Dead Man's Time (16 page)

Grace had no answer.

‘Stupid woman who walked onto the lane in front of her probably won’t even get a fine. And I get to bury my wife, and the mother of my kids.’

‘You need to be strong for your kids,’ Grace said, trying to find a positive for his friend out of the tragedy. Glenn’s relationship with his tricky, demanding wife had hit the
rocks nearly a year ago. Privately, Grace had never liked her. The DS had moved out and had been lodging at his house ever since. Meantime, to Glenn Branson’s chagrin, Ari’s new man had
moved into their marital home.

Branson gulped down some of his pint and nodded bleakly.

‘What’s happening with the children?’

‘Ari’s sister’s staying over.’

‘What about the boyfriend?’

‘He’s packed up and gone. Out of there. Shows his moral fibre, right?’

‘Already?’

‘Speedy Gonzales.’

Grace shook his head. ‘They’re going to need their father. Have you seen them yet?’

‘No.’

‘I think you should go round there right now. It’s your house, your home. You need to take charge, mate.’

‘She’s poisoned them against me.’

Grace shook his head. He was out of his depth in a situation like this, he knew. But all his instincts told him that Glenn had to take charge. ‘I’ll drive you there.’

‘My car’s in the hospital car park.’

‘You’re not driving anywhere in your state. I’m going to take you.’

Branson smiled bleakly at him. ‘What am I going to do, Roy?’

‘I’ll tell you exactly what you are going to do. Do you remember, a few years back, telling me why you had become a copper?’

‘What did I say?’

‘You told me that you were a night club bouncer. When your son Sammy was born, you looked down at him and realized that one day someone at school would ask him what his dad did for a
living. You didn’t want him having to say his dad was a bouncer. You wanted him to be proud of you. That’s why you joined up. Doesn’t matter how much Ari poisoned them against
you. I’m going to drive you home in a few minutes, and you are going to walk in through the front door and hug them. And one day, very soon, they’re going to forget all the shit
they’ve been told and they will be very proud of you indeed. Because you’re a very special guy, and they are damned lucky to have you as a dad.’

Branson gave him a bleak smile. ‘You know, after my second, Remi, was born I looked down at both of them one day – and I had this weird thought. I thought, one day you are going to
think I’m a better person than I really am. So I’d better try to improve myself, in order to cushion their eventual disappointment!’

Roy Grace raised his glass and clinked it against Glenn’s. ‘You’re going to be okay. Know that? I love you, mate. I really love you.’

Branson squeezed his friend’s arm and blinked away tears. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Let me tell you something. It’s a warning, okay?’

Grace frowned. ‘A warning?’

‘I don’t want the same thing to happen to you that happened to me. You’ve been through enough shit in your life. You’ve got to realize that ever since Noah was born, your
relationship with Cleo has changed for ever. You are no longer the most important thing in her life, and you never will be again. You’ll always take second place to your son, and to any other
kids you might have. I’m just telling you that because I know you’re a decent, caring man, but you’re overloaded with work and it might take time to sink in – it did for me.
Our kids didn’t bring Ari and me together, and I blame myself.’

Roy Grace shook his head. ‘You don’t have anything to blame yourself for. You’re a good man, mate.’ At that moment his phone rang. He answered, then looked at his watch.
It was a quarter past eight. He had planned to take his work home and help Cleo, who was sounding stressed, by looking after Noah. But this was too important.

Reluctantly, he said to the caller, ‘Okay, I’ll meet you there at nine. Forty-five minutes.’

He ended the call and turned back to Glenn. ‘Drink up, you’re going home.
Home.
To your house and your kids!’

‘What – what do I say to them when I get there?’

Grace balled his fist and touched his friend’s cheek lightly with his knuckles. ‘You just say, “I’m your dad, and I’m home.”’

‘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.’

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.

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.’