some beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Furniture is a bit more difficult and would probably need a container – out of Shoreham or Newhaven ports. Expensive pieces placed among ordinary furniture with a cover story for HM Customs that it’s to be used in decorating a home in France. The ordinary Customs Officer has no idea about antiques.’

‘Great,’ Grace said gloomily. ‘So if it’s already overseas, where do I start looking?’

‘I’d start here at Shoreham and Newhaven. Have all the bills of lading checked on every shipment out of both ports that took place within hours of the robbery, and check everything waiting to leave. I’d take a particular look at anything being shipped to Russia or Spain. Second-hand cars – stuff can be hidden inside them; container ships with timber cargoes on board – and cargoes of steel, where a container full of antiques could be smuggled aboard. I’d look beyond the local ports, too. At Dover, Portsmouth, Southampton, Harwich, for starters.’

Grace drank some more of his Coke. ‘You’re talking about a massive operation, Hector.’

‘I am, yes.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re dealing with an horrific murder and a huge-value crime. I don’t envy you this one.’

‘Any chance of luring you out of retirement to come and help me on this?’

Webb shook his head and smiled. ‘And get involved in all the politics again? No, thank you. I’m happy doing my gardening, tinkering with my sailing boat and spoiling my four grandchildren. I just got my Yacht Master’s Certificate in July, which I’m pretty pleased about. Know what I learned in my thirty years with the Force?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Fighting crime is like lying down in front of a glacier and trying to stop it. If I could have my life over again, and had an ambition to be rich – which I never did – I’ll tell you which businesses I’d go into: security, food or armaments. People are always going to steal, they’re always going to have to eat, and they’re always going to kill each other.’

‘You’re a pessimist!’

‘No, I’m a realist, Roy.’

*

It was dark outside as Roy Grace left the Royal Pavilion Tavern. His watch said a quarter to ten by the time he walked down the concrete steps of the Bartholomews car park, wrinkling his nose at the stench of urine.

He needed to go home, and stopped to text Cleo that he was on his way. But the moment he had done so, he regretted it. Something had been preying on his mind for many hours, and now he realized what it was, and what he needed to do.

40

Cleo’s house was less than half a mile north from the car park. But instead of heading home after exiting, Roy Grace made a U-turn, then drove the Alfa west along the seafront. Cleo was not going to be pleased, and he was not happy about that. But he could not help it. Whoever had tortured Aileen McWhirter was out there, and might well be planning their next attack on a helpless, elderly victim. Cleo was wrong to say that a few hours weren’t going to change anything. In the early stages of a murder enquiry, every minute of every hour mattered. It was quite possible that the people behind this robbery had already selected their next target.

All kinds of emotions tugged at him, and for a moment he found himself envying Hector Webb, who appeared to have little to worry about beyond his garden and maintaining his boat and how to spoil his grandchildren. He thought for a moment about Glenn Branson’s warning about what having children did to a relationship. Reflecting on Sandy, and her tantrums whenever his work wrecked their plans, he wondered if it was not only children, but the nature of a homicide detective’s work. Like it or not, trying to solve the crime took priority over everything else in his life. It always had done, and for as long as he remained in this job, he knew it always would. His first responsibility was justice for the victim and closure for the victim’s family. That was the reality.

He kept thinking about Glenn Branson.

He selected a Marla Glen track, ‘The Cost of Freedom’, on his iPod, plugged into the car’s sound system. Her deep, rich, soulful voice often helped him think clearly. It filled the car now, as he headed along by the winged figure of the Peace Statue, one of his favourite monuments, which sat exactly on the border between Brighton and Hove, then along past the Hove Lawns, street lights flashing by overhead. He turned right at the Queen Victoria monument and up Grand Avenue, a wide, handsome boulevard. This section, close to the sea, was lined with high-rise blocks, many of them populated by wealthy retired people. He crossed the lights at Church Road, and continued; on this section, The Drive, most of the original, imposing terraced Victorian town houses remained – many now housing law firms and medical practices, or converted into flats.

Half a mile on, he waited at the lights at the junction with the Old Shoreham Road, and then drove up Shirley Drive, the start of the area that Glenn Branson always jokingly referred to as Nob Hill. It was an appropriate sobriquet, Grace reflected. Few of the smart, detached houses in the area adjacent to the park were within the price range of police officers. Many of the great and the good of this city lived here, along with a fair smattering of its successful villains.

He turned right up Woodruff Avenue and reached Dyke Road Avenue, which ran along the spine of the city, where the houses became even larger. He turned left, then moments later he made a right, then a left into Withdean Road, one of the city’s most exclusive addresses of all. It was a winding, tree-lined road, with a semi-rural feel, the imposing houses set back behind high fences, walls or hedges.

Something was bothering him about this case. Something that did not feel right. Something they were missing. He needed space, quiet time; to be alone at the crime scene without being distracted by anyone and try to think through the sequence of events, and walk through them.

A few hundred yards further on, the road curved left, and he turned right and coasted down Aileen McWhirter’s steep, winding drive, the headlights making shadows jump from the fir trees and rhododendrons. He could see the grand, secluded house down to his left, dark and forlorn, and in truth a little creepy. At the bottom, he turned the car around, and held the beam of the headlights on the rear of the house, staring at the windows, the rear door, the walls, the roof.

He switched the engine off, but kept the lights on full beam. The rain had stopped and the blue and white crime scene tape fluttered in the light breeze. He was thinking through all that he knew about the robbery. There had been no sign of forced entry, and it sounded like those responsible had posed as Water Board officials to gain entry. The loft insulation salesman, Gareth Dupont, had made a call to Aileen McWhirter around the time they estimated the attack to have taken place. It was quite possible Dupont had nothing to do with it, but in Grace’s view, the man’s previous record for aggravated burglary and handling stolen goods could well place him at the crime scene. There was something too coincidental about the timing of that call. He would be interested in the man’s alibi.

It was also a strange coincidence, he thought, that he’d had a cold call himself about loft insulation two days after Aileen McWhirter was attacked. But could there possibly be any connection? He dismissed it, climbed out of his car and removed his powerful torch from his go-bag. He snapped on a pair of protective gloves, then walked around to the front of the dark, silent mansion. The red eyes of a rodent suddenly lit up, then vanished. He reached the porch and took the duplicate key he’d borrowed from the Crime Scene Manager out of his pocket, opened the front door and, once inside, noticed the alarm was not pinging. Had someone forgotten to set it?

With the aid of the beam he found a row of old-fashioned wall switches, and pulled one down. Several sconces, with pink, tasselled lampshades, lit up dimly. He made his way past the dark shadows along the nearly bare hall and through to the kitchen, where an open saucepan, with mouldy-looking green haricot beans at the bottom, lay beside the gas hob, and a wooden spoon lay next to it, beside an elderly Aga, which was stone cold. A range of pans was stacked on a rack to the right of it. Near it sat a modern, pushbutton phone with extremely large numbers for people with poor eyesight. Had she lifted the saucepan off the hob to answer the front door, he wondered.

The front door had a safety chain and a spyhole. So either she knew her assailants, or she had been tricked into feeling comfortable enough with them to open the door. Who among the people she knew might have done this? In his mind he went through the people who had access to this property: not her elderly housekeeper, or her almost equally elderly gardener. Her brother? But he did not need the money. Her nephew? A slim possibility. The knocker-boy, Ricky Moore, was high on his list.

The way the insurance company kept their records of high-value items, and who might have access to them, was currently being investigated. So was the window cleaner, the plumber she used, Michael Maguire, the painters and decorators. The building firm, Bryan Barker, and the washing-machine man. Most household burglaries were opportunistic, but this robbery was in a different league. The city of Brighton and Hove had many rich, elderly, vulnerable people like Aileen McWhirter. If the perps thought they could get away with this, for sure they would strike again. He had to stop that, and there was only one way to do that – lock up the perps. But first he had to find them.

Ten million pounds was, as Webb had said, an enormous sum. During the past few days he had spoken to several local antiques dealers, including a Chinese and Japanese porcelain expert called Chris Tapsell, a jewellery expert, Derek le-Warde, and Simon Schneider, who appeared regularly on one of Cleo’s favourite TV programmes, Secret Dealers. All of them had told him that it was likely to have been a planned burglary, using insider information, and that there would have been customers lined up for many of the stolen items. The Oriental porcelain would have Chinese buyers. Much of the furniture was likely to be destined for, or already have been shipped to, Russia. The paintings would likely be bought by US, German, Dutch or Russian clients.

Insider knowledge about the contents of the house could have come from someone bent at the company which insured Aileen McWhirter’s contents. But far more likely, all his contacts told him, was that the knocker-boy, Ricky Moore, had sold information about the contents to someone. That was a regular business for knocker-boys who had managed to gain entry to houses rich in old treasures.

Moore had subsequently been tortured, Bella Moy had informed him over the phone a couple of hours ago. For what reason? And by whom?

His phone vibrated, then pinged with an incoming text. He looked at the display. It was from Cleo.

Roy, darling, you OK?

He tapped out a quick reply.

Another 30 mins. Sorry. XXXXX

Then he went back into the hall and stared up the staircase at the dark landing. He looked around but could not see a light switch. So he climbed up the stairs, then turned on the torch, again looking for a switch, and still could not find one.

He flashed the beam up and down, still without seeing any switch. Then he pushed open the door into Aileen McWhirter’s bedroom and, as he pointed the beam into the darkness and stepped forward, something hard struck his shins with such force he shouted out in pain, lost his balance and fell to the carpeted floor, the torch rolling away from him.