Daly felt a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. ‘Are you sure that’s the 2.15 at Brighton?’
‘Yeah. The Reeves Flooring Cup.’
He dragged on his cigarette, his hands shaking. ‘What about Fast Fella?’
‘Fast Fella? Hang on, I’ll check.’
As he waited, Daly dragged deeply on the cigarette again. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Fuck.’
‘Something not good, boss?’ the Apologist said.
Moments later Daly heard the male voice of the bookie. ‘It was left at the post.’
‘What do you mean, it was
left at the post
?’
‘Fast Fella planted its feet. Refused to come out of the starting gate.’
‘So it was withdrawn from the race? It didn’t run. Do I get my bet returned?’
‘Afraid not; it was under starter’s order. All bets on that horse are lost.’
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Daly said, ending the call.
The Apologist looked at him. ‘Bad?’
Daly nodded and shook another cigarette out of the pack. ‘Bad.’
‘Sorry.’
Shortly after 2.30 p.m. Roy Grace pulled up outside his favourite bookshop, City Books, an independent store on Western Road. He loved the way it truly smelled of books, and
despite the small exterior, it opened up inside to a maze of crammed shelves. Whenever he had time, which was not often these days, he loved to go in and just get lost among its shelves.
‘Do you have anything on the early gang history of New York?’ he asked a young, brown-haired woman behind the counter, who had a studious air. Behind her stood a serious-looking man,
with short grey hair, pecking at a computer keyboard. He looked up in recognition and smiled broadly.
‘Detective Superintendent Grace, nice to see you! Early gang history? How far back do you want to go? The start was really the Irish Dead Rabbits Gang in the 1850s, or their later White
Hand Gang, or Al Capone’s Italian Black Hand Gang.’
‘I need to cover everything,’ he replied.
Ten minutes later, with five books lying in the shop’s carrier bag on the rear seat, Roy Grace drove slowly up Shirley Drive, passing Hove Recreation Ground on their left, while beside him
Guy Batchelor looked at the numbers on the detached houses on the north side.
A quarter of a mile on he said, ‘Here, boss!’
They pulled up outside a smart detached house. A silver Mercedes SLK sports car occupied one of the two spaces on the driveway, in front of the integral garage; the other one was empty. They
climbed out and walked to the front door, entering the porch, and Grace rang the bell.
They could hear an aggressive beat of music coming from somewhere inside the house.
‘
The Number of the Beast
,’ Guy Batchelor said.
‘Iron Maiden?’ Grace asked.
He nodded.
‘Didn’t know you were into music, Guy?’
‘Yeah, well, when you have a teenage daughter . . .’
Grace grinned, and at that moment the heavy oak front door was opened by a barefoot woman in a cream silk dressing gown. She looked smaller in real life, and without make-up her face looked a
little bleached out; her long, dark hair was pushed up inside a towel, wrapped around like a turban. For a moment he hesitated in recognizing her as the strikingly attractive local TV news anchor
he had so often seen. She also looked a little nervy, a little frightened. Not at all the confident, assured woman on his television screen.
‘Hello?’ she said suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sarah Courteney?’
‘Yes.’
Grace held up his warrant card, and Batchelor did likewise. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace and this is Detective Sergeant Batchelor of Sussex and Surrey CID, Major Crime
Branch,’ he said. ‘Would it be possible to have a quick word?’
She glanced down at her watch. ‘This is to do with my husband’s aunt, presumably?’
‘Yes,’ Grace replied.
‘So dreadful. I still can’t quite believe it. Okay, come in. I can only give you a few minutes – the car’s on its way to take me to the studio. But I’d rather you
came in than stood out here – I’ve been besieged by the press over this.’
‘Of course. I’m a big fan of yours by the way!’ Grace said, then blushed, aware just how cheesy that had sounded.
She gave him a genuinely warm smile. ‘Thank you so much!’
They entered a hallway which smelled of fragrant pot-pourri. It was decorated with an exquisite antique table, two high-back chairs and a long-case clock. Photographs of the newscaster lined the
walls. One was of her with Fatboy Slim, another, together with the man Grace presumed to be her husband, with sports commentator Des Lynam. Another was her with Dame Vera Lynn, and another with
David Cameron. The music, coming from upstairs, was much louder in here. ‘Apologies for the din,’ she said with a grin. ‘My son, home from uni for the summer. That’s all he
does all day long.’ She led them through into the drawing room. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’
‘No, we’re fine, thank you. We’ll be very quick.’ Grace’s eyes roamed the large, elegant but comfortable room; it was furnished almost entirely in antiques, with a
view out onto a well-kept lawn and a swimming pool. Two large, brown leather chesterfields faced each other in front of a marble fireplace, separated by an ornate wooden chest which served as a
coffee table. A huge television screen peeped out of what looked like an adapted mahogany tallboy. A trophy cabinet sat in one corner, and the mantel above the fireplace was stacked with
invitations. The room had a masculine feel, with just a few feminine touches.
The sign of a dominant husband
, Grace thought. Her dressing gown gaped open momentarily, before she clamped it
shut defensively, and in that moment he noticed some bruises high up on her chest. Had her husband done that? A man who might brutally torture someone, who also beat his wife?
‘Have you had any luck on the case?’ she asked.
‘We’re making progress,’ Grace replied. ‘But no arrests yet.’
‘These people are monsters – I hope you get them.’
‘We’re very hopeful,’ he said.
‘I can’t believe what they did to her.’
‘Were you and your husband close to Mrs McWhirter?’ Batchelor asked.
She was quiet for a moment then she said, ‘I’m afraid no, not really. She and I always got on really well – we actually became quite close – but she had issues with
Lucas.’
‘What kind of issues?’
‘Well, the thing is that Lucas and his father don’t get along.’
‘So I’ve gathered,’ Grace said. ‘What is the problem there?’
‘His father’s a tough act to follow – a highly successful self-made man. I think he put a lot of pressure on Lucas, and my husband’s a strong man – it’s like
fire against fire.’
‘I think there’s often a problem when a relative works in a family business.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose the truth is my husband doesn’t have his father’s business acumen. He’s lost a lot of his father’s money over the years in trying to
diversify the business – you probably know the antiques trade isn’t what it used to be. Lucas set up a large bar and restaurant in Brighton which failed. He’s sunk big sums of
money into other businesses and for one reason or another they didn’t work out. When he came into the business, Gavin Daly Antiques was one of the biggest dealers in the UK – they had
six stores in Brighton and two in London. Now they have just the one.’
Grace nodded. ‘What about the relationship between your husband and Aileen?’
‘I’m afraid the old man rather poisoned his sister against Lucas. He convinced her to cut him out of her will.’
‘Why did he do that?’
She hesitated. ‘I rather feel I’m talking out of turn.’
‘You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.’
‘I think he felt Lucas needed a reality check. That if he inherited a large amount from her, he’d just blow it. Squander it.’
‘Families and money,’ Grace said with a wry smile.
‘Maybe this terrible thing will bring Lucas and his father closer together.’
‘But you and Aileen got on well?’
‘Yes, Aileen and I got on very well. I used to pop in and see her every now and then – and she’d pour me a massive sherry! She was fiercely independent, still going really
strong at ninety-eight. Her brother’s amazing for ninety-five – they have some good genes in that family, for sure. And they’ve been through a lot in their lives.’
‘Oh? Such as?’
‘They were born in New York. Their father was, I guess, what you’d call a gangster. He was high up in the White Hand Gang. One night their mother was shot dead by a bunch of men who
entered the house – they actually went into Gavin’s bedroom first, then they shot the mother dead and took the father away. Gavin and Aileen never saw him again. A few months later an
aunt took them to Ireland, thinking they’d be safer there than in New York. Then in their teens – I suppose that must have been in the early thirties – their aunt met and married
a man from Brighton and they moved over here.’
Grace listened intently, the books he had seen in Aileen McWhirter’s study starting to make sense now, together with the conversation he had had with Gavin in the garden. Then he walked
over to the cabinet, and peered in at the trophies. ‘Are these yours or your husband’s, Mrs Courteney?’
She blushed slightly. ‘All of them are mine – mostly broadcasting, and a couple of tennis trophies and one for Salsa dancing. I go to classes – a good way of keeping fit.
Actually I’m Mrs
Daly
, but Courteney is my professional name.’ She gestured for them to take a seat, then sat on the sofa opposite them, crossing her bare feet, and looked at
them expectantly.
‘We need to have a word with your husband, Lucas,’ Grace said. ‘I understand he’s away at the moment.’
‘For the weekend.’
‘Where’s he gone?’ DS Batchelor asked.
‘Marbella. A boys’ golfing trip.’
‘He’s a regular golfer, is he?’ Grace asked.
She hesitated. ‘He’s a social golfer.’
‘What club is he a member of locally?’
Suddenly, she looked very uncomfortable. ‘Umm, well, you know, he only plays occasionally. Societies, mostly. I’m not actually sure what club he’s a member of here – I
don’t know for sure if he is actually a member of any of them.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean – he plays at different ones.’
‘Very expensive game,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘I nearly gave up membership to my club because I don’t play enough. It would be cheaper just to pay green fees.’
‘Does your husband play regularly in Spain?’ Grace asked.
‘No – not at all.’ She shrugged, looking increasingly uneasy. ‘He – we – used to have a place in Puerto Banus and we still have friends there.’
She showed none of the confidence she exuded on air as a newscaster, as she nervously twisted her wedding band. Grace was almost certain she was lying. Covering up for her husband. Covering what
up?
‘So he doesn’t often make you a golf widow?’ Grace said with a smile.
‘No.’ She smiled, then shot a pointed glance at her watch.
‘We’ll be gone in just a second. When will your husband be back?’
She hesitated. ‘Sunday. Late Sunday.’
Guy Batchelor handed her his card. ‘I wonder if you could ask him to call me when he returns – as soon as convenient.’
‘Of course.’ She laid the card on the coffee table.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re a very good newsreader,’ Grace said.
‘Thank you so much!’
‘Are Fridays one of your regular nights?’ he asked.
‘Well, they rotate, but this past month I’ve been doing the Friday evening regional news, after the 6 p.m. and 10 p.m. national news.’
Sounding as nonchalant as he could, Grace continued, ‘I suppose with these long summer evenings, your husband plays golf while you’re working?’
She blushed, looking very uncomfortable now. ‘Well – not that often.’
‘Out of interest, can you recall if he played last Friday evening?’
She looked at her watch again. ‘Last Friday. No, he went over to see his father – Gavin’s very upset about Aileen. I think he had dinner with his father while I was at
work.’
‘Have you had to read out any of the coverage on this story yourself, on air?’ Guy Batchelor asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘And I’d rather not. Not sure I could cope with that emotionally.’
The two detectives stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, and we’ll have a chat with Mr Daly when he’s back.’
‘I’ll make sure he gets your card.’
*
Back in the car, Grace said, ‘I didn’t see a single golfing trophy in there.’
‘So maybe he’s a crap golfer. Where are we going with this, boss? Sorry if I’m being dumb.’
‘I don’t think he plays golf at all. Golfers always have trophies, even if just a wooden spoon.’
Batchelor pulled over, got out of the car, shook a Silk Cut cigarette out of a pack, and offered the pack to Grace. ‘Want one?’
‘No, not right now, but go ahead.’
‘Have you given up?’
‘I gave up a long time ago, but I still have the occasional one with a drink in the evening.’ He shrugged. ‘I enjoy them, so sod it!’
‘Why’s Daly’s shop manager and his wife saying he’s on a golfing holiday, Roy?’
Grace was silent as the DS leaned against the outside of the car, lit his cigarette, and blew a perfect smoke ring.
‘I’ve always wondered how to do those,’ he said.
The DS grinned and blew two more in rapid succession. For an instant, as they closed together, they looked like handcuffs.
‘I’m impressed!’ Grace said.
‘My party trick.’
‘Then you wave a magic wand and turn them into steel?’
‘Depends whose party I’m at.’ He grinned back. ‘So we’re safe to assume that whatever Lucas Daly’s doing in Marbella, golf isn’t a feature?’
‘Once again we’re on the same page. Or maybe I should say the same
fairway
.’
‘Or
bunker
?’
At 7 p.m. Lucas Daly and the Apologist watched Tony Macario and Ken Barnes lock the gate at the top of the
Contented
’s gangway, and strut ashore.
They were rough-looking men; neither of them was tall, but they both had a wiry meanness about them. Macario, with short dark hair, sported several days’ growth of stubble, and even from
this distance Daly could see a long scar beneath his right eye. Both men wore jeans, and white T-shirts with the yacht’s name stencilled across the front. They headed off along the quay,
Macario in flip-flops, and shaven-headed, tattooed Barnes in trainers.