Dead Man's Time

40

Cleo’s house was less than half a mile north from the car park. But instead of heading home after exiting, Roy Grace made a U-turn, then drove the Alfa west along the seafront. Cleo was not going to be pleased, and he was not happy about that. But he could not help it. Whoever had tortured Aileen McWhirter was out there, and might well be pla

All kinds of emotions tugged at him, and for a moment he found himself envying Hector Webb, who appeared to have little to worry about beyond his garden and maintaining his boat and how to spoil his grandchildren. He thought for a moment about Gle

He kept thinking about Gle

He selected a Marla Glen track, ‘The Cost of Freedom’, on his iPod, plugged into the car’s sound system. Her deep, rich, soulful voice often helped him think clearly. It filled the car now, as he headed along by the winged figure of the Peace Statue, one of his favourite monuments, which sat exactly on the border between Brighton and Hove, then along past the Hove Lawns, street lights flashing by overhead. He turned right at the Queen Victoria monument and up Grand Avenue, a wide, handsome boulevard. This section, close to the sea, was lined with high-rise blocks, many of them populated by wealthy retired people. He crossed the lights at Church Road, and continued; on this section, The Drive, most of the original, imposing terraced Victorian town houses remained – many now housing law firms and medical practices, or converted into flats.

Half a mile on, he waited at the lights at the junction with the Old Shoreham Road, and then drove up Shirley Drive, the start of the area that Gle

He turned right up Woodruff Avenue and reached Dyke Road Avenue, which ran along the spine of the city, where the houses became even larger. He turned left, then moments later he made a right, then a left into Withdean Road, one of the city’s most exclusive addresses of all. It was a winding, tree-lined road, with a semi-rural feel, the imposing houses set back behind high fences, walls or hedges.

Something was bothering him about this case. Something that did not feel right. Something they were missing. He needed space, quiet time; to be alone at the crime scene without being distracted by anyone and try to think through the sequence of events, and walk through them.

A few hundred yards further on, the road curved left, and he turned right and coasted down Aileen McWhirter’s steep, winding drive, the headlights making shadows jump from the fir trees and rhododendrons. He could see the grand, secluded house down to his left, dark and forlorn, and in truth a little creepy. At the bottom, he turned the car around, and held the beam of the headlights on the rear of the house, staring at the windows, the rear door, the walls, the roof.

He switched the engine off, but kept the lights on full beam. The rain had stopped and the blue and white crime scene tape fluttered in the light breeze. He was thinking through all that he knew about the robbery. There had been no sign of forced entry, and it sounded like those responsible had posed as Water Board officials to gain entry. The loft insulation salesman, Gareth Dupont, had made a call to Aileen McWhirter around the time they estimated the attack to have taken place. It was quite possible Dupont had nothing to do with it, but in Grace’s view, the man’s previous record for aggravated burglary and handling stolen goods could well place him at the crime scene. There was something too coincidental about the timing of that call. He would be interested in the man’s alibi.

It was also a strange coincidence, he thought, that he’d had a cold call himself about loft insulation two days after Aileen McWhirter was attacked. But could there possibly be any co

With the aid of the beam he found a row of old-fashioned wall switches, and pulled one down. Several sconces, with pink, tasselled lampshades, lit up dimly. He made his way past the dark shadows along the nearly bare hall and through to the kitchen, where an open saucepan, with mouldy-looking green haricot beans at the bottom, lay beside the gas hob, and a wooden spoon lay next to it, beside an elderly Aga, which was stone cold. A range of pans was stacked on a rack to the right of it. Near it sat a modern, pushbutton phone with extremely large numbers for people with poor eyesight. Had she lifted the saucepan off the hob to answer the front door, he wondered.

The front door had a safety chain and a spyhole. So either she knew her assailants, or she had been tricked into feeling comfortable enough with them to open the door. Who among the people she knew might have done this? In his mind he went through the people who had access to this property: not her elderly housekeeper, or her almost equally elderly gardener. Her brother? But he did not need the money. Her nephew? A slim possibility. The knocker-boy, Ricky Moore, was high on his list.

The way the insurance company kept their records of high-value items, and who might have access to them, was currently being investigated. So was the window cleaner, the plumber she used, Michael Maguire, the painters and decorators. The building firm, Bryan Barker, and the washing-machine man. Most household burglaries were opportunistic, but this robbery was in a different league. The city of Brighton and Hove had many rich, elderly, vulnerable people like Aileen McWhirter. If the perps thought they could get away with this, for sure they would strike again. He had to stop that, and there was only one way to do that – lock up the perps. But first he had to find them.

Ten million pounds was, as Webb had said, an enormous sum. During the past few days he had spoken to several local antiques dealers, including a Chinese and Japanese porcelain expert called Chris Tapsell, a jewellery expert, Derek le-Warde, and Simon Schneider, who appeared regularly on one of Cleo’s favourite TV programmes, Secret Dealers. All of them had told him that it was likely to have been a pla