He hung up with a heavy heart. How the hell was he going to be a good father and a good detective at the same time? The task in front of him seemed daunting. Was it possible?
Others had done it, it had to be. But at this moment he wasn’t sure how.
39
Hector Webb was a tall man with a ramrod-straight back and a military bearing. He had close-cropped fair hair and a rugged, pockmarked face. He was seated at the bar, with a half-drunk pint of Guinness in front of him, as Roy Grace entered the Royal Pavilion Tavern on Brighton’s Castle Square.
Before crossing the threshold, out of habit Grace clocked all the faces in the room. But none of them rang any bells. Webb, twenty years ago, had been the Detective Inspector in charge of Brighton and Hove’s Antiques Squad – a unit that had been disbanded, for economic reasons, shortly after his retirement. Since then he had written a series of non-fiction books about his big passion, Second World War aviation.
‘What can I get you?’ Roy Grace asked.
‘My shout,’ Webb insisted.
After his conversation with Cleo, he felt badly in need of a drink, but he was still working and he should not even have had the one with Glenn. ‘A Diet Coke on the rocks, thanks.’
Webb ordered, and when the drink was poured, they retreated to a quiet table.
‘So?’ Webb asked.
As a young Detective Constable, Grace had served for a short time under Webb, who had then been a DS at Brighton’s John Street, and had liked the man a lot.
Grace brought him up to speed on the Aileen McWhirter case, then said, ‘What I need help with, Hector, is where to look for all the stuff that’s been stolen. I don’t know the world of antiques, although I’m having a crash course in it right now and some very good help from Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds. Do you know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you still keep in contact with any of the old dealers?’
Webb drank a large draught of his pint. ‘It’s a changed world from my time, Roy. But I still keep up with a few of my old contacts and they tell me most dealers have had a rough time, particularly since 9/11 when the Americans stopped coming over here. They also tell me fashions have changed a lot in the Western world. People have modern furniture in their homes these days.’
Grace nodded.
‘Cost’s a big factor,’ Webb said, draining his pint.
Grace fetched him another, then queried, ‘Cost?’
‘People used to furnish their homes largely with antiques because they were cheaper than buying new furniture. Ikea has a lot to answer for in hurting the antiques trade. My youngest daughter recently got married. They bought lovely dining chairs from Ikea at thirty quid a pop.’ He helped himself to a handful of nuts. Chewing them, he said, ‘One thing’s for sure, a raid of this magnitude was pre-planned – and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a lot of the items weren’t already pre-sold. It would have been out of this country pretty damned quick. I wouldn’t rule out the Russian Mafia being involved, Roy. More likely they’d have their tentacles wrapped around this crime and those expensive items than anyone in Spain. But Marbella is a good starting point for the Russians – and the Irish, of course.’
‘Irish?’
Webb nodded. ‘People forget them, but the Irish Mafia were around long before the Italians. The White Hand Gang? Al Capone may have kicked them out of New York in the late 1920s, but they’ve never gone away. Drill down through the IRA and you’ll find Irish Mafia at their heart.’
Grace gave him a wry smile. ‘Interesting.’
‘In New York in the twenties they slugged it out with the Italians,’ Webb continued. ‘Now in Marbella, Spain, ninety years later, they’re slugging it out with the Russians – and the Albanians. That Patek Philippe watch, in particular. There are plenty of rich Russians who would desire a rare, vintage Patek Philippe, and pay big money for one. When I was on the squad, we knew that two of our Brighton knockers had travelled to Moscow to buy stolen Russian icons which were then later traded in Finland – and I would imagine by now that even better links have been made.’
Grace sipped his Coke. ‘What routes abroad should we be watching – assuming the stuff is even still here in this country?’
‘Which is unlikely,’ Webb said. ‘The watch could have been taken over the Channel to France within hours of the crime by a trusted “donkey” travelling with it in his pocket on a day trip on the Newhaven ferry – where virtually no checks are made – and a meeting made at an autoroute cafe for the exchange. The paintings could have been cut out of their frames, and laid at the bottom of a suitcase for a similar exchange. Furniture would be harder.’ He drank some beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Furniture is a bit more difficult and would probably need a container – out of Shoreham or Newhaven ports. Expensive pieces placed among ordinary furniture with a cover story for HM Customs that it’s to be used in decorating a home in France. The ordinary Customs Officer has no idea about antiques.’
‘Great,’ Grace said gloomily. ‘So if it’s already overseas, where do I start looking?’
‘I’d start here at Shoreham and Newhaven. Have all the bills of lading checked on every shipment out of both ports that took place within hours of the robbery, and check everything waiting to leave. I’d take a particular look at anything being shipped to Russia or Spain. Second-hand cars – stuff can be hidden inside them; container ships with timber cargoes on board – and cargoes of steel, where a container full of antiques could be smuggled aboard. I’d look beyond the local ports, too. At Dover, Portsmouth, Southampton, Harwich, for starters.’
Grace drank some more of his Coke. ‘You’re talking about a massive operation, Hector.’
‘I am, yes.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re dealing with an horrific murder and a huge-value crime. I don’t envy you this one.’
‘Any chance of luring you out of retirement to come and help me on this?’
Webb shook his head and smiled. ‘And get involved in all the politics again? No, thank you. I’m happy doing my gardening, tinkering with my sailing boat and spoiling my four grandchildren. I just got my Yacht Master’s Certificate in July, which I’m pretty pleased about. Know what I learned in my thirty years with the Force?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Fighting crime is like lying down in front of a glacier and trying to stop it. If I could have my life over again, and had an ambition to be rich – which I never did – I’ll tell you which businesses I’d go into: security, food or armaments. People are always going to steal, they’re always going to have to eat, and they’re always going to kill each other.’
‘You’re a pessimist!’
‘No, I’m a realist, Roy.’
*
It was dark outside as Roy Grace left the Royal Pavilion Tavern. His watch said a quarter to ten by the time he walked down the concrete steps of the Bartholomews car park, wrinkling his nose at the stench of urine.
He needed to go home, and stopped to text Cleo that he was on his way. But the moment he had done so, he regretted it. Something had been preying on his mind for many hours, and now he realized what it was, and what he needed to do.
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 planning their next attack on a helpless, elderly victim. Cleo was wrong to say that a few hours weren’t going to change anything. In the early stages of a murder enquiry, every minute of every hour mattered. It was quite possible that the people behind this robbery had already selected their next target.