‘One with a sunken bathtub? I think the one with the four-poster bed’s already been taken.’
‘Haha. I’m sharing with a moron who stinks, and snores like a hog. But like, he really stinks, know what I mean? He’s disgusting.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises – I don’t have the authority to. But if you are helpful to us, I’ll speak to the Governor. So, what
takes your fancy for lunch?’
‘Any chance of a Big Mac?’
‘With fries and a Coke?’
‘Don’t get my hopes up.’
‘Happy to get you all of those, Gareth, if you’re helpful to us.’
They headed along the A27, then up the hill and turned off onto Dyke Road Avenue, a wide road running along the spine of Brighton and Hove, lined on both sides with some of the city’s most
expensive houses, although some had long been converted into nursing homes. A short distance along they pulled over, outside wrought-iron gates; a large red-brick house sat well back, with a
Bentley and a Ferrari in the drive.
‘Recognize this place?’ Grace asked.
Dupont shook his head.
‘It was burgled three years ago. A large haul of paintings and Georgian silver. No one’s ever been apprehended. One of yours?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure? It’ll be better for you to admit other offences before your trial; the judge will be more lenient that way. Otherwise you could find more time being added to your
sentence.’
‘I don’t think anyone can add much time to a life sentence. No, I never burgled this place. And, look, I didn’t play any part in hurting the old lady. You have to believe
me.’
‘Why do I have to believe you?’
‘Because – oh shit.’ He sighed. ‘Those arseholes didn’t need to torture her. I already had the safe code, and I knew about the dummy door at the back of
it.’
‘You knew about the Patek Philippe watch that was in it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? Who from?’
‘I can’t tell you; he’d kill me.’
‘
He?
Are you sure it wasn’t
she
?’
‘It was
he
,’ he said, adamantly. His eyes told Grace he was telling the truth.
Grace nodded at DS Batchelor to drive on, then turned back to Dupont. ‘So it’s entirely coincidence you were – are – having an affair with Lucas Daly’s wife, and
then you were involved with burgling her husband’s aunt’s house?’
Dupont shrugged. ‘I might have picked her brains on a few things.’
‘Did you specifically target her, or was meeting her just a lucky coincidence?’
‘Know one of the things I believe in?’ the prisoner responded. ‘Serendipity. Sometimes in life you get lucky.’
Batchelor turned right, down tree-lined Tongdean Road, which was even more exclusive than Dyke Road Avenue. Some of the houses were concealed behind walls and shrubbery. They passed one with
white columns the proportions of an ancient Greek temple, then turned left into Tongdean Avenue, considered by many to be the city’s most exclusive street. Batchelor steered around three
learner drivers in a row practising reversing, then pulled over to the right and halted in front of another gated mansion that, like all the homes on this side of the road, had magnificent views
south across Hove to the English Channel.
‘How about this place?’ Grace quizzed. ‘Four years ago the owners were attacked by two masked men, at midnight, as they waited for the gates to open. They were tied up and
threatened with a cigarette lighter until they gave the safe code and their bank pin codes.’
Dupont shook his head. ‘No, not me, sorry.’
‘Think harder,’ Grace said. ‘Oh, by the way, I do have one more bit of bad news for you.’
‘Yeah?’
‘My officers have found the Luton van that you rented from a company in Ipswich. I imagine you thought renting from far away would give you a better chance, right?’
Dupont said nothing.
‘SOCO found fingerprints of you and your mates Macario and Barnes in there. You’re not coming out for fifteen to twenty years. So, just a friendly word of warning, don’t piss
us about. Shall we make a deal?’
‘What deal?’
‘We’re ten minutes, max, from the nearest McDonald’s. Where is the stuff you stole from Aileen McWhirter, and who hired you? Wasn’t by any chance someone called Eamonn
Pollock?’
‘I thought our deal was I didn’t talk about the case without my brief. I thought you were taking me around burglary sites.’
‘You don’t have to talk about it, and we don’t have to get you a Big Mac. We can drive you straight back to prison, if you’d prefer?’
‘I’m vulnerable in prison,’ he said. ‘I know that. I’d like a burger, but I’m not grassing anyone up. So if that’s your plan, you might as well drive me
straight back.’
Grace’s phone rang. He raised a finger at him, then answered. It was Norman Potting.
‘All good on the Costa del Sol?’ he enquired.
‘
Costa del Crime
, chief,’ he chuckled. ‘I have a couple of things to report. Firstly, the post-mortems on Ken Barnes and Anthony Macario. Both men died from drowning,
with excessive alcohol consumption a probable cause – their overturned dinghy supports this. However, the Coroner here’s unhappy about the men’s physical injuries – it looks
like they might have been in a fairly brutal fight prior to drowning. But there were no disturbances reported that night to the police and, significantly, none of the people on any of the
neighbouring yachts, or in the apartments overlooking the harbour, heard or saw anything. The Guardia Civil have been brought in to investigate more thoroughly and that’s where it stands, for
the moment.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Norman. What is the second thing?’
‘The local police had all the outgoing passenger lists for the past week from Malaga Airport checked and Eamonn Pollock’s name popped up.’
‘Flying where?’
‘Last Thursday, August the 30th, domestic from Malaga to Madrid. He must have stayed overnight in Madrid, then on August the 31st he boarded an international flight to New York.’
Grace was conscious of Dupont behind him listening to every word. He stepped out of the car, closed the door and walked a few paces along the street. A blustery wind was blowing.
‘Brilliant work, Norman. We need to find out where he’s staying in New York. I remember when I went over last year you have to give that information to the airline before you
board.’
‘I have it, chief,’ Potting replied, sounding smugger than ever. ‘The Ritz Carlton, five-zero Central Park South.’
‘Top man!’
Grace ended the call, his brain spinning. His tip-off from Donny Loncrane in Lewes Prison had been Eamonn Pollock. Just over a week after the robbery, Eamonn Pollock flew to New York. A week
after that, Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds reports a Patek Philippe, matching the description of the one stolen, being hawked around New York dealers. Then his phone rang again.
It was DC Exton in MIR-1. ‘Boss, I’ve got a result for you on Gavin Daly. You asked us to find out what flight he was booked on today – it’s a British Airways, to New
York, JFK, leaving at 1.50 p.m.’
Grace looked at his watch. One hour and twenty minutes. ‘Good work, Jon,’ he said.
Grace climbed back into the car and turned to Gareth Dupont. ‘What was it you said earlier? About serendipity? Sometimes in life you get lucky?’
Dupont nodded.
‘Yep, well, you’re right. Sometimes in life you get lucky.’
‘Does that mean I get my burger?’
‘Sorry about that; change of plans. We’ll get one on the way back, but I’m going to have to return you to prison right away. I’m afraid it’s not your lucky day,
Gareth; it’s mine.’
Shortly after 1 p.m. Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor pulled up outside Lucas Daly and Sarah Courteney’s house in Shirley Drive. He told Batchelor to wait in the car, then
walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
She answered, moments later, casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and blushed when she saw him. ‘Detective Superintendent, good afternoon.’ She smiled pleasantly.
‘I’ve just been to the shop and I’m told that Lucas is away for the weekend. Playing golf again, is he?’
She looked edgy, but her eyes were steady, telling the truth. ‘No. He – ’ She hesitated. ‘Actually he’s had to go away on business.’
‘New York, by any chance?’
She again looked hesitant. ‘Yes.’
‘I need to speak to him rather urgently. Do you know where he’s staying?’
Her eyes were still telling the truth. ‘I don’t, no. He said he would call me when he was there. It was all a bit sudden, actually. Would you like to come in?’
He entered and she closed the front door behind him. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, coffee?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
She was a really beautiful woman. What the hell had she been doing sleeping with a total scumbag like Gareth Dupont? Maybe anything was a relief from her bully of a husband. ‘Does he go to
New York regularly?’
‘No. Well – ’ Suddenly she looked awkward, and her eyes were all over the place. ‘His father – my father-in-law – has contacts all over the world.
Occasionally there are important auctions that he goes to abroad, either to buy or sell pieces. Or pieces he goes to view to possibly buy.’
‘Is that what he’s doing in New York?’
‘As I understand. He doesn’t tell me much about his business. We lead pretty separate lives.’ She gave him a knowing look. ‘As I think you might have noticed.’
This time it was Grace’s turn to blush. ‘I’m not here in judgement of your private life.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Every time Roy Grace entered the grand Queen Anne building, which housed the senior brass at the Sussex Police headquarters complex in Lewes, the county town of East Sussex, he
felt himself regressing to childhood. He was once again a small, nervous boy in the headmaster’s study.
ACC Peter Rigg, his boss, was a dapper man, with a healthy complexion, fair hair neatly and conservatively cut, and a posh, occasionally caustic, voice. Although several inches shorter than
Grace, Rigg had fine posture, with a military bearing which made him seem taller than his actual height. He was dressed in a well-cut dark suit with a striped shirt and what looked to Grace like a
club or old-school tie. His office was decorated with framed motor-racing pictures, a passion which Grace shared, and which had given them something in common to talk about in more relaxed
circumstances. On his desk sat a photograph of his attractive, blonde wife, Nikki, whom Grace had met recently at a function, and two children, a boy and a girl.
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, sir,’ Grace said.
‘I’m hoping you have more good news,’ the ACC said, waspishly. ‘Well done on potting Dupont. So, tell me.’
‘Well, sir, in the past few hours there have been a number of developments, all of which point to New York. I need to take a team over there urgently, because I don’t think I can
influence things effectively from here.’
Grace explained the developments of the day so far.
To his surprise, instead of a lecture on police budget cuts, Peter Rigg said, ‘Have you thought about how many of your team you need to take with you?’
‘I’d like to take a minimum of two, sir: ideally a skipper and a DC. I have a good contact in the NYPD, who is already briefed, but I don’t know what to expect there, and I
don’t want to be dependent on anyone else.’
‘Your man Branson seems very adaptable.’
‘He has major problems because his wife has just died. But yes, he’s a good man. I’d like to take DC Exton – he’s an exceptionally intelligent officer,
sir.’
‘When do you want to go?’
‘The first possible flight. There’s availability tomorrow.’
‘I’ll speak to the Chief,’ he said. ‘But in principle, I’m with you on this, Roy. Just come back with a result, and I think in the current climate of cuts, best not
to let the press know.’
‘I don’t want the press to know in any event, sir. I need the element of surprise over there.’
‘Two other things. I know you’ve had previous experience in the USA, but don’t take any independent action without the full knowledge of the New York Police – which I
know you won’t. And also, I’m up for a Deputy Chief Constable appointment, so don’t do anything to embarrass me, okay?’
Grace grinned. ‘Good luck with that, sir. And don’t worry, my role in New York will be purely liaison.’
‘Good luck to you too, Roy.’
Grace had a heavy heart as he walked back to his car. He really did not want to go; he wanted to be at home to help and support Cleo, and he wanted to be with his son. Every time he left the
house he missed Noah. The thought of spending several days away from him made him unhappy. But he really could not see any option.
His next-door neighbours were arguing! And the baby was crying.
He loved it!
But what Amis Smallbone loved most of all was the news Detective Superintendent Roy Grace had brought home to his beloved Cleo.
‘
Roy, do you really have to go?
’
‘
I do. I’m the one who has the relationship with the NYPD and we really need their help on this.
’
‘
I really need your help here. Surely with your whole merged Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Branch you have someone else who could take your place?
’
Sitting in the big armchair on the top floor of his new house, smoking a cigarette and drinking whisky, Smallbone heard the words through his Bose headset. Detective Superintendent Roy Grace was
flying to America tomorrow, at 11.30 a.m. Leaving his beloved Cleo Morey behind. And their son, Noah.
Uh oh.
Not smart. Not smart at all. So many options dancing around in his brain. Disfigure Cleo Morey with acid. Kill the horrid little baby, Noah, who was crying now. Kill Cleo. Kill the baby. Break
the little bastard’s spine and paralyze it for life.
Then watch Roy Grace wheeling around his little cripple.
So many options. He was spoiled for choice, really he was. He listened intently over the sound of the little bastard baby screaming.