Dead Man's Time (13 page)

‘Two million for a watch? Strewth!’ Potting said.

Bella nodded, then glanced at her Swatch. ‘Obviously a bit posher than mine!’

There was a ripple of laughter. Grace noticed Norman Potting laughing the loudest, and the old sweat making eye contact with Bella, and he thought, just possibly, that she blushed.

‘Actually it’s a bit ironic about the watch. It belonged to both her and her brother, Gavin Daly. He’s always had a high profile in the antiques world and lives in an isolated
country house where in the past he’s had two burglaries. So it’s been at his sister’s house for safekeeping for a few decades.’

‘Chief,’ DC Exton said, ‘Surely a watch of that sort of value is going to be very identifiable – presumably unique in some way. So how would it be sold?’

Grace nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking the same thing. As you’ve raised the question, I’ll give you the task of obtaining all the information about it – what
records of it might the manufacturers still have? How many of its kind are there in existence? What identification is on it – presumably a production serial number? Was it monogrammed with
any initials? And what kind of world market exists for watches of this value? Who are the likely buyers? Are there any big collectors? Where do watches of this kind of value change hands – is
it through dealers or auctions? Are there specialist watch or watch and clock auctions?’

‘Car boot sales?’ said Potting, facetiously.

‘I don’t think so, Norman,’ Grace said. Then he turned to DS Annalise Vineer, the manager for the analysts, indexers and typists on the enquiry. ‘Do you have anything to
report?’

‘We’ve run a nationwide check for home-invasion robberies with a similar MO, chief. So far all but one of the matches show the perpetrators of those to be in prison.’

‘And that one is?’ Grace asked.

‘Amis Smallbone.’

The room went quiet for a moment. Then Glenn Branson’s mobile phone rang. With an apologetic glance at Roy Grace, he answered it.

‘Oh, no!’ he said. ‘Oh, shit. I’ll be right there.’

He stood up, looking ashen. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go to the hospital. It’s Ari.’

Ari was Glenn Branson’s wife. Grace followed him outside. ‘Tell me, mate, what is it?’

‘I dunno exactly. They said she’s broken some bones. Knocked off her bike by a pedestrian on the seafront cycle lane.’

‘Call me.’

Branson nodded and hurried off.

It was meant to be summer, but the relentless late-August rain rattled against his basement window, with its dismal view of a row of dustbins and stained walls. The meagre
light leaking into this crummy bedsit made it feel, at 4 p.m., that summer really was at an end. His first summer as a free man for twelve years.

But Amis Smallbone, in his busted armchair, cigarette smouldering in the ashtray beside the half-drained bottle of Chivas Regal, was feeling in a particularly upbeat mood. A lot of money was
about to come his way. A shedload!

Just one wrinkle. A very greedy wrinkle. Gareth Dupont. He knew the man was a bit flaky by reputation, but after twelve years inside, a lot of his best contacts had gone away, or died, which was
why he’d gone to him in the first place. Now he regretted that. And he cursed the reward money on offer. He was damned if he was going to be blackmailed by that little shit. Dupont was a
problem and had to be dealt with. He would figure something out.

At least, on the brighter side, in a few days he was out of here. Into much nicer accommodation, provided his Probation Officer approved, and he had no reason not to. It was a rented town house
in a gated development in the centre of Brighton’s North Laine district. His mate Henry Tilney, who, unlike himself, had managed to avoid any residency at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, had
stood referee and guarantor for him on the tenancy agreement. And very soon he would be able to repay Tilney the five-grand deposit he’d put down on his behalf.

And equally soon he would be able to repay Detective Superintendent Roy Grace for depriving him of twelve years of his life, which he had spent in some of England’s biggest shithole
prisons.

The floor plans of his soon-to-be neighbours’ house lay unfolded on the crappy coffee table in front of him. Cleo Morey’s house. There was what looked like an easy route across the
rooftop fire escape to her house. In his original thinking, he was going to hire someone to do the deed. But why should he pay good money for an act that would give him so much pleasure to commit
himself? Whatever that act was. Maiming Cleo, perhaps. Or killing the baby.

There were endless possibilities. He could visualize lifting the baby from its cot. The stupid, dumb little infant, Noah, and hurling it through the air onto the cobblestones below.

Thud.

He liked that sound.

Thud.

Oh yes.

But far more he looked forward to seeing Detective Superintendent Grace’s pain. His grief.

Then he heard a thud. Followed by another. On his door.

He glanced down at his gold Rolex, which had been stored these past twelve years in a safety deposit box that the police had not managed to find. 4.20 p.m. He wasn’t expecting any
visitors. But he
was
expecting his pay-off anytime now. A cut of the ten million pound haul from the Withdean Road heist. He stood up, swaying from the alcohol inside him, and made his way
towards the door.

The cheapskate landlord of this dump hadn’t put in either a spyhole or a safety chain, so he had no way of finding out who his visitor was other than shouting through the door. ‘Who
is it?’

‘Father Christmas!’

The voice was dimly familiar. If they were coming to pay him off, he did not want to turn them away. But he did not feel entirely comfortable. He unlocked the door, and the two safety bolts, top
and bottom. Then he opened it a fraction. An instant later, it smashed him in the face, sending him hurtling backwards on his unsteady legs, before falling flat on his back.

A big brute in a dark suit picked him up off the floor by his shirt collar, half-throttling him.

‘You fucking moron!’ his assailant said, his face tight with fury. ‘You enjoy killing frail old ladies, do you?’ The other man stared down at him, silently.

When the pressure was released from his throat he replied, apologetically and shit scared, ‘I said that she was a vulnerable old lady. Hurting her was never the plan.’

‘Said? Said to
who
?’

He was shaken so hard he felt his teeth move. ‘Why should I be a grass?’ he gasped.

‘Because you’re the biggest fucking dickhead on the planet.’

‘Takes one to know one,’ Amis Smallbone retorted, defiantly.

Then he instantly regretted his drunken bravado, as a fist slammed into his mouth, destroying thousands of pounds worth of expensive reconstructive dentistry he’d had after the last fight
he’d been in. Then another fist slammed into his rib cage.

‘You’re not in a good place to get smart on me right now. I want names. I want the bastards who did this, and I want to know where all the stuff’s gone – my dad and I
want it back. All of it.’

Smallbone stared back at him sullenly, winded, blood pouring down his face. ‘I’m not getting killed for being a grass.’

Then he screamed in agony as a hand, hard as a mechanical pincer, grabbed his groin and began to crush his testicles. Then let go.

Smallbone fell to the floor, gasping in agony.

‘Want to tell me the names? He won’t be so gentle next time. Next time he’ll rip them off.’

With tears streaming from his eyes, Amis Smallbone looked at the giant of a man standing beside him, and believed him. ‘If I tell you, they’ll kill me,’ he gasped.

‘If you don’t, I’ll kill you, except I’ll have to get rid of your body – and that’s a hassle. Just make it easy for me. Names, Smallbone. Okay?’

Then his balls were crushed again, even harder than before.

Through his agony, he screamed out names. But he held back Gareth Dupont’s; even through his excruciating pain, he was able to think clearly enough to realize if Dupont was beaten up,
he’d reckon he was behind it. And with that £100k reward out there, that could be a dangerous thing.

They left him vomiting on the skanky carpet. As the tall man closed the front door behind them, he turned and said, ‘Sorry.’

Roy Grace was still smarting from the grilling he’d had from ACC Rigg this morning. On his list of crimes that affected the quality of life of the Sussex community,
housebreaking was at the top of the ACC’s priorities.

Just three years ago, Graham Barrington, the Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove, had reported proudly at the daily meeting for all senior police officers, known affectionately as
morning prayers
, that for the first time since records had begun there had been no overnight domestic burglaries in the city of Brighton and Hove. It had seemed then that one aspect of
crime in the community was firmly under control.

But since then, with the deepening recession, that had begun to change. Even so there had not been an incident as nasty as Aileen McWhirter’s savage attack for some time. The ACC had
rigorously questioned Grace about the progress of the investigation.

To be fair to his boss, Roy Grace knew the man was under pressure from a number of different directions. The nationwide publicity from this case was doing a lot to foster Brighton’s
long-held, and not strictly fair, reputation as a haven for criminals.

He needed to produce suspects, and fast. Amis Smallbone was the only name he had so far that he could give to the Assistant Chief Constable. But would Smallbone, out on licence for only a couple
of months, having served twelve years of a life sentence, be so stupid to risk his freedom? The answer, he knew from long experience dealing with criminals, was that yes, he could be that stupid,
or desperate. And it certainly had the scumbag’s hallmark.

Aileen McWhirter’s brother, Gavin Daly, had contacted him, saying he wanted to offer a one million pound reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the perpetrators.
Grace had convinced him this was far too much and would result in the incident room being swamped with unhelpful calls. They had settled on one hundred thousand pounds, and informed the
Argus
as well as passing this on to the charity Crimestoppers to put on their website and posters for anonymous informants, and to Sue Fleet in the press office.

He was worrying about Glenn Branson. Twice when he had called, Glenn had told him he couldn’t speak at the moment and would bell him back.

As Grace looked down at his notes, preparing to start the 6.30 p.m. briefing, David Green said, ‘Chief, I thought that little turd Smallbone was inside.’

‘He’s out on licence,’ DS Guy Batchelor replied. ‘This has his handwriting all over it. High-value house with the victim tortured. Never him personally, of course. He
gets scrotes to do his dirty work, gives them a cut. He’s his father’s son – except not as smart.’

‘I’d dearly love to go and have a chat with him myself, but I don’t think that would be too productive,’ Grace said, bearing in mind their past animosity. He turned to a
new addition to his enquiry team, DC Sam Tovey, a slim, quiet-natured woman with short, dark hair and a pleasant, if slightly brisk, no-nonsense air about her. Smallbone was a bully, but like all
male bullies he’d find it less easy to bully strong women, and Grace remembered him being intimidated by smart women officers in the past. As he looked around the team he thought hard about
the best people to send, and decided Bella Moy should be one of them. At thirty-five, she was mature enough to stand up to Amis, who was sixty-two. ‘Sam and Bella, I’d like you to go
and have a chat with Smallbone. Ask for an alibi for the night of Tuesday, August the 21st. I have an address for him on file, but he may have moved. The Probation Service will have it. Best not
send him my regards!’

There was a titter of laughter. Several members of the team knew Roy Grace’s past history with Amis Smallbone, one of the Brighton underworld’s nastier specimens. Almost thirteen
years ago, Grace, then a young Detective Inspector, had been his arresting officer, and almost single-handedly responsible for putting Small-bone away for life. Just over two months ago, Smallbone
had been released from jail on licence.

Smallbone’s late father, Morris, the brains behind what was, at one time, a widespread crime empire, had slipped through police hands countless times. Other people did time inside for him,
but never Morris – he was too smart. Less so his son, whose sadistic streak had been his undoing.

Amis Smallbone had gone down on a charge of murdering a rival drug dealer in the city, by dropping an electric heater into his bathtub. At the time of his arrest, the villain had threatened
retribution against Roy Grace personally, and against his wife, Sandy. Three weeks later, with Smallbone in prison, someone had sprayed every plant in the garden of Grace’s home with
weedkiller.

In the centre of the lawn had been burned the words:

Smallbone had been on Roy Grace’s radar right from his very earliest days as a detective, after he had been the prime suspect in a number of scams involving tricking elderly, vulnerable
people out of their cash and valuable possessions, using threats and actual violence whenever necessary. There wasn’t an area of the Brighton and Hove crime scene, including burglary, drugs,
protection racketeering, prostitution, fake designer goods, vehicle theft and car clocking, that Smallbone’s family didn’t have a finger in. But what interested Roy Grace now was that
Smallbone’s credentials included fencing high-end antiques – most of which were shipped overseas, predominantly to Spain, within hours of being stolen.

If an offender was freed on licence, as Smallbone had been, then if that person committed just one offence, of any nature, they would be straight back inside for many years. ‘Is there
anything to connect Smallbone with this?’ he asked.

‘Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid so soon after coming out, would he?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood said.