Dead Man's Time (49 page)

‘He left a short note in an envelope for his boss, Lucas Daly,’ Alec Davies said, and held up a small sheet of paper.

‘What does it say?’ Grace asked.

‘Well, not much at all really, sir. It just says, “
Sorry
”.’

‘Turns out the thirteenth was an unlucky day for Carl Venner!’ Roy Grace said. Lounging on a sofa in Cleo’s house, he raised his celebratory vodka martini at
Marlon. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’ he said to the goldfish.

Marlon reacted the same way he reacted to everything else in life: by circling his bowl, opening and shutting his mouth.

‘That’s such fantastic news, darling!’ Cleo, seated beside him, set down her laptop and the one small glass of white wine she had allowed herself, kissed him on the cheek and
gave him a hug. Noah, lying on his mat on the floor, gurgled happily. Humphrey, asleep in his favourite place – the sofa opposite – did not stir; he appeared to be recovering, slowly,
from his ordeal.

‘He’s got life, with a minimum tariff of eighteen years.’

‘You must be so pleased,’ she said.

‘And bloody relieved!’

‘What a week it’s been for you!’

‘I’ve had worse.’ He smiled and kissed her back, and ran his finger through the delicate Tiffany chain he’d bought her in New York, before heading off to catch his
plane.

It was good to be home on a Saturday night again, and this was the first real chance he’d had to celebrate the Venner result with Cleo. Good to be with the two people he loved most in the
world. But with one dark shadow hanging over them, the thought of Amis Smallbone and what might have happened had he not fallen – or been pushed. If it was Krasniki who had pushed him, then a
part of him secretly hoped that he might stay free. He deserved that for saving Cleo, or Noah, or both of them.

Cleo picked up her laptop again and showed him a baby outfit with stripes on it. ‘Isn’t that so cute?’ she said. ‘It’s on this website, Zulily. Don’t you
think Noah would look so cute in this?’

‘It would make him look like a convict!’ he replied.

She puckered her face in disappointment. ‘No, it wouldn’t!’

He continued to look at the estate agent’s plans for the house Cleo had fallen in love with, which they were going to see in the morning. But there was a shadow over that, too. He’d
had the news in the morning’s post that the mystery buyer in Germany of his house had suddenly, and without any explanation, pulled out. They had been relying on his sale, together with
Cleo’s, to fund the purchase of the new place.

‘Darling, do you think there’s any point in going tomorrow?’ he said.

Cleo smiled and nodded vigorously. ‘I was going to tell you this evening my bit of good news. Well, ours, really. Mummy and Daddy have offered to lend us the money for the
deposit!’

He looked at her. ‘Really?’

‘Yes – when you eventually sell your house, then we can pay them back.’

He sipped some more of his martini, closed his eyes for a moment, sinking back into the deep, soft cushions. ‘That’s incredibly kind of them.’

‘They like you,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why, but they do!’ She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘A bit the same with me, really!’

‘I’ve been thinking – you know – we were going to get married this year, and then stuff happened and it got put off. Shall we set a date – and just do
it?’

‘Yes, my darling. Let’s make it soon. Like – very soon?’

They kissed again.

Noah was making excited noises on the floor.

‘Your turn,’ she said.

He put his glass down, knelt, lifted his son in the air, then sat back down, cradling him in his arms.

‘Have you seen Lucas Daly’s wife, Sarah Courteney?’ Cleo asked suddenly. ‘This must be a nightmare for her.’

‘Can’t be much fun for her at the moment, having SOCO crawling all over her home.’

‘But I saw her on the news last night, looking as cheery as ever. She’s obviously hiding it well.’

‘She’s a tough cookie,’ he replied. ‘She’s a survivor.’ Then he turned his attention to his son. ‘Hey, little fellow, have you got something in that
nappy for me?’

The rising stench confirmed that Noah had indeed, and he looked very proud of the fact.

She sat back, luxuriating in the comfort of her Business Class seat, and enjoying her second glass of champagne.

The cheery young British Airways cabin steward came by with the bottle to top her up. As he did so, he noticed her Cartier.

‘Nice watch!’ he said, admiringly.

‘Thank you!’ she replied, and held it up for him to inspect more closely.

‘Gorgeous! You can always tell an original – they just have that
je ne sais quoi
about them! A real one speaks for itself !’

‘So true. I’m a little confused with the time difference – when are we due to land in Moscow, local time?’

He looked at his own watch, a studded, bronze Hublot. ‘Three fifteen. Just over three hours.’

‘Thank you.’

He moved on down the aisle. Sarah Courteney unclipped the clasp of her handbag and dipped her hand inside, touching the soft velvet pouch, then lifting it up a few inches, feeling the reassuring
weight of the Patek Philippe pocket watch, with the cracked crystal, Arabic numeral dial and the broken crown.

Oh yes, there was nothing to beat an original.

Aileen had shown it to her once, a few years ago, taking it out of the secret compartment at the rear of her safe. And the sweet old lady had never noticed it missing for that week, earlier in
the year, when she had taken it to Dubai, to the little workshop that made such exquisite reproductions.

Clearly, Gareth Dupont had not noticed the difference either when he had stolen the fake in that horrid robbery which had totally shocked her. She had never realized the bastard had been using
her.

But all that was history now. Just like Lucas, facing a decade – and probably longer – behind bars, both in Spain and England.

Good riddance, at last.

As the third glass of champagne slipped her into a pleasantly woozy state, she was thinking that, given all that had happened in these past weeks, Aileen would have been proud of her.

She had a buyer in Moscow, willing to pay two and a half million pounds, in cash, and he wasn’t concerned about a detail like provenance.

That was good – no hassle. What the hell did proving provenance matter – the watch was real. Just as the cabin steward had said, the real item spoke for itself.

Her father always told her that only two things really mattered in life: health and the time you had left. So, she was in good shape. She had her health.

And she had her time.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Two important health notes:

1. You will have read in my story of the tragic death of one of the characters from
Malignant Hyperthermia
. This is a real condition that very nearly killed the
son of a close friend. It is an hereditary problem causing contracture of muscle and disruption to metabolic functions during general anaesthesia. It is undetectable until a family member reacts
under anaesthesia. Diagnosis is by muscle biopsy at the MH Investigation Unit in Leeds. Once diagnosed MH susceptible people can have anaesthesia, provided triggering drugs are avoided and correct
monitoring is undertaken. MH is potentially fatal if undetected by the anaesthetist. More information can be found at www.bmha.co.uk

2. One of the characters is diagnosed with Prostate cancer. Information on this disease was kindly given to me by Colin Stokes and John Davies of the Prostate Project,
Purbecks House, Grosvenor Road, Godalming, GU7 1NZ, which offers support and awareness. www.prostate-project.org.uk. Tel no: (+44) 01483 419501. The charity supports the local hospitals to improve
services and they are now centres of excellence.

*

My biggest research debt is to New York detective Pat Lanigan, grand-nephew of Dinny Meehan, leader of the White Hand Gang, who was murdered at his home in Brooklyn on 31 March
1920. It was through Pat sharing his family history and archive material that this book came into being.

Another huge debt is to the many officers and support staff of Sussex Police, who give me such constant and enthusiastic help and advice. Most of all, thank you to Chief Constable Martin
Richards, QPM, for being so very kind and constantly supportive.

Retired Detective Chief Superintendent David Gaylor of Sussex CID, the inspiration behind Roy Grace, not only helps me constantly to hatch my plots, and to ensure Roy Grace and all his team
think and act the way real police officers would, he is also my slave driver, making sure I keep up the relentless writing pace through the seven months or so of the first draft . . . and
beyond.

Chief Superintendent Graham Bartlett, Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove Police, has also been immensely helpful on this book. Chief Inspector Jason Tingley has been a total star, helping
me both creatively and procedurally on many aspects of this story. As also have DCI Nick Sloan, DCI (retired) Trevor Bowles, Sgt Phil Taylor and Ray Packham of the High Tech Crime Unit, and
Inspector Andy Kille of Ops 1.

Huge thanks also to Detective Superintendent John Boshier; Detective Chief Inspector Nick May; Chief Inspector Paul Betts; Senior Support Officer Tony Case; DI William Warner; Inspector Richard
Delacour; PC Darren Balkham; DS Simon Bates; Sgt Lorna Dennison-Wilkins and the entire Specialist Search Unit; Scenes of Crime Officers, James Gartrell, Chris Gee, Lucy Steel, Becky Henderson; Sgt
Mehdi Fallahi; PC Laura Stanley; PC Jon Anstead; Sgt Gemma Firth; PC Karl Brown.

Retired Detective Sergeant Simon Muggleton, formerly of the Sussex Police Antiques Unit, gave me invaluable information about Brighton’s historic antiques underworld.

Thank you to Giles Ellis of the Schofield Watch Company; Richard Robbins; Derek le-Warde; Michael Keehan; Chris Tapsell; David Wiltshire. Hal Mileham; Simon Schneider. Wayne and Vanessa Manley;
Steve Reynolds; Danny Reardon; Norman Torrington Geneaology Research; Louise Yeoell; Liberty Taylor.

Forensic Podiatrist, Haydn Kelly; Forensic archaeologist Lucy Sibun; Alan Setterington, Deputy Governor of HMP Lewes.

Thanks also to Michael Beard, Editor, the
Argus
. My terrific researchers: Tara Lester and Nicky Mitchell; Dr Russell Emerson MRCP DM MB ChB; Sarah London; Sherree Fagge, Chief Nurse,
The Royal Sussex County Hospital; Rob Kempson; Peter Wingate-Saul; Hans Jürgen Stockerl; Peter Hale MA, MS, FRCS (Gen); Tim Parker; Felix Francis; Graham Sones; Phil Homan; Jeannie Civil;
Giles Powell; Bill Shay.

Tony Parker, Director of Engineering of Shoreham Port; David Miller, Deputy Harbour Master; Chris Jones, Dave Smith and Keith Laker.

A very special thanks to Alan Prior MD of the Pinnacle Publishing Group, who so very generously let me into many of the secrets of the arcane world of telesales!

My gratitude as ever to miracle worker Chris Webb of MacService who managed to keep my Mac going after I dropped it, and restore crucial files that had disappeared.

Very big and special thanks to Anna-Lisa Lindeblad, who has again been my tireless and wonderful ‘unofficial’ editor and commentator throughout the Roy Grace series, and to Sue
Ansell who has read and helped me with every single book I have written, and to Martin and Jane Diplock

I’m blessed with a truly wonderful agent and great friend, Carole Blake. And with my dream publicity team of Tony Mulliken, Sophie Ransom, Claire Richman and Becky Short of Midas PR; and
there is simply not enough space to say a proper thank you to everyone on Team James at Macmillan, but I must thank my wonderful editor, Wayne Brookes, and my incredibly patient copy-editor, Susan
Opie, as well as my great US team: Andy Martin; my editor, Marc Resnick; my publicists Hector DeJean and Tony Fusco, and all the rest at Team James USA!

Massive, massive thanks also to my totally brilliant and long-suffering PA, Linda Buckley.

Helen has, as ever, been unswerving in her support, and putting up with my long nights locked away in my cave. And our three hounds, Phoebe, Oscar and Coco who lie permanently in wait, always
ready to remind me that there is a life – and a lot of buried bones – when I care to step away from my desk!

I have to reserve the biggest thank you of all, as ever, to you, my readers. Your emails, Tweets, Facebook and Blog posts give me such constant encouragement. Keep them coming! And I will keep
new Roy Grace books coming, I promise you!

Enter Peter James’ Brighton through Blippar

If you have an Android or Apple smartphone or tablet, go to your app store, search for the Blippar app and download it for free. Once it has installed, open it, and scan the
image above to bring it to life, and explore Roy Grace’s city. You’ll unlock secret maps and walks that cover crime scenes, Brighton landmarks, the locations of key events in the life
of Roy Grace and some of Peter James’ favourite places.