Dead Man's Time (33 page)

‘Does that make me a suspect too?’

‘Not at this stage, no.’

‘But I might be?’

‘Excuse me being personal again, but does your husband beat you?’

Shaking, she opened her handbag and rummaged inside it, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘I like the smell.’

She offered him a Marlboro Light, but he shook his head. She lit one, lowered her window, and exhaled. ‘He’s a bastard, if you want the truth, Detective –
Superintendent?’

He nodded. ‘Is that why you’re having an affair with Gareth Dupont?’

‘We met at a salsa-dancing class. He was kind to me, fun to be with.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s been a long time since a man was kind to me.’

Grace remembered the trophy in her cabinet. ‘He was your dance partner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I ask how long you’ve been seeing him?’

‘About three months.’ She looked pensive again. ‘Early June, when he turned up at the class.’

‘Did he ever talk to you about your husband’s aunt, Aileen McWhirter?’

She dragged deeply on the cigarette and flicked some ash out of the window. ‘Nothing specific that I can remember. I – ’ Then she frowned. ‘Actually, yes, now you mention
it. I do remember one day, we were talking, and I mentioned that my husband’s father was Gavin Daly. Gareth got quite excited about that. Said he was one of the biggest antiques dealers in
the country. Gareth had told me he had a passion for antiques. I think, actually, he is quite knowledgeable.’

‘Did he ever mention watches to you?’

‘Watches?’

‘Well, one in particular – a Patek Philippe?’

She shook her head and dragged on the cigarette again. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’ Grace watched her face carefully.

‘I’m sure. A Patek Philippe watch? They’re rather special, aren’t they? How does their advertising slogan go? Something like,
You never actually own a Patek Philippe
watch. You just look after it for the next generation
.’

Grace smiled. ‘He never mentioned a Patek Philippe watch to you?’

She shook her head very definitely. ‘No.’ Then she held up her left wrist. ‘I would have taken note. I love watches.’

‘That’s a very elegant one. I don’t know much about them, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s a Cartier,’ she said. ‘A Cartier Tank watch.’

‘I’ve heard of Cartier,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

‘Thank you.’

He had been thinking, for some time, about getting Cleo a present. Something to make her smile, to lift her spirits with the hard time she was having with Noah. Maybe a nice watch? A Cartier
Tank watch? ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of money would a watch like that cost?’

She hesitated. He watched her eyes. ‘Around three thousand pounds, I think.’

She was lying and he wondered why. Probably a gift from her husband, he concluded, and she had guessed the value.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to make you late. Thank you.’

He climbed out of the Mercedes and walked back to his car. Guy Batchelor was looking at him quizzically.

Grace shook his head. ‘Sounds like they met at a salsa class.’

‘Innocent?’

‘Innocent, or else she’s a world-class liar.’

‘What are your instincts?’

‘She was targeted by Dupont. No question.’

His mobile phone rang. All that came up on the display was
INTERNATIONAL
.

He answered. ‘Yeah?’

‘Listen carefully – don’t worry, I’m on a secure phone. You should get one too.’

‘I have. I’m on it’

‘It’s the same number I’ve had for weeks.’

‘You’re the only person who has it.’

‘I want you to change it for the next time we speak.’

‘Next time we speak I won’t need it. We’ll be in the same room and I’ll have my hands around your fat neck.’

‘Temper, temper! Listen to me very carefully, we have a big problem. Gareth Dupont’s been charged. He’s been out on licence and now he’s on remand in Lewes
Prison.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘Do you understand what it means for him if he’s convicted? The rest of his life in prison? I’m worried what the little shit might do to save his skin. He’ll shop
Smallbone. Smallbone’s the weak link.’

‘Where the fuck are you?’

‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you silence Smallbone. Permanently. Get my drift?’

‘I want my part of the deal.’

‘You’ll get it when I hear Smallbone’s dead.’

‘You expect me to trust you? After the way you’ve behaved?’

‘I have low expectations; that’s a life lesson you should learn, if you want to be content. Toodle-pip!’

There was a click, then silence.

He stared at his phone in fury. But, he realized, the fat bastard was right about one thing. Amis Smallbone.

Gavin Daly awoke with a start, confused about where he was. He heard a drilling sound. For a moment he thought it was men digging a hole. But it was a bell. The phone, he
realized. He was in his study, and must have fallen asleep in his armchair. His cigar lay in the glass ashtray, with a ring of ash on the end, next to his glass of whiskey, with the ice long
melted. His head ached; he’d drunk too much this evening.

He took a moment more to fully orient himself, then picked up the receiver. ‘Gavin Daly,’ he said.

‘Hey Gavin, it’s Julius Rosenblaum here. Apologies for calling so late – hope I didn’t wake you?’ the treacly voice of the New York watch dealer asked. ‘But I
thought you’d want to hear this right away.’

Daly looked at his watch. It was 11.30 p.m. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, no, not really – I’m – I’m still in my office.’ He was still feeling a little
disoriented, not fully awake, but perking up fast. This was the call he had been waiting for, he realized.

‘The guy I told you about,
Mr No Name
, who called me on Tuesday about the Patek Philippe, came in this afternoon.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve got the pictures of him and the watch, which I’ve pulled off our CCTV, and just emailed you. Thought I’d give you a heads-up. Do you want to check your mail and see
if it is your watch?’

‘Yes – yes, Julius. Can you give me a few minutes?’

‘Take your time.’

‘You’re still in your office?’

‘I’ll be here for another ten minutes, then I have to go to a dinner. I’ll give you my cell and you can call on that if you miss me.’

‘Thank you. So – what did you think of the watch?’

‘He only brought in photographs, but the timepiece looks authentic enough. Quite a bit of damage – the crown and winding arbor are bent, the crystal is cracked and there’s a
dent in the rear casing.’

‘That sounds like it,’ Gavin Daly said.

‘I asked him about the provenance. Said it has been in his family since the early 1920s.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Handed down from his grandfather.’

‘That’s a touching story,’ Daly said. ‘Remind me of his name?’

‘Robert Kenton. Does that mean anything to you?’

Daly thought hard for some moments. ‘No.’

‘I asked him how much interest he’d had in the watch, and he was cagey about who he had talked to, but said he was expecting offers next week – subject to the watch being what
the photographs show – and he would take the best offer by close of business on Wednesday. I told him I was extremely interested, buttered him up a little, and he’s going to be bringing
it in to me on Monday morning, at 11 a.m. If you could get over here, I could bring you into the room, then you’ll be able to see the piece for yourself. If it is yours, I just have to press
one button, all the doors will lock, and the police will be on their way.’

‘I’m very grateful.’

‘Check the photographs and call me back.’

Daly eased himself, stiffly, out of the chair, went to over to his desk, sat down and logged on and opened the zipped file. Moments later he was looking at a sequence of low-grade CCTV images.
First of a man entering through a door. He was in his mid-sixties, overweight, with short, curly grey hair, and dressed in a blue blazer with silver buttons, open-neck white shirt and paisley
cravat. The next image showed a closer and clearer image of the man’s face. The third showed the front of the Patek Philippe watch.

He was certain that it was his watch, with the bent crown and winding and the busted crystal. But to be sure he had another hard rummage around for any photographs of it. He opened all the
drawers of his desk, rummaged around through all the other old papers in there but still could not find one. He cast his mind back to when he had last seen one.

He was, he knew, getting a little forgetful. A couple of times recently he had lost important documents, or misfiled them inside others. It would turn up; no matter. He looked back at the
screen, at the image of the watch, and began to tremble with anger. The bastard. The fat bastard.

Out of curiosity, he entered
Robert Kenton
into Google. There were over twenty hits. He then went to
Images.
None of them remotely matched the face on the photographs he had
just looked at. Then he had another thought. Into the Google search he typed
Eamonn Pollock
.

Moments later he was staring at an old
Argus
newspaper headline from 1992.

The whole story ran below: how Eamonn Pollock, patron of a leading Brighton charity for disabled children, had been convicted of receiving and handling stolen goods, including a haul of watches.
But it wasn’t the story that interested him at this moment. It was the man’s photograph. Taken twenty years ago, he was marginally less pudgy, and his hair was darker. But there the
differences ended.

It was the face of the man who had given his name to Julius Rosenblaum as Robert Kenton.

The man who, the genealogist Martin Diplock had found out for him, was a descendant of one of the men who had come into his bedroom that night, back in 1922, murdered his mother and dragged away
his father.

And now he had stolen his father’s watch.

There were mixed feelings at the Friday morning briefing of Operation Flounder. All the team present were pleased that one suspect, Gareth Dupont, had been charged with Aileen
McWhirter’s murder. But there was no celebration; they all knew that while one of the monkeys was now potted, the organ-grinder was still at large. Fingers pointed towards Eamonn Pollock, but
so far they had no evidence to implicate him in, or even link him to, the crime.

The High Tech Crime Unit had found a series of calls made to Spain from Dupont’s mobile number during July and August. The Spanish numbers changed frequently and were all on untraceable
pay-as-you-go mobile phones. They were not even able to tell the region in Spain. Neither Dupont’s work computer nor private laptop had yielded any useful information. Their hopes at the
moment lay with Norman Potting, who had flown out to Marbella to liaise with the Spanish police investigating the deaths of the two Irish expats, Kenneth Barnes and Anthony Macario, and to see what
he could find out about Eamonn Pollock. Digging away doggedly was one of Potting’s particular talents.

The forensic podiatrist whom Grace had used to great effect on a previous case was due to join this morning’s briefing at Grace’s request. ‘I’ve asked Dr Haydn Kelly to
join us this morning as he has some significant information regarding Barnes and Macario. He will be along soon as he has a Faculty of Surgery board meeting to attend this morning and he’s
been good enough to come straight over to us afterwards.’ At that point there was a knock at the door. He had arrived. Grace nodded at their visitor.

Haydn Kelly, in his mid-forties, had an open, pleasant face, with close-cropped hair, and had a relaxed air about him. He was wearing a navy linen suit, a crisp white shirt with a vivid
emerald-green tie, and tan loafers; he could have just stepped out of a villa on the French Riviera. But when he turned to face the group, his demeanour became serious and focused. ‘Hi,
team,’ he said. ‘Good to see you all again. The Marbella police have sent me casts taken from the feet of Kenneth Barnes and Anthony Macario. I’ll now explain, briefly, the
matching I’ve done to the trainer prints taken from Mrs McWhirter’s house.’

Kelly spent the next five minutes explaining the calculations and his computer analysis, concluding that the shoeprints taken at the crime scene were a match to Barnes and Macario.

Roy Grace thanked him. ‘Okay, we now have three people at the crime scene. Two are dead, and the third, Gareth Dupont, is staring into the abyss. I’m having him taken out of prison
on a Production Order, and am going to chat to him on an informal basis – see if we can get any names out of him – in exchange for a few privileges.’

‘How about a Jacuzzi in his cell?’ Dave Green said.

‘I wish!’ Grace replied. Giving prisoners favours was no longer an option. Any privileges had to be given, unofficially and unsanctioned, while the prisoner was with the police and
away from the prison.

Bella Moy reported that one sharp-eyed member of her outside enquiry team had spotted an Art Deco mirror taken from Aileen McWhirter’s house on an antiques stall in Lewes. The owner said
he’d bought it from a man who walked in off the street. He was sketchy about his description, but it sounded to her like Lester Stork.

‘That would fit,’ Grace said.

‘Presumably before he was dead?’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘Or did he get it
dead
cheap?’

Several of the team groaned. Then Roy Grace turned to the antiques expert, Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds. ‘You have a possible development.’

‘Yes, I do. I have a list of all forthcoming auctions around the world for the next three months, which I’ve pinned up there.’ He pointed to one of the whiteboards.
‘I’ve also obtained all their catalogues. The thing is with many of them entry remains open until fairly close to auction time. I’ve given all of them the details we have of the
Patek Philippe, and I’m fairly confident they will notify me if someone tries to place it. At the same time, I’ve been in touch with all the dealers capable of either buying a timepiece
at this price level, or handling the sale of one. So I’m hopeful between the auction houses and the dealers we may soon get some information.’