by Peter James
‘That was a controlled power slide. Like Jeremy Clarkson does,’ Glenn said.
‘Ah.’
‘I don’t know why you’re worried – I’ve never had a crash.’
‘Maybe you’re saving it up for the big one.’ Switching subjects, Grace asked, ‘Anything back from the lab on our dog, Humphrey?’ Then he winced as Branson pulled straight across into the fast lane, only inches behind the car in front.
‘No, it will take a couple of days. We found a vial of tablets in Smallbone’s bathroom that we’ve also sent for analysis. We’ve been keeping a careful eye on Cleo; an FLO’s been with her around the clock and the Neighbourhood Policing Team’s been briefed to be extra vigilant. But from the history, don’t you think it likely Smallbone was acting alone?’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Okay, we have a significant development regarding the shoe-print found at the letting agent’s, Rand and Co. I told you Haydn Kelly had established a match with shoeprints found in Smallbone’s house.’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve got a third match – from Eamonn Pollock’s yacht in Marbella. The Spanish police sent it yesterday and Haydn Kelly informed Norman Potting an hour ago! There’s also other sets of shoeprints – from the patterns it appears three other people, not just Macario and Barnes, were on the boat recently.’
Frowning, Grace said, ‘The match is to the ones in the letting agent’s and in Smallbone’s house?’
‘Yes. It’s only a shoe match, but if we could find the shoe—’
Suddenly all Roy Grace’s tiredness had gone. ‘I know who those second shoeprints might have been made by.’ He leaned over the seatback and hefted his briefcase onto his lap. From it he removed a small evidence bag containing a USB flash drive, and held it up triumphantly. ‘Yesterday, Gavin Daly’s son, Lucas, was recorded on videotape in an office in New York admitting involvement in Aileen McWhirter’s robbery.’
‘Daly’s son – her nephew?’ he said, incredulously. ‘He was involved?’
‘Probably the mastermind behind it. Yes, he’s a regular charmer.’
‘Has he been arrested?’
‘No, he’s agreed to DS Batchelor and DC Alexander escorting him back to England. But he’s asked if they can wait a day or so until he knows what’s happening with his father.’
‘Result!’ Glenn Branson said. ‘But – um – how exactly does that help us with the second set of shoeprints on the boat?’
‘We’ll need to get a search warrant and raid his house. And, I think you are going to like this. If we can put Lucas Daly on that boat, then I think we’ll know who the other set belong to.’
‘How?’
‘Lucas Daly flew to Marbella with his henchman. I suspect they’re involved in the deaths of Macario and Barnes. If the shoe-prints on the boat match his henchman’s, then we have him too. Don’t forget there’s an historical association between Amis Smallbone and Eamonn Pollock.’
‘Yes, I’m aware. But there’s one thing still bothering me. All the sets of shoeprints are from trainers: Haydn Kelly’s identified the one in the letting agent’s and Smallbone’s house – and now on the boat – as a Nike shoe, of which there are tens of thousands. The other one on the boat are Asics, again tens of thousands sold.’
‘There are a number of ways to put those people at those scenes,’ Grace replied. ‘In addition to the same make, model and size of the trainers there’s also the comparison of wear patterns – Haydn Kelly explained this to me a few days ago and, if we can obtain the trainers, a comparison can be performed of the insoles in the trainers to the insoles in the suspect’s footwear as these give an imprint of the person’s foot. If there is a match there, then that is pretty much game, set and match! We may also get lucky with DNA deposits inside the trainers.’
‘Good stuff! Brilliant! Plenty of options for us.’
‘If we stay alive long enough,’ Grace said, eyeing the road ahead nervously.
123
In his office at 3 p.m., Grace had just finished a call with Haydn Kelly, discussing in further detail the shoeprints they had. He sipped a strong cup of tea and then yawned. In half an hour a Detective Superintendent from Surrey, whom he had never met, would be arriving to conduct a review of Operation Flounder. It was standard practice, at certain intervals during a major crime investigation, for an experienced outsider to look through the policy book, and all lines of enquiry that the SIO had running, as well as the size and make-up of the team.
It was likely to be a slow and tedious process, Grace knew, and he could seriously have done without this today – particularly with the way things were moving, he was fast getting this whole case wrapped up. With luck the review would be finished by the evening briefing at 6.30 p.m. which he would attend, and then he would head home. He was about to type an email to ACC Rigg to give him a summary, before meeting to brief him fully tomorrow morning, when his phone rang.
It was Pat Lanigan. ‘Hey, how you doing, Roy? Home safe?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Is all okay? Cleo? The baby?’
‘Yes, thanks, all is fine. They’re safe and well.’
‘Hopefully that punk was acting on his own.’
‘I hope so, too.’
Then Lanigan’s tone changed, becoming more serious. ‘Ithought you’d want to know this right away. The old guy, Gavin Daly, didn’t wake up this morning.’
Grace felt a sudden, deep twinge of sadness. ‘He’s dead?’
‘Seems like he passed away peacefully during the night. He had some heart problems, so maybe the stress of being arrested – it’s a pretty big thing for anyone, but especially a guy of that age – maybe that’s what did it. I guess we’ll know more after the autopsy.’
‘I’ll never forget the sight of him on that dive boat, looking inside the tarp. Ever,’ Grace said.
‘Yeah, that was something. You know what? I think he knew he was going to go last night. The prison officer taking care of him said he was very funny about breakfast, saying he wasn’t going to need any. Made him wonder if the guy was a bit suicidal, so he kept an extra eye on him.’
‘I don’t think he was suicidal, Pat. I think he’d done the one thing he had left in his life that he wanted to do. He told me some of his story, about his father and mother, over a cigar in his sister’s garden a couple of weeks back. I was moved.’
‘Uh huh? Maybe. But you know, he spent the evening, before the lights went down, writing instructions. He wanted his father’s remains to be buried in Brooklyn Cemetery as close as possible to his mother’s. He wanted restitution paid to the antiques guy, Rosenblaum, for the gunshot damage in his office. And – you’ll like this – he asked if someone could contact you and apologize for the trouble you’ve been put to.’
‘Very nice of him,’ Grace said, with a grin.
‘To me, that sounds like a suicide note, pal.’
‘Either way, he’s gone, Pat. Does it actually matter? Nothing’s going to bring him back – and, you know, I don’t think he would have wanted to come back. Life’s not compulsory!’
‘I like that!’ Lanigan said. ‘Life’s not compulsory. Think I’m going to use that line next time I have to deal with some total shitbag.’
‘Be my guest.’
124
‘Good morning,’ Roy Grace said to his assembled team in the conference room at the start of the morning briefing. ‘Welcome to this briefing on the progress of Operation Flounder today, September the 13th. An unlucky day for some people – particularly our perpetrators.’
There was a ripple of laughter.
‘But a lucky day for Operation Flounder,’ he went on. ‘Lots of positives to report.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘First up is that our forensic podiatrist, Haydn Kelly, has, through his analysis of Lucas Daly and his henchman Augustine Krasniki’s shoes enabled us to put them on Eamonn Pollock’s boat at around the time that Macario and Barnes died.’
He turned to Norman Potting, who was
looking better than last time he had seen him; clearly he had caught a little sun while in Spain. ‘You have some information for us, Norman?’
‘Yes, the Marbella police have found a witness who was close to Pollock’s boat on the night of Friday, August the 31st. He was approached for a light by a man who he could not see clearly, but he was accompanied by another man, and their build and height fit Daly and Krasniki. The Spanish police are intending to issue a Magistrate’s Warrant for both of them. Just to add to Daly’s woes.’
Grace smiled.
Norman Potting continued. ‘Spanish police, acting on information supplied by Shoreham Harbour, have raided a warehouse, and found a container filled with antiques matching the majority of the high-value items taken.’
‘Brilliant news. Thank you, Norman,’ Grace said. Then he looked down at his notes again. ‘There’s something else which I consider significant. Shortly after the robbery, when we requested photographs of the Patek Philippe watch, Gavin Daly informed us that the photographs he had, and those that his sister had, were missing. Search officers found them late yesterday in a locked filing cabinet in Lucas Daly’s back office behind his shop.’ He looked up at the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Good work, Dave.’ He turned to Bella. ‘How did the interview go?’
‘DC Exton and I interviewed Lucas Daly yesterday, in the presence of his solicitor, as the first of three interviews in our planned strategy. He strenuously denies killing Macario and Barnes. He said that he and Augustine Krasniki did go to Marbella together and went aboard the boat to talk to the men about the whereabouts of Eamonn Pollock and to try to find out where the high-value items were – one in particular being the Patek Philippe watch. He admits they roughed them up a bit, but swears they were alive when they left.’
She paused and checked her notes. ‘Now here’s the bit that DC Exton and I find hard to believe. Daly claims that they hired a Moroccan to go and talk to the men and see if he could get any more out of them.’
‘A Moroccan?’ Grace asked.
She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what he says. He paid this Moroccan five hundred euros to go and speak to the men.’
‘By speak, you mean torture?’ Potting asked.
‘That’s the implication, yes. Daly reckons this mysterious Moroccan might have just gone over the top.’
‘Does he have a name for this Moroccan, or a description?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood asked.
‘No,’ Bella responded. ‘He claims he only saw him in the darkness, on the quay near Pollock’s boat.’
‘This witness who gave Daly a light, did he see him too?’ Grace looked at Potting.
‘No, chief. The witness is adamant it was just the two men, presumably Daly and Krasniki.’
‘Something is not making very good sense to me,’ Roy Grace said. ‘Daly and Krasniki are big guys – what would this Moroccan, if he exists, get out of Macario and Barnes that Daly and Krasniki couldn’t?’
‘Our thinking exactly, sir,’ Bella replied.
‘So is your view that this Moroccan is an invention?’
‘It is, sir, yes.’
Grace nodded. ‘Unless someone can physically produce him, it’s mine too.’
‘What about this Krasniki, boss?’ Guy Batchelor asked. ‘Has he been arrested yet?’
‘No, it looks like he’s done a runner. He hails from Albania so he could be hiding in one of their communities here – or gone home – or anywhere.’
‘He left a short note in an envelope for his boss, Lucas Daly,’ Alec Davies said, and held up a small sheet of paper.
‘What does it say?’ Grace asked.
‘Well, not much at all really, sir. It just says, “Sorry ”.’
125
‘Turns out the thirteenth was an unlucky day for Carl Venner!’ Roy Grace said. Lounging on a sofa in Cleo’s house, he raised his celebratory vodka martini at Marlon. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’ he said to the goldfish.
Marlon reacted the same way he reacted to everything else in life: by circling his bowl, opening and shutting his mouth.
‘That’s such fantastic news, darling!’ Cleo, seated beside him, set down her laptop and the one small glass of white wine she had allowed herself, kissed him on the cheek and gave him a hug. Noah, lying on his mat on the floor, gurgled happily. Humphrey, asleep in his favourite place – the sofa opposite – did not stir; he appeared to be recovering, slowly, from his ordeal.
‘He’s got life, with a minimum tariff of eighteen years.’
‘You must be so pleased,’ she said.
‘And bloody relieved!’
‘What a week it’s been for you!’
‘I’ve had worse.’ He smiled and kissed her back, and ran his finger through the delicate Tiffany chain he’d bought her in New York, before heading off to catch his plane.
It was good to be home on a Saturday night again, and this was the first real chance he’d had to celebrate the Venner result with Cleo. Good to be with the two people he loved most in the world. But with one dark shadow hanging over them, the thought of Amis Smallbone and what might have happened had he not fallen – or been pushed. If it was Krasniki who had pushed him, then a part of him secretly hoped that he might stay free. He deserved that for saving Cleo, or Noah, or both of them.
Cleo picked up her laptop again and showed him a baby outfit with stripes on it. ‘Isn’t that so cute?’ she said. ‘It’s on this website, Zulily. Don’t you think Noah would look so cute in this?’
‘It would make him look like a convict!’ he replied.
She puckered her face in disappointment. ‘No, it wouldn’t!’
He continued to look at the estate agent’s plans for the house Cleo had fallen in love with, which they were going to see in the morning. But there was a shadow over that, too. He’d had the news in the morning’s post that the mystery buyer in Germany of his house had suddenly, and without any explanation, pulled out. They had been relying on his sale, together with Cleo’s, to fund the purchase of the new place.
‘Darling, do you think there’s any point in going tomorrow?’ he said.
Cleo smiled and nodded vigorously. ‘I was going to tell you this evening my bit of good news. Well, ours, really. Mummy and Daddy have offered to lend us the money for the deposit!’
He looked at her. ‘Really?’
‘Yes – when you eventually sell your house, then we can pay them back.’
He sipped some more of his martini, closed his eyes for a moment, sinking back into the deep, soft cushions. ‘That’s incredibly kind of them.’
‘They like you,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why, but they do!’ She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘A bit the same with me, really!’
‘I’ve been thinking – you know – we were going to get married this year, and then stuff happened and it got put off. Shall we set a date – and just do it?’
‘Yes, my darling. Let’s make it soon. Like – very soon?’
They kissed again.
Noah was making excited noises on the floor.
‘Your turn,’ she said.
He put his glass down, knelt, lifted his son in the air, then sat back down, cradling him in his arms.
‘Have you seen Lucas Daly’s wife, Sarah Courteney?’ Cleo asked suddenly. ‘This must be a nightmare for her.’
‘Can’t be much fun for her at the moment, having SOCO crawling all over her home.’
‘But I saw her on the news last night, looking as cheery as ever. She’s obviously hiding it well.’
‘She’s a tough cookie,’ he replied. ‘She’s a survivor.’ Then he turned his attention to his son. ‘Hey, little fellow, have you got something in that nappy for me?’
The rising stench confirmed that Noah had indeed, and he looked very proud of the fact.
126
She sat back, luxuriating in the comfort of her Business Class seat, and enjoying her second glass of champagne.
The cheery young British Airways cabin steward came by with the bottle to to
p her up. As he did so, he noticed her Cartier.
‘Nice watch!’ he said, admiringly.
‘Thank you!’ she replied, and held it up for him to inspect more closely.
‘Gorgeous! You can always tell an original – they just have that je ne sais quoi about them! A real one speaks for itself !’
‘So true. I’m a little confused with the time difference – when are we due to land in Moscow, local time?’
He looked at his own watch, a studded, bronze Hublot. ‘Three fifteen. Just over three hours.’
‘Thank you.’
He moved on down the aisle. Sarah Courteney unclipped the clasp of her handbag and dipped her hand inside, touching the soft velvet pouch, then lifting it up a few inches, feeling the reassuring weight of the Patek Philippe pocket watch, with the cracked crystal, Arabic numeral dial and the broken crown.
Oh yes, there was nothing to beat an original.
Aileen had shown it to her once, a few years ago, taking it out of the secret compartment at the rear of her safe. And the sweet old lady had never noticed it missing for that week, earlier in the year, when she had taken it to Dubai, to the little workshop that made such exquisite reproductions.
Clearly, Gareth Dupont had not noticed the difference either when he had stolen the fake in that horrid robbery which had totally shocked her. She had never realized the bastard had been using her.
But all that was history now. Just like Lucas, facing a decade – and probably longer – behind bars, both in Spain and England.
Good riddance, at last.
As the third glass of champagne slipped her into a pleasantly woozy state, she was thinking that, given all that had happened in these past weeks, Aileen would have been proud of her.
She had a buyer in Moscow, willing to pay two and a half million pounds, in cash, and he wasn’t concerned about a detail like provenance.
That was good – no hassle. What the hell did proving provenance matter – the watch was real. Just as the cabin steward had said, the real item spoke for itself.