Behind his sunglasses, Amis Smallbone, on his morning constitutional, looked around with hatred. He hated everything. The pleasant warmth of this late June morning. Cyclists who pinged their
bells at him as he strayed onto the cycle lane. Stupid grockles with their fat, raw skin burning in the sun, stuffing their faces with rubbish. Young lovers, hand in hand, with their lives ahead of
them.
Unlike him.
He had hated prison. Hated the other inmates even more than the officers. He might have been a player in this city once, but all that had fallen apart when he’d been sent down. He
hadn’t even been able to get any traction on the lucrative drugs market in the jails he had been held in.
And now he was out, on licence, he was hating his freedom, too.
Once, he’d had it all – the big house, expensive cars, a powerboat, and a villa in Marbella on Spain’s Costa del Sol. Now he had fuck all. Just a few thousand pounds, a couple
of watches and some stolen antique jewellery in the one safety deposit box the police hadn’t managed to find.
And one man to thank for his plight.
Detective Superintendent Roy Grace.
He crossed the busy four lanes of King’s Road without waiting for the lights to change. Cars braked all around him, their drivers hooting, swearing and shaking their fists at him, but he
didn’t give a toss. His family used to be big players in this city’s underworld. A couple of decades ago, no one would have dared, ever, hoot at a Smallbone. He ignored them all,
contemptuously, now.
A little way along the pavement he entered the newsagent’s, and was taken aback to see the bastard cop’s rugged, serious face staring out of a copy of the
Argus
at him.
Close-cropped fair hair, blue eyes, busted nose, beneath the front-page splash.
TRIAL OF BRIGHTON MONSTER RESUMES
He bought the paper and a packet of cigarettes, as he did every day, and filled out a lottery ticket, without much hope.
*
A short while later, back in his basement flat, Amis Smallbone sat in the ripped leather armchair with its busted spring, a glass of Chivas Regal on the table beside him, a
smouldering cigarette in his mouth, reading with interest about the case. Venner was on trial for murder, kidnap and trading in illegal videos. Last year, one of Detective Superintendent
Grace’s officers had been shot and wounded during the attempt to arrest Venner. Too bad it hadn’t been Grace himself. Shot dead.
How nice would that be?
But not as nice as something he had in mind. To have Detective Superintendent Grace dead was too good for him. He wanted the cop to really suffer. To be in pain for the rest of his life. Oh yes.
Much better. Pain that would never ever go away!
Smallbone dragged on his cigarette, then crushed it out in the ashtray and drained his glass. He had gone to prison still a relatively young man of fifty. Now he’d come out an old man at
sixty-two. Detective Superintendent Grace had taken everything he had. Most of all he had taken those crucial twelve years of his life.
Of course, Grace hadn’t been a Detective Superintendent back then; just a jumped-up, newly promoted Inspector who had picked on him, targeted him, fitted him up, twisted the evidence, been
oh so clever, so fucking smug. It was Grace’s persecution that had condemned him, now, to this cruddy rented flat, with its shoddy furniture, no-smoking signs on the walls in each room, and
having to report and bloody kowtow to a Probation Officer regularly.
He put the paper down, stood up a little unsteadily, and carried his glass over to the dank-smelling kitchenette, popping some ice cubes out of the fridge-freezer into his glass. It was just
gone midday, and he was thinking hard. Thinking how much pleasure he was going to get from hurting Roy Grace. It was the one thing that sustained him right now. The rest of the nation had Olympic
fever – the games were starting in a month’s time. But he didn’t give a toss about them; getting even with Roy Grace was all he cared about.
All he could really think about.
He was going to make that happen. His lips curled into a smile. He just had to find the right person. There were names he knew from before he’d gone to prison, and a few more contacts
he’d made inside. But whoever it was wouldn’t come cheap, and that was a big problem right now.
Then his phone rang. The display showed the number was withheld.
‘Yes?’ he answered, suspiciously.
‘Amis Smallbone?’ It was not a voice he recognized. A rough, Brighton accent.
‘Who are you?’ he replied, coldly.
‘We met a long time back, but you won’t remember me. I need some help. You have connections in the antiques world, right? Overseas? For high-value stuff?’
‘What if I do?’
‘I’m told you need money.’
‘Didn’t anyone tell you that you shouldn’t be calling me on a fucking mobile phone?’
‘Yeah, I know that.’
‘Then why the fuck are you calling me on mine?’
‘I’m talking a lot of money. Several million quid.’
Suddenly, Amis Smallbone was very interested indeed. ‘Tell me more.’
The line went dead.
They were right, thought Roy Grace, all those people who had told him that having a baby would totally change his life. He yawned, leadenly tired from endless disturbed nights
with Cleo getting up every time Noah had woken needing a feed or his nappy changing. One of his colleagues, Nick Nicholl, a recent first-time father, had told him he’d taken to sleeping in a
separate room so he wouldn’t be disturbed by the baby. But Roy was determined never to do that. The baby was a joint commitment and he had to play his part. But, shit, he felt tired; and
grungy; it was a sticky August day and, although all of the windows were open, the air was listless, warm and humid.
The television was on, playing the recording of the Olympics closing ceremony from less than a couple of weeks ago. He and Cleo had both fallen asleep watching it live on the night. He could not
remember ever feeling so tired in his life, and it was affecting his concentration at work. He was definitely suffering from
baby brain.
Ray Davies, from one of his favourite bands, The Kinks, was singing ‘Waterloo Sunset’, and he turned up the sound slightly to listen. But Cleo did not look up from her book.
Grace had recently crossed the Rubicon to his fortieth birthday. For the past couple of years he had increasingly been dreading that milestone. But when it had finally arrived, both he and Cleo
had been too tired to think about a proper celebration. They’d opened a bottle of champagne and fallen asleep before they’d even drunk half of it.
Now they had another celebration due. After a long time, the formalities for his divorce from his wife, Sandy, on the grounds of her being presumed legally dead, had this week been completed,
and he was finally free to marry Cleo.
Sandy had been missing since the day of his thirtieth birthday, ten years ago, and he still had no clue as to what had happened to her, or whether she was alive, as he still liked to believe, or
long dead, as his friends and family all told him, which probably was the truth. Either way, for the first time he was feeling a sense of release, of truly being able to move on. And a further big
part of that was that finally a buyer had been found for the home he and Sandy had shared.
He stared down lovingly – and hopelessly proudly – at his seven-week-old son. At the tiny, cherubic creature, with rosebud lips and chubby pink arms and fingers like a toyshop doll.
Noah Jack Grace, in a sleeveless white romper suit, eyes shut, lay on his lap, cradled in his arms. Thin strands of fair hair lay, brushed forward, with his scalp visible beneath. He could see
elements of both Cleo and himself in his face, and there was one slightly bemused frown Noah sometimes gave, which reminded Grace of his late father – a police officer, like himself. He would
do anything for Noah. He would die for him, without a shadow of hesitation.
Cleo sat beside him on the sofa, in a sleeveless black top, her blonde hair cut shorter than usual and clipped back, engrossed in
Fifty Shades of Grey
. The house was filled with a milky
smell of baby powder and fresh laundry. Several soft toys lay on the play mat on the floor, including a teddy bear and a cuddly Thomas The Tank Engine. Above them dangled a mobile with brightly
coloured animals and birds.
Humphrey, their young black Labrador-Border collie cross, gnawed a bone, sulkily, in his basket on the far side of the room. He had taken a couple of disdainful looks at Noah when he had first
come home, then wandered off, tail between his legs, as if aware he was no longer number one in his owner’s eyes, and his attitude had remained the same ever since.
Roy Grace clicked his fingers, beckoning the dog. ‘Hey, Humphrey, get over it! Make friends with Noah!’
Humphrey gave his master the evil eye.
It was midday on Tuesday, and Roy Grace had sneaked home for a few hours, because he had a long meeting ahead of him this evening. It was with the prosecution counsel on the trial, at the Old
Bailey, of a particularly repugnant villain, Carl Venner, the mastermind behind a snuff movie ring, whom Grace had arrested last year. The trial had been adjourned recently for several weeks
because the defendant had claimed to be suffering chest pains. But doctors had now cleared the man to continue with his trial, which had restarted yesterday.
At this moment Roy Grace honestly believed he had never felt happier in his life. But at the same time he felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility. This tiny, frail creature he and Cleo had
brought into this world. What kind of future lay ahead for Noah? What would the world be like in twenty or so years, when he became an adult? What would the world be like during the next twenty
years – at the end of which Grace would be sixty years old? What could he do to change it? To make it a safer place for Noah? To protect his child from the evil out there, of which Venner,
sadly, was just one of life’s sewer rats?
What could he do to help his son cope with all the shit that life, inevitably, threw at you?
God, he loved him so much. He wanted to be the best father in the world, and he knew that meant committing a lot of time. Time he wanted to spend, yet, in his chosen career, he was painfully
aware it was time he would not always have.
Since Noah had been born, Grace had spent much less time with his son than he’d hoped, because of the demands of work. If he got lucky, and there were no major crimes committed, he might
have this weekend relatively free. He was the duty Senior Investigating Officer and his week was due to end at 6 a.m. on Monday. Normally, all SIOs hoped for a high-quality murder – one which
would hit the national press, enabling them to shine, to get on the Chief Constable’s radar. But right now, Roy Grace hoped for a silent telephone.
That wasn’t going to happen.
The old lady heard the knock on the door for the third time. ‘I’m coming!’ she called out. ‘Bejazus, I’m coming!’ She lifted the saucepan of
boiling water and green beans off the hob, grabbed her wheeled Zimmer frame, and began making her way across the kitchen.
Then the phone started ringing. She hesitated. Her brother rang every day at 7 p.m. on the dot, whether he was in England or France, to check she was okay. It was 7 p.m. She grabbed the phone,
with its extra-large numbers for her failing vision, and shouted, over the
Emmerdale
theme tune blaring from the television, ‘Hold on a minute, will you!’
But it wasn’t her brother’s voice. It was a younger man with a silky purr. ‘I only need a moment of your time.’
‘There’s someone at the door!’ she shouted back, fumbling with the TV remote to turn the sound down. Then she clamped her arthritic hand over the mouthpiece. Despite her years,
she still had a strong voice. About the only thing left of her that was still strong, she rued. ‘You’ll have to wait. I’m on the phone,’ she hollered at the front door. Then
she lifted her hand. ‘I’m back with you, but you’ll have to be quick,’ she said with her Irish lilt.
‘A good friend of yours told me to call you,’ the man said.
‘And who would that be?’
‘Gerard Scott.’
‘Gerard Scott?’
‘He said to say hello!’
‘I don’t know any Gerard Scott, for sure.’
‘We’re saving him two thousand five hundred pounds a year off his heating bill.’
‘And how would you be doing that?’ she asked, a tad impatiently as she stared at the door, worrying about her beans staying too long in the hot water.
‘We have a representative working in your area next week. Perhaps I could make an appointment at a time convenient for you?’
‘A representative for what, exactly?’
‘Loft insulation.’
‘Loft insulation? Why would I be needing loft insulation?’
‘We are England’s leading specialists. The insulation we put in is so effective it will have fully paid for itself in just nine years from savings on your fuel bills.’
‘Nine years, you say?’
‘That’s right, madam.’
‘Well now, I’m ninety-eight years old. That would be a high-class problem, I’d say, for me to think I’m going to be worrying about my heating bills when I’m a
hundred and seven. But thank you kindly.’
She hung up, then carried on towards the front door. ‘I’m coming! I’m on my way!’
Her brother had been trying to convince her for a long time to sell the house and move into sheltered accommodation, but why the hell should she? This had been her home for over fifty years.
Here she had lived happily with her husband, Gordon, who had passed away fifteen years ago, had raised her four children, who had all predeceased her, and had created the once beautiful garden,
which she still continued to work in. All her memories were in this house, as well as all the fine paintings and antiques she and her husband had collected during their lives – guided by her
brother’s discerning eye. She’d been uprooted once in her life, and it was not going to happen again. She was adamant that when she left this place she loved so much, it would be feet
first.