Bella had everyone’s attention now.
‘A neighbour in the street, a few houses along, phoned in to say he remembered seeing a black Porsche parked on the kerb outside the victim’s house as he drove home, about 7 p.m. A man was sitting in the car. He said he didn’t think anything of it at the time; he assumed the driver had stopped to make a phone call or something.’
‘Did he get a description of the driver or the car’s registration?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Black Porsches are not uncommon in Brighton,’ Grace said. ‘But there can’t be that many. Get a list of all the ones with Sussex registrations and see if that throws up any names.’
‘Yes, sir. Oh, and there’s one other thing that may be significant, although I don’t think so. There was a G5 in Brighton last week, a man called Ralph Meeks, found dead in his house. He used to work as a gardener for Mrs McWhirter – I understand he was sacked by her about fourteen years ago. Possibly he had a grudge – although his estimated time of death was some days before the robbery.’
‘All right, see if you can find out any more.’
‘Yes, I have someone on it, sir.’
Grace thanked her. Then, looking around the team, said, ‘Okay, how’s the checking of van rental companies going?’
‘I’m working through them, sir,’ said a young DC, Jack Alexander, who Grace had brought in to replace Nick Nicholl. ‘There’s a huge number – quite apart from the national rental companies, there are hundreds of small van hire firms.’
Grace thanked him and turned back to Bella. She glanced down at her notes. ‘We’ve covered eBay and all the antiques dealers in the Brighton and Hove area for the minor stolen items. We’ve circulated all the photographs of the high-value items that we know to be missing to all of Sussex’s principal dealers, and I’m working through a list of all other UK dealers who might handle these valuable items, as well as compiling a list of international ones – and we are liaising with the insurance company’s loss adjusters. It’s very possible they’re being shipped abroad – and might already have been. We’re keeping an eye on Shoreham and Newhaven harbours and have officers searching all containers being exported. One area we are also looking at is any upcoming specialist auctions. The highest-value item taken was the 1910 Patek Philippe pocket watch, which is uninsured and worth over two million pounds.’
‘Sir Hugo Drax wore a Patek Philippe in the novel of Moonraker!’ Glenn Branson announced. ‘But it was changed to a Swatch in the film!’
‘Very helpful, Glenn,’ Grace said tartly. Then he turned to Bella. ‘Good thinking,’ Grace said, making a note. ‘Don’t restrict your auction search just to the UK. A watch would be easily portable to anywhere in the world.’
‘Two million for a watch? Strewth!’ Potting said.
Bella nodded, then glanced at her Swatch. ‘Obviously a bit posher than mine!’
There was a ripple of laughter. Grace noticed Norman Potting laughing the loudest, and the old sweat making eye contact with Bella, and he thought, just possibly, that she blushed.
‘Actually it’s a bit ironic about the watch. It belonged to both her and her brother, Gavin Daly. He’s always had a high profile in the antiques world and lives in an isolated country house where in the past he’s had two burglaries. So it’s been at his sister’s house for safekeeping for a few decades.’
‘Chief,’ DC Exton said, ‘Surely a watch of that sort of value is going to be very identifiable – presumably unique in some way. So how would it be sold?’
Grace nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking the same thing. As you’ve raised the question, I’ll give you the task of obtaining all the information about it – what records of it might the manufacturers still have? How many of its kind are there in existence? What identification is on it – presumably a production serial number? Was it monogrammed with any initials? And what kind of world market exists for watches of this value? Who are the likely buyers? Are there any big collectors? Where do watches of this kind of value change hands – is it through dealers or auctions? Are there specialist watch or watch and clock auctions?’
‘Car boot sales?’ said Potting, facetiously.
‘I don’t think so, Norman,’ Grace said. Then he turned to DS Annalise Vineer, the manager for the analysts, indexers and typists on the enquiry. ‘Do you have anything to report?’
‘We’ve run a nationwide check for home-invasion robberies with a similar MO, chief. So far all but one of the matches show the perpetrators of those to be in prison.’
‘And that one is?’ Grace asked.
‘Amis Smallbone.’
The room went quiet for a moment. Then Glenn Branson’s mobile phone rang. With an apologetic glance at Roy Grace, he answered it.
‘Oh, no!’ he said. ‘Oh, shit. I’ll be right there.’
He stood up, looking ashen. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go to the hospital. It’s Ari.’
Ari was Glenn Branson’s wife. Grace followed him outside. ‘Tell me, mate, what is it?’
‘I dunno exactly. They said she’s broken some bones. Knocked off her bike by a pedestrian on the seafront cycle lane.’
‘Call me.’
Branson nodded and hurried off.
30
It was meant to be summer, but the relentless late-August rain rattled against his basement window, with its dismal view of a row of dustbins and stained walls. The meagre light leaking into this crummy bedsit made it feel, at 4 p.m., that summer really was at an end. His first summer as a free man for twelve years.
But Amis Smallbone, in his busted armchair, cigarette smouldering in the ashtray beside the half-drained bottle of Chivas Regal, was feeling in a particularly upbeat mood. A lot of money was about to come his way. A shedload!
Just one wrinkle. A very greedy wrinkle. Gareth Dupont. He knew the man was a bit flaky by reputation, but after twelve years inside, a lot of his best contacts had gone away, or died, which was why he’d gone to him in the first place. Now he regretted that. And he cursed the reward money on offer. He was damned if he was going to be blackmailed by that little shit. Dupont was a problem and had to be dealt with. He would figure something out.
At least, on the brighter side, in a few days he was out of here. Into much nicer accommodation, provided his Probation Officer approved, and he had no reason not to. It was a rented town house in a gated development in the centre of Brighton’s North Laine district. His mate Henry Tilney, who, unlike himself, had managed to avoid any residency at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, had stood referee and guarantor for him on the tenancy agreement. And very soon he would be able to repay Tilney the five-grand deposit he’d put down on his behalf.
And equally soon he would be able to repay Detective Superintendent Roy Grace for depriving him of twelve years of his life, which he had spent in some of England’s biggest shithole prisons.
The floor plans of his soon-to-be neighbours’ house lay unfolded on the crappy coffee table in front of him. Cleo Morey’s house. There was what looked like an easy route across the rooftop fire escape to her house. In his original thinking, he was going to hire someone to do the deed. But why should he pay good money for an act that would give him so much pleasure to commit himself? Whatever that act was. Maiming Cleo, perhaps. Or killing the baby.
There were endless possibilities. He could visualize lifting the baby from its cot. The stupid, dumb little infant, Noah, and hurling it through the air onto the cobblestones below.
Thud.
He liked that sound.
Thud.
Oh yes.
But far more he looked forward to seeing Detective Superintendent Grace’s pain. His grief.
Then he heard a thud. Followed by another. On his door.
He glanced down at his gold Rolex, which had been stored these past twelve years in a safety deposit box that the police had not managed to find. 4.20 p.m. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. But he was expecting his pay-off anytime now. A cut of the ten million pound haul from the Withdean Road heist. He stood up, swaying from the alcohol inside him, and made his way towards the door.