Glenn Branson raised his hand. ‘Mr Stuart-Simmonds, you said at a previous meeting it was likely a number of the items taken would have been presold to private collectors. Might that be
the case with this watch – in which case it wouldn’t show up on your radar?’
‘Well, the thing is,’ the antiques expert replied, ‘the perpetrators would have had to have prior detailed knowledge of any of the items, if they were stealing them to order. I
think it is very significant for Operation Flounder that almost everything that has been taken was detailed on the insurance inventory, while the other pieces missing, some of which appear to have
been fenced locally, do not. The watch was not on the insurance, so in my view, it’s unlikely it was known about in advance.’
‘So do you think it’s possible the mastermind behind this still doesn’t know about it?’ Guy Batchelor asked.
‘Yes, very possible. It could be, of course, that whoever took it is not aware of its value.’
Grace said nothing. He was thinking about the concealed safe, and back to yesterday, to his brief interview with Sarah Courteney in her car. She’d acted a little strangely when he’d
asked her the price of her own wristwatch – but maybe that was out of embarrassment at the extravagance of it. Yet she had said that she and Aileen McWhirter were very friendly, and that she
used to pop in often. Had the old lady shown her the Patek Philippe? If so, did Sarah Courteney mention it inadvertently to Dupont? Pillow talk? What was that old saying? He remembered seeing it on
a warning poster from the Second World War:
Loose lips sink ships.
Sarah Courteney had big lips, very beautiful ones, so full they almost looked unreal. Were they loose?
Roy Grace had never harboured any ambition to be a rich man. He’d been to grand houses on a number of occasions, visiting them either for charity functions or as crime
scenes; Sandy had been a member of the National Trust, and at weekends they would sometimes visit one of its stately homes. But while he enjoyed the beauty of their landscaped gardens, their
architecture and art treasures, what he always found far more intriguing, with his policeman’s mind, was where the money had come from to buy everything in the first place. You did not have
to go back too many generations with most aristocratic families to find robber barons, he knew.
That thought was going through his mind now, as the wrought-iron gates of Gavin Daly’s mansion swung open. He drove along an avenue lined with beech trees for half a mile, and then saw the
front of the house looming. It was a truly grand residence by anyone’s definition, with a portico of four columns atop the steps, rising almost the entire height of the building, and although
Grace did not know much about architecture, the aged stone and fine, classical proportions of the façade gave him the sense that this was the real thing and not some modern pastiche.
Either way, he could not imagine how many millions it would be worth. Tens, probably; yet all his investigations into Gavin Daly’s background had yielded nothing criminal. A wily character
who sailed close to the wind, but not a crook. Grace felt sorry for him. A lonely man at the end of his life, his sister brutally killed. Did all this wealth give him any comfort or joy?
Parked near the entrance, close to an elaborate fountain adorned with stone figurines, was an elderly navy blue Mercedes limousine with an even more elderly uniformed chauffeur.
Grace rang the front doorbell, aware of the CCTV cameras scrutinizing him, wondering if he would be let in after their previous altercation. A good couple of minutes later the uniformed
housekeeper opened it, and greeted him in her pleasant rural Sussex burr. ‘Good morning, sir. I’ll take you through to Mr Daly.’
He noticed a large suitcase standing by the front door, then followed her as she walked slowly and stiffly across the hallway, and knocked on the door to Gavin Daly’s study.
Grace went in, breathing in the dry reek of old cigar smoke, which seemed ingrained in the oak panelling and the furniture. He’d always liked the smell, because it reminded him of his
father, who enjoyed the occasional cigar. Daly, dressed in a crisply pressed sports jacket, checked shirt, cavalry twill trousers and suede brogues, stood up. ‘How can I help you, Detective
Superintendent?’ he said, looking distinctly uneasy. He strode across the room with his stick, shook Grace’s hand with his own bony grip, then ushered him to a sofa, and perched on the
one opposite.
‘I hope you don’t mind me popping in to see you, sir?’
‘No. I apologize if I was a bit short with you previously. This is all very stressful, as I’m sure you can understand.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
Grace noticed him glance anxiously at his watch.
‘You have a plane to catch, sir?’ he asked him.
‘Yes – I do – I’m off to France; to Nice. I thought I’d get away to my villa there for the weekend. I need a break from all of this.’ He gave him a smile that
was more affable than at their last meeting.
‘I can understand. A nice luxury to have. Although if I lived in a house as beautiful as this, I’m not sure I’d ever want to leave it.’
Daly sat stiffly and just smiled. ‘Do you have some news for me, Detective Superintendent?’
‘We’ve recovered an Art Deco mirror that we think belonged to your sister – I’d like you to identify it at some point, if that is possible?’
Daly nodded with enthusiasm.
‘But that’s not my reason for coming. Actually it’s a rather delicate situation, sir.’ Grace glanced down at the fine inlaid table between them. It was 9.30 a.m. and he
craved a coffee, but that did not seem to be about to happen.
Daly looked at him inquisitively.
‘We know how well protected your watch was, in the safe with the dummy door. And we’ve been fairly sure all along that there must have been inside information.’
‘From the knocker-boy?’
Grace shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have thought your sister would have shown him the safe, would she?’
‘Never,’ he said fiercely, and glanced at his watch again. ‘It was when they tortured her; that’s when she must have told them.’
‘That is of course one distinct possibility, sir. But I’d like to ask you something. How friendly was your late sister with Sarah Courteney?’
‘Extremely. Aileen was very fond of her. She never got on with my son Lucas, but she liked Sarah a lot. Sarah called in on her often, keeping Aileen company.’
‘Would you think it possible your sister might have shown Sarah Courteney your watch at some time?’
His face darkened. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That Sarah had something to do with this?’
Grace, faced with a difficult decision, looked back down at the coffee table, studying it intently for a moment, as if he might find the answer to what he should do carved there in the wood.
‘There’s no delicate way of saying this, but it would seem your daughter-in-law was having an affair,’ he said, looking Daly in the eye.
Daly shrugged. ‘Good luck to her. She deserves better than my son, that’s for sure.’
Surprised and relieved by the man’s reaction, Grace went on. ‘The man she’s been having the affair with is Gareth Dupont – who has been charged with your sister’s
murder.’
There was a long silence. Grace saw Daly clenching both his hands so tightly he could almost see the bones through the thin, white skin. ‘This explains a lot,’ he said, finally.
‘Do you think the two of them might have been in cahoots, sir?’
Daly shook his head. ‘Not for one moment, no. Sarah is a decent person. I would imagine this Dupont character would have targeted her, and just gently, gently got the information from her.
Have you talked to her?’
‘Yes, and I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Grace replied.
‘I’d say she was used, exploited. Lucas treated her like dirt. She was a ready target for a piece of vermin like Dupont.’
Grace watched his face closely. ‘What time is your flight to Nice, sir?’
‘One o’clock.’
‘Safe travels, and I’ll keep you updated on any news.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
*
As he left Daly’s house, two things were preying on Roy Grace’s mind. The first was Sarah Courteney’s uncomfortable reaction when he had asked about the cost
of her watch, which he still did not understand. But at the moment, as he pulled into his parking space at the front of Sussex House, there was something more immediate: the suitcase in Gavin
Daly’s hallway. He had watched a documentary on television some months back, about people with second homes in France and Spain. They talked about the cheapness and convenience of hopping on
and off a low-cost flight. The secret, all of them said, was to take no luggage. No wasting time with checked baggage. Just a small carry-on holdall.
That was a substantial suitcase in the hallway of Gavin Daly’s house. Very definitely it would be checked baggage – unless of course he was flying in a private jet. But even so,
surely a seasoned and wealthy traveller like him did not need to lug baggage around?
Unless of course he had lied about his destination.
His phone rang. It was Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds. ‘Roy, I think this will interest you. I’ve just put down the phone from a friend: a dealer in very rare watches, Richard Robbins, in
Chicago’s Jewelers Row. This is a man of impeccable integrity. He’s heard through the grapevine about a Patek Philippe watch, which sounds from the description very much like our
missing one, being hawked around in New York.’
‘Does he have any names? Anyone our team could talk to?’
‘Yes, several. I’m on it now. Just thought you might want to know.’
‘I do indeed, thank you.’
The moment he ended the call, Roy Grace phoned MIR-1 and put in a request for a search of all passenger lists on outbound flights to New York for the rest of the day. The name he gave them to
look for was Gavin Daly.
The
beep-parp . . . beep-parp . . . beep-parp
of the siren grew closer, six floors below them, racing along Munich’s Widenmayerstrasse. It was a hot, late-summer
day and Dr Eberstark’s consulting room window was open several inches to let in some air – and with it the traffic noise.
The psychiatrist frowned at Sandy. ‘Are you intending to tell him you are actually alive?’
‘Roy?’
‘Yes, Roy.’
‘No.’ She felt a refreshing waft of breeze, as the siren peaked right beneath them.
‘So you are a dead person?’
‘
Sandy Grace
is a dead person. That doesn’t make me a dead person.’
Dr Eberstark was a small man, in his mid-fifties, who had the knack, she always thought, of making himself seem even smaller still. It was partly the suits he wore, which all appeared one size
too big, as if he was waiting to grow into them, partly the way he sat in his chair opposite the couch, hunched up, and partly the large black-rimmed glasses which dwarfed his hawk-like face.
‘Legally you are.’
‘Legally I am Frau Lohmann.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘You told me that you got your German citizenship by paying someone. Was that lawful?’
She shrugged, then said, dismissively, ‘No one died in the process.’
The psychiatrist stared at her for some moments. ‘No one died, but someone must have been hurt, right?’
She lapsed into one of her long silences. Then she answered, ‘Who?’
‘Your husband, Roy. Did you never think about what your disappearance might have done to him?’
‘Yes, of course, a lot. Constantly, at first. But . . .’ She fell silent again.
After some minutes he prompted her. ‘But what?’
‘It was the best of a bad set of options. In my view.’
‘And that still is your view, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve made a mess of my life. I guess that’s why I’m here. People don’t come to a shrink because they’re happy, do they? Do you have any patients who are
happy?’
‘Let’s just focus on you.’
She smiled. ‘I’m a train wreck, aren’t I?’
He had tiny, piercing eyes that usually were steely cold and unemotional. But just occasionally they twinkled with humour. They were twinkling now. ‘I would not say that, not just yet. But
you are heading towards becoming one, in my opinion, if you go ahead and buy that house.’
She fell silent again for the remaining minutes of the session.
‘So what’s this about?’ Gareth Dupont asked, sullenly chewing gum in the back of the unmarked Ford. He had shaved, and was dressed in clean jeans and a
freshly laundered blue shirt beneath a suede bomber jacket. Prisoners on remand were permitted to wear their own clothes until convicted.
‘I thought you might appreciate a few hours out of prison,’ Roy Grace, in the front passenger seat, said. It was midday, and they had to return Dupont by 5 p.m. Guy Batchelor
reversed the car out of the custody block bay. The police always had to be discreet when taking prisoners out on a Production Order, to avoid other prisoners finding out. The slightest whiff that
one might be a grass, and life inside could be extremely unpleasant and dangerous.
The reason given in this instance was that Gareth Dupont was going to show the police addresses of other domestic burglaries he had done in and around Sussex, in the hope of leniency on that
part of his sentence. Even so, rather than collecting him from the prison, he had first been transferred to the custody block behind Sussex House.
‘I’d prefer not to be in there in the first place.’
‘Your choice,’ Grace said. ‘Right?’
Batchelor drove down to the electric gate and waited while it slid open.
‘I didn’t hurt the old lady. I didn’t have any part in that.’
‘So what part did you have, Gareth?’
He held up his handcuffed arms in front of him. ‘Any chance you could remove these? I’m not going to try to escape.’
‘That’s very big of you,’ Grace said. ‘Let’s see how co-operative you are, and we might do even better than that – perhaps get you a decent meal?’ He
raised his eyebrows.
Dupont visibly perked up at that. ‘What about prison – can you get me a better cell?’